"English, Frenchie," she snapped, waving her hand impatiently. "Unless you're too afraid someone might understand you." Her familiarity with the term gluttony extended about as far as the phrase glutton for punishment, but she still didn't get how it applied to her, however indirectly. She knew it meant more than simply fat or large, neither of which were true about her, and it annoyed her that she couldn't work out what exactly Marchand was insulting.
Please, can't I just go? I don't want to see this. Every second she stayed on that roof lengthened her exposure to this man whose shell she managed to crack. Leah was the type to leave the pieces behind, let someone else clean them up. She didn't like being witness to Evan's weakness, yet he was the one prolonging their meeting.
When he jogged back across the rooftop, Leah took another step toward the door, that insistent voice in her head demanding that she take the opportunity to leave. Just a few more steps and she'd be at the exit. Approaching footsteps cut short her retreat, and then several Menthols were shoved into her free hand.
Leah looked from the cigarettes to Evan. She poked them into her jacket pocket and said, "Don't know why you're rewarding me for getting rid of a ring that didn't fit, but yay for me." If Evan wanted to acknowledge that she'd done him a favor, that was his problem. She'd deny every word. Evan Marchand was not her friend.
Taking the dismissal for what it was, Leah turned and resumed her trip to the door and back down the stairs into the hustle and bustle of Grand Central.