Page 7 of By Any Other Name

Tyberius’s face falls almost comically. “They were just being pricks. You know how the Montagues are.”

“Right.” I cross my arms. “I do know how they are, and as much of a prick as Roman Montague is—and oh, he is—he’s also not stupid.” He wouldn’t start shit with Tyberius for no reason, and my cousin and I both know it. “What did you say to him?”

I have a good idea already, but I want to hear him confirm it. I want to hear Ty confirm he’s the kind of person who would taunt someone about their dead sister. Feud or not, that’s messed up. But of course, he won’t admit it.

“Nothing,” he says. “Come on, I’ll take you home.”

“No, I have my car. I have to wait for Cat, anyway.”

He rolls his eyes. “Fine.”

Tyberius storms down the steps into the night, muttering something about overreactions. The irony makes me want to scream.

I lean against the banister of the stairs and stare, unseeing, into the dark street. I’m so mad, if I was a cartoon, I would have steam rolling off me in little squiggly lines.

It’s not even about Tyberius—not completely—it’s about how many events have been ruined by these absurd, childish incidents.

It’s about how many incidents weren’t just childish fights, and the people who got really hurt.

It’s about how I’d love nothing more than to get out of Stratford, but I’m perpetually stuck.

And it’s about Roman Montague, and his infuriating, mocking smirk.

The wind picks up and dead leaves pinwheel down the street, as bare branches wave against a backdrop of ivy-covered brick buildings. I wrap my arms around myself as goosebumps rise on my skin. Behind me, the doors open, and I jump.

I whirl, expecting to see Cat, and blanch as Roman Montague steps out onto the stoop. He’s not exactly looking at me, more like staring past me onto the dark street, as he lets the door swing closed behind him with a thump that feels like the period at the end of a sentence.

I stand, frozen, somewhere between indignant and confused. Between angry and guilty. It’s miserable, and the cocktail of mismatched emotions swirls in my stomach with nowhere to go, making bile rise in my throat.

Not that he can’t be out here. It’s the steps of a public building after all, but Roman and I have an unspoken agreement to avoid each other—at least, I thought we did. He doesn’t seem to care, though, as he reaches into his pocket, extracts his ever-present pack of clove cigarettes and a lighter, and pulls one out with two long fingers.

He’s making an absolute mockery of black-tie attire. His tie is still slung around his neck, and he has his shirt sleeves pushed up to the elbows and his jacket slung over one arm. His jet-black hair is sticking up at the back, like he ran his hands through it enough that no gel could compete. His face is, shockingly, more angular with age and I could swear he got even taller after prep school. He’s a year older than me—twenty-two—but he could pass for thirty in a good way. He hasn’t shaved in a few days and there are circles under his eyes that have nothing to do with his black eye. His hair needs a trim and is curling slightly around his ears. It almost makes me angry—shitty people shouldn’t get to be effortlessly beautiful.

I’m staring so intently that I don’t notice him holding out the cloves to me, offering me one. I jerk, startled, and feel heat flame up my neck and across my cheeks.Oh my gods.“Um, no. Thanks.”

His lip curls. “Still don’t smoke?”

“No.”

He cups his hand around his lighter to block the wind, pausing for a second before replying. “I didn’t think so. You always were a good girl, Etta.”

That needles me. It’s like heknowsme—or, thinks he does.

And he’s wrong, anyway. I’m not good. Not really. If I was good, I wouldn’t be imagining stuffing that cigarette down his throat until he chokes and watching it burn him from the inside out.

I jut my chin up, as if raising my eye-line will make up the difference in our heights and put us on even ground. “Shouldn’t you be inside begging Councilman Lawrence for forgiveness?”

He smirks around his clove. “Shouldn’t you be callingMommie-Dearestto do the same?”

He’s right and I hate that. I should call my mom, or at least go home to tell her she’s going to have to do some social and political damage control.Shit.

“I doubt it will matter since you clearly started it,” I lie through my teeth.

“Is that what your cousin said? Come on, you’re smarter than that.”

I bite my lip, wishing more than ever that Tyberius was clear about what they fought about. “I still just watched you try to strangle my cousin. I don’t care what he said to you, I have no idea why you’re talking to me right now.”

He raises an eyebrow and winces slightly when the gash on his face pulls open. “Maybe I’m a masochist. Kink shaming isn’t nice, Etta.”

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