AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Professor Elmahed lets out an incredulous laugh. “When literature touches true emotions, it can often be easy for the line between fiction and reality to blur. Zachary, let me remind you that Othello is not a real person, and neither is Desdemona—neither is their kiss, for that matter. Theodora, on the other hand,isa real person, and you just spoke to her in a way you perhaps should not have. Consider apologising to her after class—privately. Now let’s resume reading, please.”
We finish reading the scene—Othello sounds hurt and desperate but never remorseful, and Desdemona is full of anger and sorrow. We let our emotions bleed right into the characters, and everyone watches us like we’re a little insane.
Maybe we are.
Chapter 26
Oleander Promise
Zachary
Attheendofthe class, Theodora packs her things and leaves the classroom like a hare that feels the hot breath of the hounds on the back of its legs.
Professor Elmahed is right; I owe Theodora an apology. My behaviour in class was rude, immature, and borderline childish. I behaved like a spurned lover who is caught in a barbed net of rejection and frustration and strikes out at the very object of his desire.
I’ve allowed myself to become the dissolute Roderigo, whose unrequited obsession with Desdemona would have him bring about her downfall rather than allow her to be happy with the man she loves.
Except that Theodora isn’t Desdemona, and Luca is no Othello. She didn’t kiss him because she fell in love with his story, his pain, his bravery. She didn’t kiss him because of love, or even, I suspect, because she wanted to.
Whydidshe kiss him? Because he was there and because he was the only Young King who would go near Theodora? Luca would kiss Theodora not despite the fact she’s mine but precisely because of it. Does Theodora know? Is that why she kissed him?
I’ve been turning the mystery of it in my head ever since I last saw her. My desire for Theodora is mirrored by hers for me—so why did she kiss him and not me?
The truth I seek is poetic and complex. That’s the nature of the truth in poetry, in literature, in philosophy. The truth is romanticised into something grand and fulfilling, the catharsis of revelation.
In reality, the truth is common, obvious and underwhelming.
Theodora might have kissed Luca for the mere reason that she wanted to. That she could. That he was there.
She might have kissed him for no reason at all.
Theodora has lived trapped in the cage of my heart, where she exists as rival, friend, companion, angel, lover, prize, conqueror, saint and sage.
Except that this whole time, the real Theodora has been living in the real world. She’s been living a real existence—a mysterious existence of unhappy summers, meals left untouched, kisses given to boys bold enough to take them. How can I blame her for this?
I can’t.
Logically, I must let it go. I must release the pain. And I must absolutely apologise to her for my unacceptable behaviour in class.
Except Ican’tdo any of those things. I can’t let it go. I can’t release the pain, which digs into me like thorns pinned into my flesh. And I definitely don’t apologise to her.
And I don’t act with maturity or honour or poise.
I do the complete opposite.
“Did you kiss Theodora?” I ask Luca that evening, interrupting him halfway through his dinner.
The dinner hall is loud around us, and Evan and Sev, who sit across from Luca, both look up in surprise.
“Who told you I did?” Luca asks without flinching.
His hair is slicked back with sweat, and his mouth is full of food, so I guess he’s just come back from fencing or archery practice. But without his fencing blades or his bows and arrows, Luca is as lean and weak as a reed stalk, and right now, I want nothing more than to snap him in half.
“She did.”
Luca shrugs and shoves another spoonful of food into his mouth. “So?”
“So, did you kiss her?”
