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Still, none of this has anything to do with me. “This is a public cemetery. I’m not doing anything other than sitting…or standing, now, I guess.”
He grumbles something I can’t hear over the wind, and I’m not going to ask him to repeat it. He shifts his posture, taking a step toward me, so once again I’m crowded in his shadow, my view of the Montagues down the hill completely obscured. I look up, slightly alarmed, and take a few steps backwards. He follows, like we’re playing the strangest game of red-light/green-light ever.
I furrow my brow in confusion. “What are you doing?”
Roman reaches into the pocket of his long, wool, peacoat and pulls out a white and red pack of cigarettes. “Since you’re refusing to be reasonable, I’m smoking a cigarette alone on this hill.”
My eyebrows hit my hair as I watch him pull one out and cup his hand around a lighter to block the wind. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him smoke before.
I wrinkle my nose at the scent of tobacco and nicotine. I lean around him to see if his parents are watching, and he puts an arm out to stop me. “No.”
My eyes widen, as I finally catch up to what he’s trying to do. That he’s trying to obscure me from view of the rest of his family. It’s not only likely not going to work, it’s strangely out of character.
I hate myself for how my heart beats slightly faster. For how my imagination is running away with me.
He doesn’t like you. Stop it, this is pathetic.
But no matter what I tell myself, my racing pulse gives me away.
“Fucking hell,” Roman blurts out. “If you’re going to stand there thinking so many things about me, you might as well just say whatever it is.”
My eyes narrow. “Weren’t you taught that if you don’t have anything nice to say you shouldn’t say anything?”
“No. I was taught that ridicule would continue until performance improved.”
“You don’t have to be such an asshole,” I say without thinking.
I hear myself, and I nearly clap my hand over my mouth. Ugh, I hardly ever swear. In my head, I have the mouth of a sailor, but I don’t say those things out loud. Except Roman Montague makes me want to scream that he can go fuck himself in ways I can’t even picture.
He laughs, seemingly in spite of himself. “Actually, good girl, I do.”
“Do what?”
“Need to be an asshole.”
“Why?”
He puts his cigarette in his mouth and holds it there for a moment, seeming to think. “I don’t know, easier I guess.”
“It’s never easier to be an asshole. You’re choosing that.”
“Fuck, good girl. Are you aiming for sainthood now?”
The Order doesn’t have saints, which he knows full well, but I know what he means. Roman thinks I’m weak. If only he knew how hard it is to be nice when I don’t want to be. How hard it is to stay quiet and polite, when I wish I could just say fuck all, like he does. It’s actually much easier to be an asshole—I know, because I come from a whole family of assholes.
I take a step back, so I can look at him without having to tilt my head all the way up. “I really am sorry, Roman.”
He doesn’t say anything when I walk away.
ChapterEight
ETTA
PRESENT
“Hey, are you done with that?”
I jump, startled by the clipped, nasal voice, coming from far too close to my ear. “Sorry?”
