Page 11 of From Rome, With Hate

I cradle the copy of Romeo and Juliet between clenched fingers, clinging to it like it’s a goddamn life raft.

Pathetic.

I don’t think I’ve ever been this nervous. My skin is sticky, covered in a thin sheet of sweat. My heart is pounding right out of my chest, and my stomach is doing this weird thing where it somersaults, making me want to vomit and laugh at the same time.

Why are they blasting out heat like we live in the fucking Arctic? I know it’s December in New York but, shit, do they need to make it this goddamn hot in here?

Loosening the tie wrapped around my neck, I undo the top button of my white collared uniform shirt and blow out a heavy breath. I wish our school wasn’t so fucking formal. But if I wasn’t wearing this, what would I have worn instead? I’m not sure I would have been able to decide if I were given a choice.

So, here I am. White collared shirt tucked into black slacks. A navy-blue tie, with our school emblem stitched into the bottom. I guess what I’m wearing is no different than when I’ve met any other girl I’ve been interested in. I’ve never had to tryhard when it came to girls at this sad excuse of a prep school. We’re all a bunch of rich assholes stealing our parents’ liquor and snorting their cocaine, pretending like money doesn’t mean shit when it means everything.

But this girl isn’t like the others.

This time is different; I feel it in my bones.

She’s ‘J’. Whatever that stands for. Jennifer? Jade? Jessica?

I guess I’m about to find out. But even after she tells me her real name, I may just continue calling her Lark, anyway.

Flicking my wrist, I read the time on my Cartier watch. Like an imbecile, I arrived thirty minutes early.

The librarian eyed me suspiciously, as she always does, when I made my way down this aisle, and she’s passed by more than a dozen times since, even stopping to ask if I was skipping class. I told her no, flashing her a fake permission slip I’d made junior year. Technically, I’m not skipping class. I just slipped out of my history class thirty minutes before dismissal. I couldn’t concentrate for shit, anyway.

A sharp breath hits the back of my throat as the bell rings shrilly above. I clear my throat as the anticipation builds inside me. Standing impatiently at the end of the aisle, I wait for her to appear at the opposite end.

I don’t know what she looks like, but I’ll know it’s her when I see her.

A few classmates enter the library and wander down the aisles surrounding me. As the minutes pass, I start to worry I’ve missed her. The library grows impossibly quieter. With defeat growing inside me, I feel unsteady on my feet. Weeks of writing back and forth, sharing details about myself I’ve never shared with anyone else, all for nothing.

How the hell did a meaningless assignment turn into me suffering from the biggest crush I’ve ever had? Fuck, J isn’t just a crush. She’s more than that.

Lightheaded, I reach out and rest my free hand on the bookshelf, hanging my head. I stare at the floor, wondering what the fuck to do now. Leave a note inside the book again? Send her an email?

“Psst.”

I frantically look around, searching where the voice is coming from.

“Psst.”

It’s coming from the other side of the shelf.

Above the row of faded and tattered copies of Shakespeare’s other works, I crouch down, finding a pair of bright blue eyes staring directly at mine, only inches away. They take my breath away. Her face is hidden behind the books. I resist the urge to reach out and remove them. My heart is hammering in my chest, and I need to steady my nerves before I gather the strength to speak.

“Lark?” Saying her name out loud, even on a whisper, tastes so fucking sweet.

Her gaze lowers below her gorgeous brown brows before she raises them. “Hi,” she whispers back.

“Hi.” I grin so wide my cheeks hurt. Holy shit. “Why are you over there?”

“I’m nervous.”

I pause, trying to place her. She’s whispering, making it hard to know for sure, but I swear I’ve heard her voice before.

“Same here,” I admit.

Holding my breath, I wait for her to speak again, but she doesn’t, so I simply stare at her eyes resting just above the line of books.

My nerves pick up when she starts to move to her left, toward the end of the bookshelf. I glance over my left shoulder, ensuring we’re alone. No one is here. We’re in a world of our own down here. Us and Shakespeare.