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Fine. Never mind. If she wants to get murdered in a graveyard that’s her godsdamn prerogative. “I would ask who shoved the stick up your ass, but it’s very clear you’ve never been fucked—in the ass or otherwise.”
She turns away, and I catch a glimpse of the side of her face. She looks…actually hurt? Something in my stomach revolts, seizing in a way I don’t like. Maybe that was kind of too far…should I apologize?
I turn back, and I stop breathing.
Etta’s arms are full of flowers, and I notice belatedly that the roses match the pattern on her sundress. She looks like a painting, standing on the hill with her hair blowing everywhere and the sun on her face. Suddenly the roses that I hated seem perfect.
The girl I hated is perfect.
And I’m perfectly fucked.
ChapterTwenty-Three
ETTA
PRESENT
The scent of baking banana bread hits me like a bulldozer the moment I push open the door to my favorite local coffee shop, a burst of warm air whooshing out to greet me.
Sunlight shines through the huge, frosted glass windows onto worn leather armchairs grouped around steel bistro tables, and my mouth waters as Cat and I stand in line, waiting for the barista to finish with the man in front of us.
The atmosphere is cozy, but my mood couldn’t be darker.
“Hey, Etta,” the barista says brightly. “The usual?”
I blink, confused for a moment, and realize I’m standing a good two feet back from the counter, and the man who was in front of us is gone. “Uh, yes,” I stammer. “Thank you. And also an iced quad americano, black, no room, please.”
“You got it.”
I glance around, wondering where Cat went, and spot her over at the bulletin board, reading some flyer. I can’t read the fine print from here, but the bolded part says:
Poetry Open Mic Nite!
“What’s up?” she asks, as I come to stand beside her. “You have that, ‘I want to say something,’ face.”
I frown. “Is that a face I make?”
“Kind of like this.”She hunches her shoulders, while making her eyes wide and sad. The effect is…unsettling.
“If I have ever looked like that, euthanize me.”
Cat looks over my shoulder to where the barista is placing our drinks on the bar. She strides over to grab them, then returns and picks up the conversation as if there was no interruption. “Or, you could just say whatever it is you dragged me out here to tell me, and defeat the face. Like exposure therapy.”
I know she’s joking, but I still frown. That’s just it though, isn’t it?
If I could say what I was feeling—what I wanted—I wouldn’t have this problem. If I could voice my emotions immediately, and talk about things when they happen instead of keeping them to myself for days and torturing not only me, but everyone around me with terror of what people will think, everything would be so much easier. But if I could do that, we wouldn’t be here.
Damn. Why is this so hard?
I take a deep breath, and then, as if the flood-gates have opened, I tell her everything.
Everything she already knows, but with more context, and a lot that she’s never heard before going back years.
I tell her about the fight during my high school fundraiser, and the curse, and every fight afterwards. I tell her about when Roman beat-up Harrison Dane, even though he was only fifteen and Harrison was twenty, and about when Tyberius tried to poison Bennet Montague, so Roman cut the brakes on his car.
I tell her about when my mom nearly exposed the magical community on public television because Balthazar Montague called her a cunt and said he’d kill my grandmother; and about later when hedidkill my grandmother.
I tell her about my father, and his affairs with girls in my college classes; about my mother and her impossible expectations, endless diets, and fixation on my weight. I tell her about how lonely I am in my empty, silent house, and how much I dread when anyone comes home; about how they ignore me and yet, I still want their approval.
