Romeo's Ex by Lisa Fiedler

his disguise. “She remembers my boots,” he announces triumphantly to a fellow in a half mask who has just come up beside him.
    â€œI would not be too proud of that,” the masked newcomer slurs.
    I expect my knees to waver—oddly, they do not. My pulse quickens, however, and I note a frantic fluttering sensation in my belly. “Mercutio!”
    â€œNone other.” He sways slightly as he leans in close to me. “And, pray, what dost the lady recall of me?”
    â€œEverything,” I blurt. (That too is a fib, for ’twas actually his smug tone that gave him away. In truth, I did not know him until he spoke.) “Your eyes. Also your smile.”
    Mercutio chuckles. “’Tis better than boots, nay?”
    I cannot see Benvolio’s face, but methinks I see his shoulders stiffen, then slump. Surely he finds such lovesick prattle most disgusting.
    I now spy another familiar figure across the room leaning forlornly against a wall and cannot stop myself from gasping his name. “Romeo.”
    â€œSeems she knows us all,” Mercutio says, and I fear he means it as an insult.
    Benvolio’s spine goes rigid. “I will thank you not to tease the lady,” he says in a level voice.
    Mercutio snorts, plucks two goblets of burgundy from the tray of a passing servant, and hands one to Benvolio.
    â€œTo honor,” he sneers, lifting the cup.
    â€œTo honor,” echoes Benvolio.
    â€œTo honor!” Mercutio slants me a wicked grin. “Get on her and stay on her!”
    Benvolio cringes at the crude toast. “Damn you,” he mutters, ignoring his wine.
    Mercutio yawns loudly. I fear he is growing bored and will take his leave of us, so I speak quickly.
    â€œHow dost thou, Mercutio?” I ask sweetly.
    â€œI do well, lady,” he replies, after a lusty sip of wine. His gaze creeps slowly o’er me. He takes another sip.
    â€œMy lady,” Benvolio begins, “it occurs to me that I still do not know your name.”
    At this, Mercutio nearly chokes on his mouthful of drink. “By the blood of the devil, Benvolio! You know not
who she is?” He laughs, his eyes steely. “O, this is rich, verily. Comic and tragic and sickening and delightful.” He laughs again. “You wish to know her name! Marry, I have a notion—wherefore dos’t thou not ask Romeo? I’d wager he will be able to tell you her name. He may e’en sing it for you!”
    â€œI would be honored to learn her name by any means necessary,” Benvolio replies, “but would much prefer she give it to me from her own sweet lips.”
    Before I can answer, Mercutio catches hold of Benvolio’s chin and shakes it.
    â€œShe is Rosaline, you fool! Romeo’s Rosaline! The goddess, the epitome of feminine perfection. The chaste one who has no use for him and yet causes him to weep and whine and waste away. She is that Rosaline! The one, the only!”
    Benvolio freezes in his place; then, after a lengthy moment, he tips his mask so only I can see his face. “Rosaline?”
    â€œAye.”
    â€œRomeo’s Rosaline?”
    I frown. “Hardly.”
    â€œHe is in love with you,” Benvolio reports grimly.
    â€œSo I have heard.”
    Benvolio’s eyes go dark. He looks at odds with himself, conflicted. Or perhaps just sad. “Why didst thou not tell me?” he queries.
    â€œBecause, if you’ll recall, I had only just overheard you
callously assert to Romeo that I was surely no better than any other maiden in Verona.”
    â€œI was most incorrect,” he whispers.
    â€œO, Benvolio.” Rashly, I take his hands in mine and squeeze them. “Please do not be angry. We had such a lovely time—”
    â€œLovely time,” Mercutio snickers.
    â€œAnd I feared you would want nothing to do with me had you known I was the cause of your cousin’s heartache.”
    â€œNonsense,” drawls