This is not about Juliet

Control

TW: mentions of alcohol, falling of roofs, she kind of hates herself towards the end, let me know if I missed anything

I'm never fully in control of any situation. I'm only in control of myself. If something goes wrong, it might not be my fault.
Controlfreak. That's who I am.
The life of the party. Planning everything incredibly detailed should give you control of the situation, no? No. After that last party, I'm very much not in control again. Though that was really just the straw that broke the camels back. It had been piling upon his spine since we arrived.

The flight home was a nightmare. Once the baggage drop off was done and I was left with just my small white bag, little gold suitcase and white purse with gold accents, everything went dead silent. Paris would meet us at the airport and I was just here with my aunt and uncle. My aunt sighed wistfully every three or so minutes, and in her eyes, I could see the question,  where did I go wrong? My uncle was just upset about the collateral damage and our reputation, so his face was on angry the whole time. The two hours we sat there in silence were pure torture. And for the first time in a while, I let go. I breathed out, no more holding my breath. What had happened had happened, and there was nothing to be done about it now.

Once I stepped out into the cold morning air of London, for the first time since we ran, I wanted to cry. Heathrow airport behind me, the warm lights from inside and in front of us, my brother. The only face I don't want to see again, like ever. He's smirking his stupid smirk, his dirty blond hair combed back in an actual asshole haircut, blue eyes that people get lost in, to me they just looked like the ice that froze his heart over a long, long time ago.

The drive to our house is even worse than the flight. There, I had some movies, as well as some games to entertain myself with, even a small selection of music. Now, I had the foggy sunset. Even though it was beautiful, it did nothing to ease my mind. Just my luck.

Well, it wasn't really that I was unlucky. It was my fault. It was not my fault that Kathy fell off the roof, but the fact that she was drunk enough to do that. Stupid house parties. Next time pick a fucking club or something. Not your liability.

I didn't dare pick up my phone. I didn't need sympathy, questions, or anything that reminded me of my old life, really. What I needed was a tabula rasa. A fresh page. Coming back here was a bad idea. When something goes wrong, you bolt. Not towards the hometown you ran away from in the first place. Dumbass. God, this really was all my fault.

I needed to get out. I felt nauseous, and the shaking from the car wasn't helping. Neither were the four piercing blue eyes from the backseat, staring at me with such regret and passive-aggressive anger, I might just sink into the floor.

When we got home, our butler, an about 50 year old gentleman with graying hair and a kind smile named Archibald, Archie for short, helped me carry my suitcases inside. I remembered him from when we left. He was always kind to me as a little girl, but after we left, I didn't see him again, until now.

When I wake up the following morning, breakfast is ready. My maid, Jessie, informs me that I'm to be expected for a family briefing. Great. I quickly get up and don't bother getting ready in the slightest, if it's that important I'll have plenty of time to get ready after this stupid fucking briefing.

My aunt informs me, without even glancing at me, that we, as in she, have procured a most wanted invitation. To Lorenzo Montague's birthday party. I remember him. Dark curls, hazel eyes, stupid grin. He was kind to me. We were sort of friends. I am to bring him a book, study up a little on the author, and well, make him fall for me. That would apparently do wonders for our reputation. Even though I don't see how, I know that it's my fault our rep was ruined at all. So I suck it up and pray he's secretly gay or something. Maybe he's aromantic, that would save me a whole lot of pretend. Only in private, though. The odds of him coming out to the London high society are about as big as me growing a tail.

I get dressed for going to the Bloomvale mall. A white sleeveless dress that reached my knees. When I get ready for the party, I'll put more care into how I look. Right now, nobody who knows I'm back would ever set foot in the Bloomvale mall. Only Lorenzo's grandfather knew, and the mall was owned by the Capulet family.

After getting the book, I headed home quickly. My brother had driven me here, but didn't dare go into the mall. For his own good, I think Giuseppe Capulet might've killed him before he entered the lift.

Once home, I headed upstairs to my room and started getting ready. I hadn't unpacked much yet, but I know it is as good a time as any. So I started with my toiletries on the vanity I have had since I was a child, only then I used a much higher stool I got on with great difficulty. It used to be my grandmother's. I set up my skincare and makeup. If anyone looked a little through my stuff, they might notice I have a lot of makeup, except for a grand lack of foundation and lip products. I hated the feeling of makeup on my whole face and the feeling of anything on my lips at all. It kind of made me want to die. Well, that might be a tad overdramatic, but I found it really icky. I liked nice eye makeup, though. Eyeshadow pallets that I could stack up to three meters (I checked that last party, drunk as hell), eyeliners in every shade on the face of this planet, and enough mascara to paint a 50 meters by 50 meters canvas.

After I picked the right shade in everything to go with the dress my aunt gave me this morning before I left, pale yellow with spaghetti straps, I got into the shower, washed and afterwards dried my hair before asking Jessie to braid it, put on the dress, did my makeup, accessorized with pearls and citrine jewelry and put on perfume, my favorite sunglasses, yellow and heart-shaped, and white ballerina flats. I went downstairs, gift and white leather purse in hand, and got into the car.

When we arrived, I felt nervous, and for the first time in a while, I felt like crying. For some reason, what had happened was only hitting me now.

Your best friend fell off a fucking roof because she and you and everybody else was so fucking drunk. And you just run. She was in critical condition for two days, and you didn't even say goodbye to her before hopping on a plane. And now you're back in the city you ran from in the first place. You're back, and because you made no effort to keep in touch with anyone, you have no one. Kathy probably hates you. Your whole family hates you, and your only hope of any sort of connection until school starts again is somebody whom you last saw years ago. Who might hate you for running. Everybody will hate you for running. That's what you always do. You bolt.

I calmed myself and went inside.