Falling for Hamlet by Michelle Ray

Author:Michelle Ray [Ray, Michelle]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: General Fiction
ISBN: 9780316101622
Google: oXp6pwAACAAJ
Amazon: B008W31IWG
Goodreads: 9415959
Publisher: Poppy
Published: 2011-06-30T23:00:00+00:00

15

Zara asks sympathetically, “After your visit to Wittenberg, we understand you and Hamlet broke things off.”

“For a while.”

“What was that like?”

Ophelia breathes out slowly. “Hard.”

“So you missed him?” Zara asks as if she has already answered her own question.

“Sure. But my father asked me not to be with him.”

“Did you always listen to your father’s requests?” Zara probes.

“More than Hamlet wanted, less than my father would have liked.” Ophelia smiles sadly.

Zara nods. “Hard to balance the wishes of two such important men.”

Ophelia nods and bites her bottom lip.

Later that evening, I was sitting on the couch reading when Hamlet came out of the elevator. I was relieved to see him, actually, and would have said as much if he hadn’t had such a wild look in his eyes. I stayed in my seat and braced myself. I thought for sure he was coming to hit me. He had never been violent toward me, so I don’t even know why I thought that was his plan. It’s just that no one ever races at you with such speed, with such terrifying anger, if they don’t plan on hitting you, I guess. He dashed right for me, and then, of all things, sat on the cushion where I was stretched out. He grabbed my hand, and his was absolutely freezing. He clearly had been outside—on the rooftop would be my guess—yet he had no coat, no gloves, no hat. There was snow on the ground outside, but he was wearing his flip-flops. It was then that I noticed his wet hair and that he wasn’t even wearing a shirt under his hoodie. No shirt at all. I couldn’t fathom why he was such a wreck. For a split second I thought he had just nailed some girl and that was why he was looking so guilty, but the wet hair, the cold hands… I knew that wasn’t it. If I had to pick a cliché, I’d say he looked like he’d seen a ghost. And then I realized that was precisely it. I sat really still and waited for him to tell me he’d seen his father again, hoping he wouldn’t because I knew he’d be pissed if I reminded him that I didn’t believe in ghosts.

Here’s the weirdest thing: He never even said a word. He never spoke; he just looked at me, studied me like he was memorizing my face, like he was going to draw it, or, worse, never see it again. The thought made me shiver. He looked choked, and all that escaped from his tightened throat was a pitiful sigh, not one of relief or fatigue but of strangling pain. Then he stood up and started walking away, only he didn’t look at the elevator, he looked at me as he walked. He made it all the way to the elevator, steps we had taken together in joy so many times, and pushed the button without watching what he was doing. The doors slipped shut and the last thing I saw was a sliver of his pained face.

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