Bad Romeo (24 page)

We silently unfold ourselves and stand. He takes my hand before opening the dressing room door and leading me downstairs.

Backstage, everyone is in their positions. Tension and expectation are thick in the air. A few people look at us as we pass, and they raise their eyebrows when they see Holt holding my hand.

I don’t care. I feel like an electrical transformer, buzzing with energy. I glance at Holt, and his face is calm but intense. He has the air of a superhero, all restrained strength and disguised power. Where his fingers are wrapped around mine, there’s a thrumming of energy, and I know we’re ready. Our characters are just lingering beneath the surface, waiting to inhabit us as soon as we walk onstage.

Then the lights change, and everything goes quiet as we hear the opening lines of the prologue.

“Two households, both alike in dignity, in fair Verona, where we lay our scene. From ancient grudge break to new mutiny, where civil blood makes civil hands unclean. From forth the fatal loins of these two foes, a pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life.”

As I exhale with excitement, Holt pulls me into a dark corner behind a curtain and turns to me, every inch my Romeo.

“Ready?” he asks quietly.

“I’m amazing,” I say with absolute confidence.

I hear the sounds of the Montague and Capulet boys fighting, and I know it’s almost time for his entrance.

He stares at me, eyes glittering from the stage lights. “Me too. Let’s show them a Romeo and Juliet they’ll never forget.”

All I can do is nod, because he’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

He leaves me to take his place on the brightly lit stage, and just like that, the make-believe is real.

TWELVE

NEW ROLES

Present Day
New York City

By the time Holt and I return to our table after our bathroom encounter, there’s a jazz combo playing in the corner. The plaintive sound of the sax wafts over to us as the smoky-voiced singer launches into the first verse of
Nature Boy
.

“There was a boy … a very strange, enchanted boy … “

I tune her out.

Don’t really need to add any more emotional layers to my night.

Holt’s looking at me, and by the prickle of nervousness that runs up my spine, I know he’s about to say something that’s going to make me uncomfortable.

“Dance with me,” he says quietly.

It’s not a question.

“Uh … why?”

He smiles and glances over at the few couples on the dance floor before looking back at me

“Because I have things I need to say to you, but I don’t want us separated by this damn table.” He takes a sip of wine and looks at his fingers. “I want to be close to you.”

Just the thought of it makes me angry. Not because I don’t want to dance with him, but because I want it so badly it hurts.

I take a swig of wine. A big one. It’s pointless. There’s not enough wine in the world for this.

I watch in slow-motion horror as he stands and walks around to my side of the table.

“I don’t think we should,” I say.

He holds out his hand. “Please, Cassie.”

I look at his hand. His perfect, warm, Ethan hand. Then I look at his face. There’s such fragile hope in his eyes, I find it impossible to say no.

I press my palm against his, and our fingers curl around one another. They fit back together more perfectly than they have any right to.

He leads me to the dance floor and pulls me into his arms. I sigh without meaning to.

“Do you remember the first time we danced together?” he asks, his mouth near my ear.

“No,” I say, because I want to hear his version of events.

“It was the night we shot that commercial for the supper club on West 46th Street, remember? You, me, Lucas, and Zoe were cast. We were all supposed to be young, hip, and in love.”

“Yeah, but I was partnered with Lucas, and you were with Slut Barbie. She was all over you like a rash.”

“You were jealous as hell.”

“Says the man who spent the night acting like he wanted to tear Lucas’s arms off.”

“He touched your ass.”

“He was your friend.”

His gaze drops to our clasped hands. “I used to think that anyone who touched you like that wasn’t my friend.”

“You tried to punch him out.”

He pauses for a few seconds before saying, “I’m not proud of how I acted that night. It made me realize you deserved so much better than an insecure, jealous asshole.”

I remember his jealousy well. At first I thought his possessiveness was sexy. By the end, it was just one more nail in our coffin.

“That night,” he says. “I wanted so much to be different. More than anything,
I
wanted to be different. But I wasn’t.”

He twirls me around and pulls me back, arm strong around my waist.

