Just Another Dead Boy

Regan has two rules: Don’t fall in love. Don’t have hope.

In a world where everyone knows the date they will die, wild-child Regan works at a luxury resort as a “Juliet” for the Romeo & Juliet Service, promising to provide the illusion of star-crossed romance to rich boys on end-of-life retreats. She gets to live life on the edge—skydiving, partying, and doing a host of other people’s bucket-list thrills—then moves on to her next client. But when world-famous Death Date researchers the Dalys arrive, she’s tasked with her hardest client yet, their overachieving, stone-faced son. Jude Daly sees right through the setup—he thinks she’s a parasite, and, frankly, she thinks he’s an entitled jerk. They agree to fake romance for the sake of Jude’s parents and Regan’s job, but as contempt turns into something else, will Regan ignore her ironclad rules so she and Jude can take on Fate together? Or will his impending Death Date catch up with them first? A compelling and heartbreaking twist on Romeo and Juliet, in which Regan realizes she might have to stop living like today is her last—and start living like it isn’t.Kelly McCaughrain’s debut, Flying Tips for Flightless Birds, won an unprecedented hat trick of awards at the 2019 Children’s Books Ireland Awards, as well as the Northern Ireland Book Award. Her YA novel Little Bang is short-listed for the 2025 Carnegie Award for Writing and the Children’s Books Ireland Awards. Just Another Dead Boy is her first YA speculative romance. Kelly McCaughrain was Children’s Writing Fellow for Northern Ireland for 2019–2021. She lives in Belfast.Chapter 1
Our selection of Romeo-and-Juliet packages are discreet, professional, and tailored to your needs, with options ranging from meaningful friendship to true love with someone facing similar end-of-life issues.

Past clients have reported that their loved ones experienced important psychological benefits such as solidarity in the face of the unknown and feelings of fulfillment.

“Caring for another person forces you to be brave. Caring for our son always gave us strength, but it was humbling to see how his love for his ‘Juliet’ gave him such courage at the end. We were so grateful to her.”
—Carla (mother of Sam, age 17)

“Love?” The glossy brochure in Mrs. Daly’s hand trembles slightly as she examines it. Her nails are bitten, and the cuffs of her shirt hang a little loose at the wrists. Dr. Lawrence passes her a cup of jasmine tea and takes the brochure away, as if to be helpful, though it’s really just that he’s careful never to let the brochures leave this room.
“The appearance of it, yes,” he says, sitting down again behind his huge walnut desk. Dr. Lawrence’s office doesn’t look like the rest of the Elite Elect Clinic. The thick rugs and wood furniture give it a warmer, homier atmosphere. There’s a plush sofa, a wall of thank-you cards, and a shelf of books by Dr. Ryan T. Lawrence with titles like The Brain Chemistry of Attraction and The Phases of Romantic Love. An antique clock ticks softly on the wall.
He laces his fingers in front of him and starts explaining the different options while, in my armchair in the corner, I try not to fidget and make the leather creak as my attention wanders. I’ve heard the spiel before, but for the families who are ushered quietly into this room while their loved one is busy with the end-of-life counselors, this is all brand-new information. They have no idea the R&J service even exists before they’re brought in here and asked if they’d be interested in an “extra option not listed on the resort website.”
“So, it’s not . . . real?” Mr. Daly is saying. He’s a bear of a man, while his wife is tiny, and their tailored clothes are as tasteful as their English accents—cashmere Chanel for her, and I’m pretty sure his beige jacket is Armani.
I’m not supposed to participate at this point anyway. Dr. Lawrence is the expert. But since I’m the one who’ll be hired or not at the end of this interview, it’s hard to sit here and say nothing. And it doesn’t help that my stomach is growling, my brain is fogged, and my head aches to the ends of my ash-brown hair. I may be a tiny bit hungover. And by “a tiny bit,” I mean we hung out with this crowd of girls from Dallas doing tequila shots and cheerleading routines on the bar top at Inferno last night. (R-E-G-A-N! GOOOOO, REGAN!) By two a.m., I’d lost my balance, another pair of heels, and the ability to spell Cowboys.
I silently urge Dr. Lawrence to get on with it, but he just places his chin on his interlaced fingertips, his smile the perfect balance of respectful solemnity and this is as routine as joining a gym. He’s had variations of this conversation so many times, but he’s always careful to make the appropriate facial expressions. No one wants their kid’s impending death to be treated like another day at the office. No one wants to know that they’re echoing the same things a hundred other parents have said on that sofa. That there’s nothing at all unique about their grief.
“Real is a concept a lot of our clients struggle with at first,” he says. “Why do we assume real is better? We’ve all had real relationships. We know how badly they can go. That’s not something anyone needs in the last week of their life.” He sits back in his chair. “We can’t offer real, Mr. and Mrs. Daly, and we wouldn’t if we could. We offer perfect. Jude deserves perfect.”
The first time I did this, I expected the parents to laugh at him. Hiring someone so your son or daughter can experience “true love” before they die? It’s bizarre. But you have to understand the way these people think. They’re used to being able to have anything on the menu. Anything. From skydiving with their favorite popstar to string quartets to serenade them to sleep. Why not true love? That’s just the kind of quality service they’re used to.
But Mr. Daly frowns. “And the full Romeo-and-Juliet package is someone—”
“Someone in exactly Jude’s position, yes,” Dr. Lawrence explains. “Someone with his same Death Date—we use a special tattoo to simulate that—who appears to be here to have their end-of-life procedure, too. Of course, we never push the client into anything. We always let them be the first to suggest that they go through the procedure together. They generally do.”
“So, then she would pretend to—”
“There’s a sedative involved; it’s all very convincing.”
“Hence the name.” Mr. Daly nods at the framed print of Romeo and Juliet hanging on the wall among the medical diplomas—him straddling a balcony, her in a voluminous nightgown, stealing a last kiss.
Dr. Lawrence’s smile warms. “My wife’s favorite play. You know, people think I started the Romeo-and-Juliet service because I’m a romantic.” He shrugs. “Maybe I am. But make no mistake, the reason that story still resonates with us after four hundred years has nothing to do with romance.” He leans forward. “It’s a very primal instinct, Mr. Daly, to not want to venture into the dark alone.”