Page 36 of By Any Other Name

“No one,” I snapped, gathering up my map.

It wasn’t working, anyway. Either she was in a car and moving, or my magical ability had dried up from my lack of use, because instead of landing on Etta’s location, my pendulum had been swinging wildly across the map for the last fifteen minutes.

“You know,” Bennet said, crossing the kitchen to the refrigerator. “If you’re looking for someone you could always do the normal thing and check social media.”

I froze, my fist closing around my crumpled map. Fuck, that was a good point. “Can I use your phone?”

Bennet grinned. “Sure, if you tell me what you’re doing.”

I sighed in defeat, launching into the story. Bennet was far from shocked. In fact, he seemed validated.

Etta Capulet has been tormenting me for as long as I can remember. Longer, probably. She has the kind of personality that’s as infuriating as it is fascinating. That gets in your head and lingers, making you stew for hours about what she meant by some glance or throw away comment.

It took me years to realize that my problem was that I liked her. Longer than it should have by any stretch of the imagination.

She made me borderline homicidal between the ages of twelve and fourteen. Every single rant and complaint, every hormone fueled shit-fit was about her holier-than-thou attitude, how she was a teacher’s pet and didn’t deserve her achievements, how she wasn’t even that pretty, anyway.

When we were fifteen, she attended our freshman formal with Sebastian Cesario. Up until then, I’d been friendly with Sebastian, but after I heard him talking about getting into her panties after the dance, I nearly lost my mind.

All of my current friends were there for all of it. They helped beat the shit out of Sebastian and then watched while I fumbled through the next few years, teasing her, following her around, threatening her dates while parading my girlfriends in front of her, and generally leaning hard on every toxic stereotype I hadn’t yet learned I was fulfilling.

Only Bennet—and my sister, Marcia, come to think of it—ever suggested that I might be tormenting Etta for any reason other than our long-standing feud. Marcia, because she was perceptive like that, and maybe girls just know things, I don’t know. And Bennet, because he would have had to be blind not to see it with how much time we spend together.

In retrospect, I should have realized then that I liked her, but no.

It took years for me to put it together. Even when she started showing up in the cemetery, I didn’t realize that my obsession with Etta had shifted beyond hatred. That it had shifted a long time ago. But by then, it was too late.

* * *

I’ve never heard of the restaurant Dane tagged himself and Etta at. From the description, I can’t imagine Etta there either, but it doesn’t matter. Every restaurant has a bar, and I’m going to go sit at that bar and…I’m not sure yet.

As I drive, the music emanating from my satellite radio suddenly cuts out.Damn, no signal.

I look down at the screen, flipping through channels trying to get something to work. Nothing does, and I sigh, glancing back at the empty road.

My heart leaps into my throat. What the fuck?

A bluish light is coming toward me, giving the impression of a lantern appearing out of the mist or a will-o-wisp luring a traveler off their path.

I blink furiously and squint into the fog, and I make out the faint outline of a cell phone. Someone is walking along the shoulder of the road, illuminating their path through the darkness with their phone.

My primal instinct kicks in and I slow down to look—partly out of concern for their safety, considering the lack of visibility; but largely from curiosity. It’s not unusual to spot people biking or jogging at night, but they usually wear some sort of reflective material. What is someone doing walking on a main road—in all black clothing—at night?

As I approach the figure, my annoyance and confusion shifts into a gut-wrenching shock. I slam my foot down on the break without thinking, and my car lurches forward as the engine tries to compensate for my sudden movement—thank the fucking gods there’s no one else on the road.

Rolling down my window, I lean my head out to yell. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Etta looks up at me, her face illuminated by both my headlights and her phone, her eyes wide and alarmed. I watch as fear crosses her face, only to be replaced by recognition, and finally, annoyance. Her wide eyes go narrow, and she scowls at me. “Enjoying the nice weather,” she yells back.

Mixed emotions war in my chest. My heart pounds, and something close to possession rises up inside of me. She shouldn’t be out here alone at night like this—it’s far too dangerous. Where the hell is Dane? And yet beneath the rising tide of anger, a hint of satisfaction coils itself within me—another chance meeting. If that’s not fate, I don’t know what is.

Pulling my car onto the shoulder of the road behind her, I throw my door open and step out. Etta is already walking again, faster this time, evidently intent on escaping me. I almost laugh. She’s kidding herself if she thinks she can outrun me even on foot, but I like that she’s stubborn enough to try.

“Etta!” I yell again, louder this time. “You need a ride?”

Without warning, a memory flashes in the back of my mind. A memory of years ago, trying to persuade Etta to let me drive her home from the cemetery. At the time, I had no idea why I cared. No idea where my irrational fear of something happening to her was coming from. Nothing has changed in the last five years. Etta is still stubborn to a fault, and I’m still desperate to protect her.

She stares at me for a moment before shaking her head no. “No, thanks,” she responds curtly, stepping off to the side of the road into taller grasses.

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