“So you destroyed us.”

He tightens his arm around my waist. “I thought I was cutting the cancer that was me out of your life.”

“I never saw you like that.”

“I know, and that was the problem. You couldn’t see the damage I was doing even while it was happening.”

We dance for a while, lost in our own thoughts.

After a few minutes, he pulls back and looks down at me. “You know, when I begged Marco for this show, I hadn’t even read the script. I didn’t care what the role was, as long as it was you and me onstage together. Then I saw you for the first time in too many years, and … our whole past came rushing back. How it felt to be near you. How you could drive me insane with a single look. I was hoping that when you saw me, you’d remember we had good times, too. That you’d missed me as much as I’d missed you. But you were so angry—”

“I had reason to be.”

“I know,” he says, still swaying with me even though the music has stopped. “I expected it.”

“And deserved it.”

“But when we rehearsed the kiss, I—”

He stops and brushes my hair away from my neck, grazing my skin. “I guess there was part of me that hoped kissing you would wash away all the bullshit I’d put you through. That I could tell you without words how I felt, and you’d just magically forgive me.”

“It’s not that easy.” I fist my hands in his shirt, because I want to push him away and hold him closer at the same time.

“I realize that. But you know what kills me?” Frustration is sharp in his voice. “What slays me every day I come to rehearsals? Is that I can be there, in bed with you, kissing you and pretending to make love and … I still miss you. Because it isn’t real. And I want it to be. So fucking badly.”

I try to swallow and can’t. I want to look away, but it’s impossible.

A kaleidoscope of regret fills his eyes. “Cassie, I felt like a ghost while I was away from you. I was. Now, I want to feel real again.”

He searches my face, but I can’t look at him anymore. All the fault lines inside me are flaring to life.

My throat is too full of emotion to speak. He nods in understanding before pulling me back into his arms.

We start to sway again. We’re not actually dancing, just rocking side to side. Not moving forward or backward. Just moving.

Like most of our time together, we’re treading water.

Trying not to drown.

Six Years Earlier
Westchester, New York
The Grove
Opening night—
Romeo and Juliet

There are times in every actor’s life when the enormous mess of possibility and make-believe is distilled into a crystal-clear point of clarity. When the line between imagination and invention blurs, and talent and conviction converge for a brief, shining moment.

Tonight is one of those nights.

The moment I stepped onstage, my transformation was complete. Juliet inhabited me completely.

Now, I’m living her reality, and as the play wears on, my voice says her words, my body feels her emotions, and my brain struggles to understand that the man I’m looking at is real, perfect, and mine.

He’s under my balcony, drawn here by his need to be with me. I’m embarrassed he’s just overhead me lamenting about how much I love him, but I wouldn’t have him unhear it for all the world.

He climbs the trellis, his face dark and determined.

“How camest thou hither?” I whisper down at him. He’s being so reckless. “Tell me, and wherefore? The orchard walls are high and hard to climb, and the place death, considering who thou art. If any of my kinsmen find thee here—”

He jumps onto the balcony with a thump and smiles while I look around nervously.

“With love’s light wings did I o’er-perch these walls,” he says as he walks forward. “For stony limits cannot hold love out, and what love can do that dares love attempt. Therefore thy kinsmen are no let to me.”

He touches my face, then leans forward to brush his lips against mine. Featherlight but heavy with desire.

“If they do see thee,” I say, breathless against his mouth, “they will murder thee.”

“Alack,” he says as he runs his thumb across my cheek, “there lies more peril in thine eye than twenty of their swords. Look thou but sweet, and I am proof against their enmity.”

There’s a drunken roar from inside my house and I push him back against the wall, into the shadows.

“I would not for the world they saw thee here,” I whisper. My hands are on his chest, caressing him. He’s watching them in awe.

“I have night’s cloak to hide me from their sight,” he says as he places his hand over mine and presses it more firmly over his heart. “And but thou love me, let them find me here. My life were better ended by their hate, than death prorogued, wanting of thy love.”

