And then the other, “The quarrel is between our masters and us their men.”

“’Tis all one,” Sampson replies. “I will show myself a tyrant. When I have fought with the men, I will be civil with the maids; I will cut off their heads.”

That line alone was what first got me thinking I wanted this role. I’d enjoy entering stage and playing one of the production’s most enigmatic, male characters and showing them that the ‘weaker’ sex would get a few cuts in herself.

But standing here, watching the story play out, and my entrance grow closer, it doesn’t feel like I thought it would.

I’m not even nauseous anymore. I peek out to the audience once more, smiling when I see my brothers slouched and clearly bored, Army and Iron sitting quietly, and Trace already asleep. Army will wake him when I come on.

And then the door at the back opens, and I notice the large frame that fills the doorway before it closes.

My heart swells a little. Macon. I watch him hide back by the wall, standing quietly, because as hard as he acts and as worried about him as I sometimes am, I know he loves me.

But still, I can’t help but scan the crowd again, searching for someone else.

The drums beat, Juliet and her mother talking about the party tonight, and I watch Lizbeth in the new costuming, wishing Clay was here. Hoping she’s here, because I want her to see this. I want her to be proud of me.

Romeo and Benvolio enter stage left, and I draw in a deep breath, close my eyes for a moment, my heart suddenly pounding in my chest.

Clay.

My head swims, and somehow all the tears and anger and bitterness of years of hurt and a freshly axed heart swirl like a whirlwind, and for the first time I know that Mercutio isn’t dynamic at all. He’s lost. He’s missing that one thing that being loved gives you, and that’s why he needs Romeo. That’s why he’s protective of him. He lives through him.

Romeo must be protected at all cost.

And now, I get it.

“Nay, gentle Romeo,” I call out, stepping onto the stage. “We must have you dance.”

I hold my friend’s eyes, the spotlight on me and following me to him, and the adrenaline burns down my arms, something inside showing me the way.

I pull off my friend’s jacket, Benvolio and other maskers dancing around, and whip it off to the side, but Romeo resists me. “Not I, believe me,” he says, continuing.

I attach myself to him, his sidekick, because Mercutio adores his best friend. Needs him.

The audience laughs as I joke and jump around, and I can feel her eyes, the sadness of loss so obvious as I dive into his Queen Maab monologue. How his humor and passion are just a shield for the pain.

And he gives you that tiny peek inside before…he closes it up again. The curtain falling once more.

Tears spilling down my cheeks, breathing hard, my friends pull me to the party, and I clutch Romeo’s hand, meeting his eyes so I never have to look in the mirror and see myself.

The scene concludes, we leave stage, and I hear my brothers throw out whistles in the audience as people clap.

“You were great,” Clarke says.

But I can’t look at him. I swallow hard, something making my heart feel like it’s getting too big for my chest.

I enter the stage again for the party, for the scene with the nurse, for my battle with Tybalt… My death.

I scream, tears streaming down my face as I fall to the ground, and Mercutio realizes that this wasn’t worth it. He’d tried to protect his friend’s life, but he failed to protect his happiness. He made it worse. Just a domino in the tragedy who failed to see how short our time was.

How it wasn’t going to end unless someone changed the game.

And how, for the first time, I realize that the glaring plot hole in this story was never a plot hole at all. Whether Juliet left her parents’ home under her own two feet or in a casket, she still had the same endgame, so why fake her death at all? She just should’ve left when her father gave her the option.

But she didn’t. Because she would’ve rather her parents seen her dead than a Montague. Because she loved them and didn’t want to disappoint them.

And now, maybe, I finally understand Clay’s fear isn’t because she doesn’t love me. It’s because she loves them, too.

I don’t want what happened to Alli to happen to her. I’d rather see her from a distance than never again.

“YOU GIRLS LOOK beautiful,” my mom says, setting down a tray with non-alcoholic cocktails that she made herself. I know, because the rims are splattered with orange juice pulp.

Eh, she tried.

“I’m excited,” Amy squeals, taking a drink as my mom leaves the room again. “Transportation will be here at six. The guys better be dressed correctly when we get to the venue. Makes me nervous, them left to their own devices.”

We sit in the living room, vanities set up and the stylists at work on me and Krisjen’s hair. Amy sneaks a flask out of her bag and adds vodka to her drink.

“Want some?” she asks, pushing the glass in front of me and trying to act like we’re still friends, but we’ve barely said two words to each other since I threatened her. I wish I didn’t know why I don’t tell her to take a hike, but I do, and I can’t look at myself in the mirror in front of me.

I shake my head, my fingers hovering over the keyboard on my phone.

Don’t come, I type but stop my thumb before I hit Send.

“You’re probably right.” Amy pulls the glass away and takes a drink. “Once I get started, I keep going, and since it’s still early, I’ll be passed out by eight.”

But I don’t say anything as she drones on. I stare at my phone, willing myself to hit the goddamn button. To tell Callum Ames that I don’t want him to escort me tonight, because that’s her place. That he means nothing more than a waste of my time.

All of this is a waste of time. I hate my hair. I don’t even have to look to feel every strand pulled off my neck and away from my face, pinned into a tidy, boring little bun at the back of my head. The matte lipstick allows me to feel every dry patch on my lips, and I almost tell Amy to give me the damn drink in order to dull the pain of that dress on the hanger behind me.

“Is everything okay?” Jenny, the stylist, asks.

I squeeze my phone in my lap, not in the mood to lie so I keep my mouth shut. I drop my eyes, staring at my screen and checking the volume again and my texts.

I don’t care about my hair. I’ve called, texted… She doesn’t answer. I go straight to voicemail every time, which means her phone is either off or I’m blocked.

I haven’t had the courage to check social media yet. I want to throw up, because I know she’s cut us off from each other there, too.

Not knowing is better right now.

My chest shakes, and I let out a quiet sob.

“Ladies.” Jenny pats my shoulders. “Let’s go get them some refreshments.”

The stylists leave, and I scroll through TikTok, seeing a video on Ruby’s account of the play last night. Liv stands center stage, Mercutio’s famous monologue hitting my heart like a brick. God, she can make you forget you’re watching a play. I hope she didn’t see me last night. My heart was in my throat the entire time.