Whose misadventur’d piteous overthrows
Do with their death bury their parents’ strife.
The fearful passage of their death-mark’d love,
And the continuance of their parents’ rage,
Which, but their children’s end, nought could remove,
Is now the two hours’ traffic of our stage;
The which if you with patient ears attend,
What here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.
“I’ve never understood why they give away the whole plot in the beginning,” Archie says in an undertone. “It’s the theatrical equivalent of reading the last page of a book first.”
I huff out a laugh. Archie flashes me a quick smile before returning his attention to the stage.
“I don’t think this is supposed to be one of Shakespeare’s comedies,” Andrew whispers from my other side.
Andrew might be correct in a literary sense, but he’s never encountered someone like Archie Mansley because that’s only the beginning of Archie’s commentary.
“She’s only thirteen,” he whispers to me as Juliet makes her entrance. “This is really just a cautionary tale about unsupervised teenagers. Someone should have grounded both of them.”
During the next scene, he declares, “Mercutio is definitely in love with Romeo. The text refuses to address this, but look at him. He’s furious about the Rosaline situation. That’s not friendship energy.”
Archie’s observations continue to come in a steady stream in a low voice, quiet enough not to disturb anyone else but loud enough for me to hear every word. “Romeo has the emotional regulation of a caffeinated squirrel. He was in love with someone else literally twenty minutes ago.”
But Archie goes quiet when Juliet turns to the nurse, desperate to know the name of the man she just kissed.
My only love sprung from my only hate.
Something twists in my chest.
I glance at Archie. He’s watching the stage, his profile lit by the flickering candles, and for a moment, I can’t look away.
My only love sprung from my only hate.
The words echo uncomfortably.
The thing is, I don’t hate Archie. I’ve never hated Archie. But I came into his life through an act of revenge meant forhis brother, and everything between us has grown from that poisoned soil.
And now?—
Now I don’t know what this is. I don’t have a word for my reaction when he laughs, or the way my hand keeps finding excuses to touch him, or the fact I can’t get enough of his running commentary on a four-hundred-year-old tragedy.
I don’t have a word to describe this man.
I don’t get the chance to look for one now either.
“She’s literally asking him how he got into her garden, and he’s just ignoring the question,” Archie whispers. “Red flag.”
My chest hurts from trying to stop myself from laughing out loud. I’m leaning toward him, my body angled like a plant toward light.
Archie’s playful side is catnip to me.
Maybe because I know it’s underpinned by intelligence. If he were just the vapid airhead he pretends to be sometimes, I wouldn’t be interested.
