Chapter 6
When tiny droplets flick across my cheeks, I close my eyes and inhale, steadying myself. It’s not Scotty’s fault that a little water sends me straight back to the incident.
Pause.
Actually—yes. Yes, it is.
Scotty shakes his head, and a fresh spray of water speckles my face. I grit my teeth.
“Do they not have hair dryers in the locker room?” I snap, swiping my sweater over the page to dry it.
“I'm sorry. I figured you'd prefer me out here, ready to work, rather than wasting extra minutes drying my hair.”
I don't look up, partly because I think he views me as a walking joke, but mostly because if I do, I start to think about things I absolutely should not.
Hot dogs…baguettes…hoagie dicks.
Ever since Lyss planted that horrifying, deranged visual in my head, I can't stop thinking about his nether regions.
Oh, and there are also the eyes and his square-cut jaw… he's too pretty to take seriously, and it’s hard to concentrate.
“Okay. Have you finished reading the first act? I think it’s important we start from there.” My eyes are focused on my notes because I’m doing everything in my power not to think about Scotty Hendricks. The hockey player I absolutely, definitely, resolutely refuse to call cute.
“The first act?” he echoes. “I’ve read the play.”
I finally look up at him and raise an eyebrow in disbelief. His grin widens, and I’m starting to think he likes to tick me off.
“Multiple times, in fact. Not every hockey player treats books like foreign objects, you know.”
I am not taking that bait. Nope. Not today.
“Great,” I say instead. “Then we’re on the same page. I was Juliet's understudy in high school and pretty much know the text by heart at this point.”
“Right, theater major,” he says, pointing at me. “I knew that.”
When he looks up at me, I lose my breath.
Blue. So freaking blue.
Every time I look into Scotty Hendricks’ eyes, it feels like staring into some deep, dangerous abyss I’ll no doubt drown in if I get too close. His dimples pop as he offers me a smile, and I hate that he's so cute with it.
“Of course you did,” I say automatically. “You’re my little stalker, after all.”
What was that?
It was supposed to come out as a cutting retort, but it was more of a flirty tease. I want to shove the words back into my mouth and delete them from existence.
“Anyway,” I say quickly, “we need to divide up the arguments. Who wants what?”
“I'll take personal agency,” Scotty says immediately, pulling out his own notebook. I notice it's full of meticulous notes, surprisingly neat handwriting filling the lines. “Their choices drive the tragedy.”
Of course he would. “Fine. Then I'll argue external forces—they're victims of circumstance.”
He taps his pen against the page, tilting his head as he watches me. “You really think they had no control over what happened?”
“I think their 'choices' were severely limited by forces beyond their control.” I offer as I pull out my laptop, kicking my bag full of my princess gear to the side. “I’m guessing you think Juliet made a reckless choice by poisoning herself?”
He shrugs, leaning back in his chair. “I mean… yeah, it feels a little dramatic. She could have refused to marry Paris, told her parents the truth, run away—”
“Run away?” I cut him off, and his smile falls instantly.
Interesting. Guess he’s not used to people treating him like he’s anything less than the center of the universe.
“She's a fourteen-year-old girl in Renaissance Italy with no money and no support system.
Where exactly is she going to run? She'd be assaulted or killed before she made it out of Verona. That's not a real option.”
He pauses, then drags his hand through his damp hair, sending a little sprinkle of shower droplets flying. One lands on my laptop. I glare; he has the audacity to smirk.
“Okay, but she could have told her parents—”
“That she secretly married their enemy's son?” I counter.
“Her father would disown her at best, lock her up at worst. Maybe even kill Romeo.” I lean forward.
He mirrors me without realizing it. “She didn't choose the potion plan because she's dramatic.
She chose it because it was literally her only option that didn't end in forced marriage or death.”
He taps his pen again—faster this time. Thinking.
“She still made a choice, though.”
“Between terrible options created by external forces she didn't control. That's not real agency.”
He frowns, brows drawing together, and shifts his chair closer as though the proximity will help him win this debate.
“Okay, but what about Romeo killing Tybalt? That's a clear choice driven by rage.”
“Is it?” I challenge.
He lifts his chin, competitive spark in those stupid blue eyes. “Tybalt killed his best friend. Romeo reacts. That’s choice.”
“Tybalt just killed his best friend,” I emphasize. “In Verona’s honor culture, if Romeo doesn’t fight back, he’s labeled a coward—and Tybalt still gets away with murder. The society literally gives him no acceptable alternative.”