He’s looking at me, torn and passionate, and I don’t know how I thought I was truly alive before I met him.

This is what love feels like. To no longer belong to yourself. To be pulled from what you know into what you feel.

No wonder people live and die for this feeling.

Time passes in a blur, and over the course of the next couple of hours, my world is altered. Completely upended. Everything I’ve known is now rewritten by my need for him.

We ignore everything and everyone to be together, and just when I think we’ve outwitted our disapproving parents and friends, I wake up to find him gone.

Dead.

Just as quickly as he gave my life new meaning, my life without him instantly amounts to nothing.

So I choose to die. To swallow down my hurt like poison, take his dagger, and join him.

It’s only as I sink down onto his still-warm body that I feel the peace being a part of him brings. I close my eyes and inhale. His scent is the last thing that registers as I become still and silent.

I float in semi-consciousness, but a huge percussive cacophony makes me stir. For a moment I’m confused.

I open my eyes and see Holt’s neck, his pulse beating strong and fast. The roar of the crowd bombards me, and it’s then I know for sure we’ve been amazing.

I feel amazing.

Bulletproof.

High as a kite and dizzy from it all.

The curtain falls. Holt folds his arms around me and sits up while urging me to my feet.

“Come on,” he whispers as he drags me offstage. “Bows.”

He holds my hand in the wings. My heart pounds fast and loud as our castmates file onstage to take their applause. The audience whoops and whistles. When the main characters appear, they get louder and more appreciative.

Holt and I walk out together. My feet move confidently, even though the enormous cheer that greets us is completely surreal. I present Holt, and he bows, beaming. I’m so proud of him, I feel like crying.

Then it’s my turn to bow. My body is tingling all over, electrified by the adrenaline of my performance and being with him. The audience screams their approval, and I’m so full of happiness, I feel like my skin is going to burst right off my body.

Holt takes my hand, and as we bow together, the audience explodes out of their seats. Their cheering and whistling is almost deafening.

I look at Holt in disbelief. He smiles, radiant and stunning.

The applause seems to go on forever, but eventually the stage manager lowers the curtain, and the entire cast gives a huge cheer of self-congratulation. Everything’s a blur of embraces, kisses, and excited chatter, and I don’t want this feeling to ever end.

I turn around and see Holt, happy and laughing. He’s hugging guys, kissing girls, and slapping people on the back. So normal and unguarded.

A warmth blooms in my chest as I watch him, then he turns to face me. Without a moment’s hesitation, he strides over and wraps his arms around me.

“You were fucking astonishing out there tonight,” he whispers against my ear. “Astonishing.”

I wind my arms around his neck. “So were you. Just incredible.”

We pull back to look at each other, and it’s like everything around us fades to black. It’s just his face, his eyes, the feel of our bodies pressed together, the magnetic pull of his lips, so close.

“Hey, guys! You were average tonight. Must suck to be so talentless. Coming to the party?”

We both receive claps to our backs and turn to see Jack’s smiling face. Holt scowls at him, and Jack’s smile only grows wider.

“We’ll be there,” I say.

“You driving?” Jack asks Holt. “Or do you want to ride with me and Connor?”

Holt looks at me. “Uh … Taylor, do you need a ride? I don’t have my car.”

“Because you jogged in today.”

“Yeah.”

“I remember.” The image of him in his jogging outfit is burned into a very horny part of my brain. “No problem. I told Ruby I’d go with her and your sister.”

“Great!” Jack says and claps us on the shoulders again. “We’re going to have a blast. Woohoo!”

Jack heads off to harass other partygoers.

“Miss Taylor! Mr. Holt!”

I turn to see Erika walking toward us, accompanied by a man I’ve never seen before. He’s wearing a dark red velour jacket and a purple cravat. He could have stepped right off the set of
Pygmalion
.

“Cassie, Ethan,” Erika says as she stops in front of us. “I’d like you to meet Marco Fiori. Marco’s a very dear friend of mine and one of Broadway’s finest directors. His recent production of
Death of a Salesman
just won the Critic’s Circle Award for Best Revival.”