this.”
He closed his eyes and whispered, “No, you can’t.”
“Let me try.”
Gently placing his hand on mine, he said, “I think you were right last night. I think you should listen to your father. It’s not safe for you to be with me right now. Everyone has a price, and who knows what’s coming next?”
“I can take care of myself. You need someone, Hamlet. Put your trust in me.”
Then, stroking my face, he added, his voice urgent, “They’ll get to you. It’s only a matter of time before my mother and Claudius find a way to get to you, I’m sure of it. I don’t want you any more wrapped up in my family’s mess than you have to be. Walk away, Ophelia. Get out while you can.”
I took a step back, and his hand dropped. I’m not gonna lie: Wondering what his mother and uncle would do next scared me, but the thought of facing the danger without Hamlet was even scarier. I said quietly, “I don’t want to walk away. I’m here for you. I love you.”
Suddenly he was angry again. “Don’t. Don’t love me.” When I didn’t move, his voice got loud enough that it echoed off the lobby walls. “And I can’t rely on you. You’ve already proven that. One embarrassing photo spread and you were willing to throw what we have away.”
“That is not fair,” I protested, my chin trembling.
“Maybe not. But it’s true. Walk away, Ophelia.”
I couldn’t. I wanted to say something, but I couldn’t even manage that. He shook his head, turned his back to me, and disappeared into the theater. After the door whispered shut, I stood waiting for him to come out again. Minutes passed, but the only thing that came out of the theater door was the sound of laughter. Eventually, I threw my coffee in the trash and went home to watercolor my worries away.
Francisco: How well did you know Rosencrantz and Guildenstern?
Ophelia: I didn’t.
Francisco: Liar.
Ophelia: I met them a couple of times, but we weren’t friends.
Barnardo: Here’s a photo of you three together just before things got really crazy. Seems like this meeting was a catalyst.
Ophelia: Big word. I’m impressed.
Barnardo: Tell us what you talked about.
Ophelia: The show Hamlet was planning.
Barnardo: And.
Ophelia: And nothing. (pause) Fine. They were brought to Elsinore to spy on Hamlet.
Barnardo: For you?
Ophelia: No. For Claudius.
Francisco: Interesting. We found a document in Claudius’s files that says you asked the boys to come.
Ophelia: It’s not true.
Barnardo: Your word against theirs. Which one of them should we ask?
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