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39

JULIET

Today was the day.

I was going to go to the Italian bakery Romeo told me about.

I could be normal, do normal things. I repeated it to myself, hoping it would make me believe it.

I was already trembling when I opened the lobby door and stepped onto the street. For a second, I thought about calling Romeo. Just hearing his voice would ease my anxiety, but we’d barely talked this past week with how busy he was. I was hurt by his silence, but I tried to push it aside. It wasn’t like I could demand he make time for me, but I missed him. I imagined his voice in my head, telling me I was doing a good job as I started walking.

So far, this was my usual walk to work. I could handle this. But the closer I got to the intersection, the worse my hands started shaking. I stopped at the corner, and a wave of dizziness washed over me until I was forced to lean on a trashcan. My skin flashed hot and cold as I dragged in ragged breaths. No one paid me any attention as they skirted around me on the sidewalk, and I was grateful for New Yorkers’ immunity to strange behavior.

I couldn’t handle an audience right now.

Finally, I forced my head up. The bakery was just two blocks in the opposite direction from work. Two blocks out of my safe routine. I imagined Romeo’s face when I told him I’d made it. He was going to be so proud of me. I could practically feel him hugging me as he kissed the top of my head.

It was in that moment I realized I would do almost anything so Romeo would be proud of me. I wanted his arms around me, craved it.

I straightened up, wrinkling my nose as I realized I had been touching a New York City trashcan— gross —and started walking down the block. My chest was so tight I felt like I was being strangled, but I kept walking.

One block down.

The bakery was in sight. The facade had that unassuming, slightly run-down feel that indicated the food would be amazing.

And then I was standing in front of it. The first new place I’d been in so long. I didn’t know whether I should run, hide, scream, pump my fist, or something else. In the end, I just grabbed the handle and pulled the door open.

A warm blanket of sugar washed over me as I stepped inside. I immediately felt at home. There was too much to take in visually, so I kept my eyes fixed on the counter. Everything looked amazing. There were some things I recognized, like cannoli and tiramisu, but they also had different cream-filled croissant-like pastries, something called maritozzi, and an assortment of cookies. The elderly man at the counter smiled at me while he asked for my order and was surprisingly patient with my questions. I wanted all of it. He winked at me as he slipped some extra pastries into my box.

I paid and stepped to the side to wait for the man to finish boxing up my order, and that’s when I saw him. Romeo. He was sitting at a table in the back of the bakery with two other men in suits. I broke out in a huge smile and the weight I’d been carrying in my chest disappeared as I bounced over to him.

My excitement at seeing him made me forget that he was supposed to be out of town. I would regret that lapse.