“But he could have walked away—”
“Easy for you to say 'walk away' when you've never had to choose between your honor and your safety.” I shake my head.
Something flickers across his face. “What's that supposed to mean?”
Shit. Too personal. Way too personal.
“Nothing. I just mean—you can't judge their choices without understanding the constraints they lived under.”
“I'm not judging them. I'm saying they made active decisions that led to their deaths.
Romeo chooses to crash the Capulet party, knowing it's dangerous.
Juliet chooses to kiss him back, knowing he's a Montague. They choose to marry in secret instead of trying to reconcile their families. Those are all active choices.”
“Made within a prison of external forces,” I counter. “The family feud they didn't start, the honor culture they didn't create, the patriarchal society that treats Juliet like property—”
“So you think they're completely powerless? Just victims with no agency at all?”
“I think their agency is so constrained by external forces that the outcome is inevitable regardless of what they choose.” I meet his eyes. “They could make all the 'right' choices and still lose. That's what makes it a tragedy.”
He's quiet for a moment. “You know, for someone arguing that external forces control everything, you seem pretty determined to fight them.”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“Theater major. Some job with crazy hours. I’m guessing you want to be an actress, right?”
I don’t answer, which is enough for him.
“That’s one of the hardest professions to break into, and yet, here you are, still doing it. You're choosing to fight the odds, not accepting them.”
“That's different—”
“Is it?” He leans forward. “Or are you proving your own argument wrong? Maybe agency matters more than you think.”
“Or maybe I'm proving that even when you fight, the external forces still win.” The words come out more bitter than I intended.
His expression softens. “Laura—”
I turn back to my laptop. “What's your first evidence for personal agency?”
He watches me for a second, then lets it go. “Romeo crashes the Capulet party. Active choice, knowing the danger.”
“With external motivation—Benvolio pressures him to go, he's trying to get over Rosaline—”
“But he chooses to stay. Chooses to approach Juliet. That's agency.”
We volley back and forth, the tension easing as we fall into the rhythm of the argument. After a few minutes, I realize I'm actually enjoying this.
“You know,” Scotty says, tapping his notebook, “I see why you were the understudy for Juliet.”
My eyes widen. “Wow. Rude.”
He laughs. “No, no—listen. You’d make a terrible Juliet because you wouldn’t fall for Romeo’s sad-boy poetry for five minutes. You’d have shut him down at hello.”
“That’s why it’s called acting. But you're right. I have standards.”
“Like not dating hockey players who accidentally assault you with their equipment?” His eyes twinkle with amusement.
I choke—literally choke—because what kind of man says something like that with a straight face?
Despite myself, I burst out laughing. “Yes, Scotty. That's exactly my standard. No dick-slappers allowed.”
He shakes his head, laughing. It's dark and low and altogether unfair. “I'm never going to live that down, am I?”
“Not in this lifetime,” I say, surprising myself with how easy it feels between us suddenly. “It's going in my autobiography. Chapter One: The Day I Got Bitch-Slapped By A Penis.”
“What a legacy I'm leaving,” he groans, burying his face in his hands, but I can see he's still smiling.
“If it makes you feel better, it was memorable,” I offer, immediately regretting my word choice.
“Good to know.” His head pops up, eyebrows raised, that infuriating smirk back on his face. “Hopefully I’m not still haunting your nightmares?”
I blow out a breath, ready to give him a sarcastic response when I see the time on my phone.
3:30
“Shit.”
I should've left fifteen minutes ago if I wanted any chance of making it to the venue on time.
The bus route alone takes forty-five minutes, and that's if I don't miss a connection.
Claire is going to kill me. This is a premium client—the kind who books six months in advance and tips in hundreds. The kind I can't afford to piss off.
“Everything okay?” Scotty asks, looking up from his notes.
“Fine,” I lie, shoving my laptop into my bag with more force than necessary. “I just—I need to go.”
He’s still staring at me as I gather my things. “My job,” I remind him. “It’s across town, and if I don’t leave right now, I’m not going to make it.” I'm already standing, mentally calculating bus schedules and whether I can sprint the three blocks to the stop in these shoes.
“How far across town?”
“Far enough that this is a problem.” I zip my bag closed, anxiety clawing up my throat. This gig pays $350 an hour. I can't lose it because I got too caught up arguing about Romeo and Juliet with Scotty Hendricks.
“I can drive you.”