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Roman Montague and I will only ever be star-crossed.
Act Four
ROMAN
CHAPTER22
Three Years Ago
ROMAN
ETTA (RECENTLY 19), ROMAN (19)
This is a bad fucking idea.
It’s early spring, but unseasonably warm for New England and sweat pools on the back of my neck, sticking to the collar of my shirt. By all accounts, it’s a nice day, but I’ve hardly taken the time to notice.
The cemetery is empty and quiet as I drive through the gates. I instinctively roll-up my windows and turn down my music, as if my presence might disturb the slumber of the dead, then scowl down at the three bouquets of flowers in my passenger seat.
I’m furious. First, at the mere existence of the flowers, and second, because I didn’t buy the bigger bouquets that I really wanted. I’d usually go-big-or-go-home, but I tried to thread the needle—choosing something in the middle—and now I’m dissatisfied on all fronts.
I don’t know why I’m doing this, except that Etta did, and I’ll be damned if I let her always be the better person. The more thoughtful person. The winner of this strange, morality competition that exists only in my head. It’s a lost-cause, anyway, because I’ve already lost by the simple fact that she’s not playing. She shows up to this shit out of actual kindness, rather than to even the score.
I tense as I drive past where my grandfather’s grave sits. We were close, he and I, and the memory of his death is still painful to think about. The memory of Etta turning up at his funeral is still as confused and tangled as it was the day it happened. As confusing as Etta herself, who is, and always has been, a contradiction.
A girl I was raised to hate. Told constantly was just the latest in a long line of liars and thieves. Yet, has never shown that side of herself to me once, no matter how often I tried to provoke it out of her. No matter how often I’ve tried to prove the duplicity of the Capulet bloodline, Etta has always been too good, and I’m starting to wonder if in this generation,I’mthe problem.
I scowl at the flowers again. I refuse to lie down and accept being the villain in my own narrative. If Etta can do nice shit like go to her enemy’s funerals, the least I can do is turn up with flowers three days late.
I drive in circles for a few minutes, trying to find the Capulet’s Mausoleum, and eventually park and get out of my car. It will be easier to find on foot. I doubt her grandmother will have a headstone yet, but there should be some sort of grave markers or…something. Unless she was buried in the crypt? I square my shoulders. This just can’t be that hard.
It’s nearly eighty degrees out and sweat beads on my forehead as I wander down row after row.
But then I stop short.
As if summoned by my thoughts of her, Etta is crouching by a gravestone twenty feet in front of me. Her back is turned, and the sun glints off her dark blonde hair, making it much lighter in the sun. She’s wearing a sundress, unlike anything I’ve ever seen her wear—which makes sense, as I rarely see her outside of a school, or at the occasional formal function. Still, it’s unmistakably her.
My stomach turns over. What is she doing here? It’s not even the actual funeral. What are the odds that she would be here at the exact moment I am?
I back up a few steps. I could leave. Turn back before she ever sees me here. Or, just wait until she leaves?Fuck.
My decision is made for me when she turns around. Her eyes widen as we stare at each other across the headstones. Her gaze travels down from my face to the flowers in my hands. I wait, expecting her to say something. Instead, she turns away, ignoring me, and it’s even worse than if she had looked up and yelled at me for daring to come here.
My eye twitches.
“Hey,” I hear myself say, like my voice is coming from a different person, completely disassociated.
She doesn’t greet me back. “What are you doing here?”
I’m tempted to taunt her, just out of habit. “Paying respects,” I say, mimicking her phrase from my grandfather’s funeral.
“The funeral was three days ago. If that were true, you would have shown up then.”
“Maybe I didn’t want to get beaten up by your insane family.”
She shrugs, her eyes narrowing. “Then I guess it wasn’t that important.”
I’m annoyed by how I sort of agree with her. By how she said exactly what I’d been thinking. Still, I hold up the flowers. “Look, I just heard today, okay? I wanted to leave these.”
