42. Roman
ROMAN
I ’ve always been able to sneak around without much issue. Ever since I was a little kid, for some reason, it’s been natural to me. It’s what makes it so easy to slink through the streets at night and paint on the sides of buildings, train cars, and the like.
But then again, back then, I was a nobody.
And I guess I’m still not entirely used to being somebody.
Ever since Paxton Calloway put my dad’s name into the mix at their press conference the other day, insinuating that the paintings were a smear campaign, there have been reporters outside, waiting for me everywhere.
Frederick told me to say, “no comment,” and I have, but what I want to say is, “fuck everybody.”
They’re not wrong. It is a smear campaign, even if there’s truth in it.
But the thing I’ve learned about reporters? They don’t know how to look . They wait at the front door, or they’re watching the windows. They don’t realize how easy it is to scale a balcony or slip through the shadows from a back stairwell when you’ve been doing it since you were ten.
So, sneaking away tonight? It’s as easy as breathing.
I’m in my painting gear: dark jeans, black baseball hat, and the skull mask low on my face.
It’s late in the evening, the stars already blanketing the sky, when I get to our spot.
My heart trips and my stomach dips, and soon I see her, waiting at the edge of the cliff, the breeze blowing her black hair like it can’t help but lace its airy fingers through the strands.
She’s about twenty paces away and looks so goddamn beautiful it makes my chest ache.
“You came,” I say.
She spins toward me, a smile blooming on her face. “You called, albeit very cryptically.”
I take long, measured steps toward her. I want to savor this time, because I don’t know when we’ll get it again.
“It’s good to see you,” she murmurs softly, her eyes bouncing over my face, down my body, taking in the clothing I’m wearing. A grin lights up her face, like she’s happy to see me dressed this way. “Coming from vandalizing our town or going?”
“Going.” The corner of my mouth lifts, and I drop the backpack to my side, the rattle of cans hitting each other loud.
Her eyes track the movement, and she shifts from one foot to another before meeting my gaze. “I think I’d like to see it sometime. You in your element.”
I tilt my head. “You’ve seen me draw a hundred times.”
“Yeah, but…that’s not really you , is it?”
I swallow harshly, because how the fuck is it possible that this woman who I’ve known for a handful of days just seems to get me in a way nobody else does?
Stepping forward, I spin the ring on my finger, my stomach twisting with each move I make. I lick my lips and catch her gaze, holding strong. The air vibrates between us like it’s a tightrope waiting to snap if we step the wrong way.
“I think,” I murmur, “out of everyone in the world…you might know me best.”
Her eyes flick to mine, and color rushes into her cheeks. Like usual, it slams me right in the chest. I love how soft she looks when she’s not guarding herself, and the visceral need to keep her like this, is almost overwhelming in its intensity.
Her fingers twist in front of her and those teeth of hers bite into her lower lip. I move my touch, pulling it free.
“Don’t do that,” I say, my stomach tightening. “You’ll bleed.”
She nods, just barely. And then, “You know me best, too.”
It hurts, hearing her say those words to me when everything feels so impossible. “But it doesn’t matter, does it?”
She takes a shaky breath. Stares down at her hands, one thumb aggressively rubbing over the other like she’s trying to erase herself.
“I’ve never not loved them,” she says quietly. “Even when I hated what they did.”
There’s a weighted pause, but she doesn’t look up.
“And then there’s you.” Her tone sounds frayed now, like the words are tearing up her throat.
I don’t move. I’m afraid to breathe, worried that if I do, the pain in my chest might collapse my lungs.
“You’re…” She swallows and tries again. “You’re everything.”
“Juliette—”
“Let me get this out.” She throws her hand up.
My fists clench, heart pounding, gut fucking sick with nerves.
“You feel like everything,” she amends. “But then I walk through town, and I see you there. On the brick. In the glass. On the campus.”
She presses her palm to her lips, and her voice breaks. “Every time a new mural goes up, I feel like I’m standing in the middle of a war I didn’t choose. And I can’t tell which side I’m supposed to run from.”
The space between us stretches tight, and I just stand like a stone statue, because what can I say?
What can I offer her? What can I do to tell her that I’m enough when I know that I’m not—when I know that if I leave, my mom will be left out in the dust.
“What are you telling me, Little Rose?” I finally force out, my jaw aching and my heart fucking bleeding onto the floor.
My fists are clenched, arms pinned to my sides because if I let them move, I’m afraid they’ll reach for her.
“I can’t stop loving them just to find a way to be with you.”
And there it is.
The quietest knife with the sharpest blade, carving through my chest.
The burn climbs high and fast, spreading from behind my nose to my eyes. My lungs twist like they’ve forgotten how to work, and I press my knuckles to my mouth, swallowing over the sudden thickness in my throat.
Understanding flows through her perfect face like she’s just figured out the answer to a problem she’s been trying to solve, and she steps toward me, her head tilting.
“I love you,” she says.
She takes a breath like she might take back what she said, and even though I’m frozen in place, I might die if she does.
If I move, I’ll fall to my knees. If I speak, I’ll probably beg. And I don’t know if either of us will survive those things.
My chest feels like it’s caving in, my throat’s raw from the effort of staying silent, my eyes sting, and I hate this.
This isn’t how it should be.
She should be able to love me, and I should be able to love her without limitation. Without this ridiculous feud between our families that has nothing to do with us.
And just like that, everything slots and re-slots into place, a physical click locking inside my body.
This whole time I’ve been torturing myself by having responsibilities, people that I can’t walk away from. But Brooklynn signed the papers. There’s money and solutions in her hands.
And when the hell has my mom ever done anything for me?
Juliette’s lip trembles and she presses it flat like she’s trying to swallow down her emotion before it kills her.
“You don’t have to say it back,” she continues, her voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t even realize until it was out there that it was how I felt, and I don’t?—”
God.
I blink, and then I’m moving. My hands find her face, rough and trembling, and I pull her to me like every second before her was a wasted moment.
Her breath catches on a strangled noise and then she’s moving too, her fingers clutching at the front of my shirt as though she might fall if she lets go.
My mouth crashes against hers and I moan.
She tastes like something I’ve spent my whole life chasing.
She tastes like coming home.
“Don’t you ever think you’re alone in this,” I grit out against her lips. “Don’t you get it? Don’t you know by now that you consume me?”
She whimpers, and I grip her cheeks in my hands like I’m afraid she’ll disappear.
“I’m so in love with you, I’ve forgotten how to exist without you,” I say. “I love you like I was made to love you. Like I came into this world just so you could carve out my heart and leave yourself inside it.”
Her mouth parts, eyes glassy, but nothing comes out.
My hands slide to her jaw, thumbs tracing over her skin, like maybe if I hold her tight enough, the universe won’t find a way to tear us apart.
“You’re it for me, Juliette,” I whisper. “You’ve always been it.”
Neither of us move. Her fingers are still curled in the fabric of my shirt, but she’s not pulling me closer anymore. She’s just holding on, like letting go will break the moment. Like she knows we’re at the precipice of something too big for us to keep.
I press my forehead to hers.
Her breath trembles against my lips.
And in the silence, I feel it. The shift. That invisible moment between where we’ve been pretending we are and where we really are.
The truth is simple: I love her. Desperately. Endlessly. Irrevocably.
But love doesn’t erase blood, and the lines between our names are still drawn with a deep-red ink too dark to wash away.
As long as we both exist in Rosebrook Falls, it doesn’t matter how much we want each other.
Our love burns so bright it’s blinding.
But hate knows how to swallow up light.