Page 71 of She Haunts Me Still

“Mal.” Saskia’s hand lands on her forearm. “I know you’re not making it up.”

Saskia’s response reaches that vulnerable, soft part of her, the part that’s craved for someone to just look at her and say,I believe you. That could have been Ezra, it almostwasEzra, but his belief in her was just another lie. Mallory wants to wrap Saskia’s words in silk, keep them in her pocket like a lucky rabbit’s foot.

It takes her several moments to remember Saskia’s hand, to realize she hasn’t pulled away. Her palm still rests against Mallory’s arm, fingers carefully tracing the ridges of her sweater.

A strange warmth creeps into Mallory’s stomach. Her entire body aches from what happened with Ezra—she should be immune to rebellious butterflies from another person’s touch. And yet, here she is. Heartbeat hammering, suddenly transfixed by the press of Saskia’s fingers, the delicate graze of her nails. Maybe nothing is ever neat and clean. Maybe a person can straddle past and present this way, mourn the fragments of something thatalmost wasand simultaneously reach for something thatmight yet be.

Ezra might have broken her heart, but the pieces are still her own.

“Tell me the rest,” Saskia finally says, her hand falling away, and Mallory hears it again in her voice, unspoken and firm:I believe you, I believe you, I believe you.

At rehearsal that night, Mallory arrives with an even worse headache, sweat prickling her skin like the onset of a fever. Hendrix calls for places for the poison scene, and Mallory’s stomach twists when he adds that Saskia will run it first.

Saskia joins her onstage, dressed in a nearly identical costume to Mallory’s, a lace-up rose-colored corset and flowing skirt. Mallory watches Saskia flip through her script, her lines highlighted in all the same places, and swallows an unexpected bite of envy.

“Before we start,” Hendrix says, “let’s talk about this scene. It’s the most iconic moment in the play, one that raisesthe question of how far you’d go to be with the person you love. For Juliet, no distance—not even death—is too far.” He turns to Ezra. “Pierce, what do you think an actor should know about this scene?”

The sweat on the back of Mallory’s neck turns cold as she looks at Ezra, sitting at a table in front of the stage. His long coat is strung over his chair, button-down shirtsleeves rolled up, and he’s already staring when she catches his eye. As though he’d been studying the shape of her, calculating where he’d sink his teeth into next. She tears her gaze away.

“Well,” Ezra says, “the ending of this play is why people thinkRomeo and Julietis the quintessential love story. They perform the ultimate sacrifice to be together.”

At the wordsacrifice,her head snaps up.

“That isn’t romance,” Mallory blurts, and an uncomfortable silence follows. Saskia flings her a concerned look. Hendrix lifts a brow. But Ezra holds her stare, twirling a pencil between two fingers, silently challenging her to say more.

“They don’t get to be together,” she continues harshly. “Theydie.”

Ezra leans back in his chair, silent.

“Maybe,” Saskia pipes in, “therealromance is about the desperation. Their pure intentions. They choose each other, no matter the cost. I don’t know—Ithink that’s romantic.”

Mallory turns her focus to Saskia. Her eyes shift in a way that seems to ask,Don’t you agree?

“Ms. Garin makes a good point,” Hendrix says.

“She’s wrong, though,” Ezra says. “The romance is in thealmostof it all.”

Mallory looks back to him, that queasy sensation mounting.

Hendrix crosses his arms. “What do you mean?”

“If one little thing had been changed, if one second had been altered,” Ezra says, “they would have been able to be together.” He drops the pencil he’s been twirling. “The question of what they might have had—that’sthe romantic part.”

Ezra’s words scrape at her like little knives. A reminder that whatever they had, too, will forever be trapped in some kind of limbo.

She wonders if anyone will notice if she passes out on this fucking stage.

“This,” Hendrix says, pointing at Ezra and Saskia in turn, “is why we continue performing these old texts. To derive new meaning. Generations read these classic love stories over and over, and we understand our own lives a little better each time. Now, why don’t we take places for act—”

“But this playisn’ta love story,” Mallory insists, louder than she intended.

“Ms. Webb,” Hendrix says after a beat. “Is something the matter?”

She swallows, daring to look at Ezra again.

“Romeo and Julietisn’t a love story,” she repeats. “It’s a tragedy.”

Ezra peers back, unflinching. When he finally speaks, he’s so quiet she’s not sure she hears him correctly.