𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐠𝐨𝐝𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐲, imagines

𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐞𝐥𝐬𝐞 (𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟐)

You should call Peter. Not only do you trust him, but he somehow predicted the events that occurred tonight. Peter, although ridiculous and dramatic, has a calming effect on you. His blatant cockiness in situations that do not call for it whatsoever is soothing, and right now, some self-assuredness could be very helpful to you.

You stand and move to the swing set, plopping yourself down on a swing that looks to be covered with less dew than the others. Pulling out your phone, you search for his contact, lovingly labeled "Mr. Bitch" and call him. You expect him to be awake, the number of times you've texted him this late at night to get an immediate response is a testament to both of your screwed up sleep schedules. He won't ignore your call, either, because as far as you can remember, you've never called him.

The phone rings twice, and then...

"Well, this is unusual," Peter's voice carries the same carelessly amused tone even through the grainy phone speaker. "It must be a special occasion for me to receive a phone call from her Highness."

You stay silent, now unsure how to put into words the monumental emotions that have bunched their way into your throat. How could you ever explain to Peter the confusion you feel, the anger and hurt pounding in your chest that you can't get rid of, that you have no idea how to clear.

Peter's tone is too light, too joking and sarcastic as he speaks, "Hey, you're holding up the line. Why'd you call me?"

You swallow the lump of emotions in your throat and speak the only sentences that feel right, "It was in his eyes. I don't know what to do."

Peter is silent for a moment, but you hear him sigh on the other side of the phone. For a moment, your mind clears and you think that if he says "I told you so" you will hang up the phone and burn down his house. Or the entirety of Hemlock Grove, whichever suits you best.

But his response is almost worse, returning whatever weight had been taken off you. His voice has switched to a low, quiet tone you rarely hear, which makes everything feel all too real like it had just happened again, "Did he hurt you?"

"Not physically, no. But he... I don't know how to explain it. I couldn't get away," You're shocked you're forming coherent words, but trying to explain is lessening the lump on your throat, so you keep going, "It was like I couldn't see him anymore. I mean, I could see him, he was there, but there was something wrong. Or twisted. Or... I don't know, hollow? He's never said anything like that before. He's been really pissed off, sure, but that..." You pause, struggling, wanting so badly to express the fear that still lingers in the beating of your heart but not wanting to appear fragile. You hold it in.

"Where are you right now?" Peter's voice has lost its dire seriousness, but now you hear his worry behind the careless tone. "Are you still with that asshole?"

There's a quiver in your voice as you speak, a hint at the hopelessness you feel at the reminder that Roman had been able to just go straight back to his night as though nothing had happened. There's a strong part of you that wants to get back at Roman, to take your revenge and feel as unpredictable and powerful as he was, but the other part of you is just heartbroken. "No, I drove to Bluebelle's Park. I don't want to go home... The Gala ended fifteen minutes ago, Roman texted me to come back after I left but I told him I didn't want to see him unless he's explaining himself."

"Does he know you're there?"

Peter's question brings an unhappy smile to your face, "I didn't tell him, but he probably knows. This is-" You pause, wondering how exactly you should label what the Park is to you, "This is where I always go. I don't think he's brave enough to find me here."