Bad Romeo (39 page)

The other is on the front of Holt’s boxers, wrapped firmly around his very hard erection.

“Oh, God.”

I let him go, and he sits up as he pulls the blankets over himself. “You were dreaming.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Talking and … grabbing at me…”

“Oh, God.” My face burns with embarrassment. “How long was I…?”

“A few minutes.”

“I’m so sorry.”

He sighs and says, “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. I … I molested you. I’m a sexual deviant.”

I put my hands over my face and groan, too mortified to even look at him.

“Dammit, Taylor, stop blushing. It’s not all your fault. At first I thought you were awake, and had … you know … changed your mind about us doing stuff. But then you started talking, and I knew you were dreaming. I could have stopped you, but I’m a man, and therefore genetically programmed to resist removing a woman’s hand from my dick.”

I pull my knees up to my chest and glance at him. “You said I was talking. What did I say?”

He frowns and picks at the blanket as he clears his throat. “It was a dream. It doesn’t matter.”

“I’d like to know.”

He coughs and takes a sip of water from the bottle on the nightstand, all the while not looking at me. “You were mumbling. Saying you wanted me or something. I couldn’t really understand you.”

My throat closes up. He’s lying.

I drop my head down onto my arms and groan.

Having him hear me say the “L” word is bad enough, but what’s worse is knowing I actually meant it. I’ve never felt this way about someone before. One day, he was just a guy who annoyed the heck out of me, and now, without any warning or permission, he’s something else. Someone different.

Necessary and irreplaceable.

If that’s love, then it’s dumb.

“You know, you talk in your sleep, too,” I say, determined not to be the only one in purgatory.

He looks at me sharply. “What did I say?”

I narrow my eyes. “Don’t you remember?”

He looks at me for long seconds, and the amount of panic I see in his eyes isn’t even worth it. Either he remembers and regrets it or doesn’t and is terrified about having said it. Either way, I don’t get what I want.

“Don’t worry about it,” I say. “You were so out of it I could barely understand you. Let’s just both agree that dream mumbling should be ignored, okay?”

He’s silent for a few seconds before he’s hit by a vicious coughing fit. He doubles over and grabs some tissues as he nearly gags on what he’s expelling from his lungs. I rub his back until the attack passes.

“You should take a shower,” I say as I stroke between his shoulder blades.

“Yeah, I guess.” He sounds tired.

He gets out of bed and heads over to his dresser to grab a fresh pair of boxers. He glances at me before looking back into the drawer. “Did you … refold my underwear?”

I shrug. “Some of it.” Only the ones I felt up like a complete creeper.

“You’re strange.”

“You’re preaching to the choir, sweetheart.”

When the bathroom door closes, I flop back onto the bed and exhale. I hadn’t envisioned that taking care of my sick ex-non-boyfriend would be such a mortifying experience.

I’m just about to head into the kitchen to prepare breakfast when Holt’s phone rings.

The caller ID says “Home,” and thinking it might be Elissa, I answer it. “Ethan’s phone, Cassie speaking.”

There’s a pause, then, “Cassie? This is Maggie Holt.”

My stomach jumps up into my throat, and my voice cracks as I say, “Oh, hi, Mrs. Holt.”

A girl is answering her son’s phone first thing in the morning. This looks bad.

“So, Cassie, how are you?”

“He’s in the shower.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“That’s why I’m answering his phone. Showering.”

“I see. So you’re—”

“Just hanging out. I know how this must seem, but I just want you to know that there’s nothing going on with me and Ethan. We’re not sleeping together. Well, actually, we did last night, but that was actual sleep, if you know what I mean. He was pretty doped up. On cough medicine. He’s sick. Very sick.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose in an effort to stop the ramble.

“I mean, he doesn’t need a lung transplant or anything, but he’s sick enough to need someone to take care of him. That’s what I’m doing here. And answering his phone. Obviously. Wow, your son takes really long showers, huh?”

Kill me now.

There’s a soft laugh, and I take it as a cue to just breathe. My face is hotter than the surface of the sun.

“Cassie, it’s fine. Elissa let us know at dinner last night that he was sick and that she’d asked to you to play nurse. Thank you for agreeing. I know my son isn’t the most pleasant patient. When he was a kid, I’d have to bribe him with
Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle
toys in order to get him to take his medicine.”

The image of Holt as a bratty child was almost too adorable to bear. “Really?”

“I’m afraid so.”

A huge coughing fit comes from the bathroom, and I hear Mrs. Holt cluck her tongue. “I don’t suppose he’s been to the doctor?”

“No, but he’s actually sounding much better today.”

“That’s better?”

“Uh huh.”

“Poor baby.” She pauses, then says, “Actually, Cassie, I’m glad we’re speaking. Are you heading home for Thanksgiving?”

“Uh … no. I can only afford one return trip this year, and Mom and Dad want me to come home for Christmas.”

“So you’re free for the holidays?”

“I guess.”

“Great. I’d like you to come and stay with us in New York.”

“Oh … Mrs. Holt—”

“Please, call me Maggie.”

“Maggie, I don’t know. Ethan—”

“This doesn’t have anything to do with him. You’re Elissa’s friend too, and she’d love you to stay. Besides, we can’t have you spending Thanksgiving alone. That would be a tragedy.”

“Still, I don’t think that—”

“Nonsense. I won’t take no for an answer. You’re coming, and that’s final.”

Before I have a chance to argue, Holt emerges from the bathroom, bare chested, with just his boxers on.

He rubs a towel across his hair and coughs before mouthing, “Who is it?”

I hold my hand over the receiver. “Your mom.”

He coughs again before gesturing for the phone.

“Maggie? Ethan’s out of the shower now. And fully clothed, I might add. Well, not fully. He’s not wearing a shirt, but all the important parts are covered.”
Oh, for the love of God.
“It was nice talking to you.”

“You, too, Cassie. See you next week.”

“Uh, yeah. Okay.”

Holt takes the phone and sits on the edge of the bed.

“Hey, Mom.” His voice is barely there. “I sound worse than I feel. I don’t need to see a doctor. Yep, already taking antibiotics.”

He pauses then glances over at me. “Yeah, Cassie’s been taking good care of me. I’m much better today.”

He listens for a few seconds then frowns. “You what?”

He flushes with anger and strides past me into the living room. Even though he drops his voice to a harsh whisper, I can still make out what he’s saying.

“Mom, what the hell? You could have at least asked me.”

I stare at a pile of books in the corner and clench my jaw. I shouldn’t be hearing this.

“Yes, I like her, but … Jesus … it’s more complicated than that.”

It doesn’t have to be, but it is.

“No, she’s not my girlfriend. Having her there would be awkward as hell.”

I sit on the edge of the bed and shake my head. Would he honestly rather have me spend Thanksgiving alone?

I really have overestimated his feelings for me.

Holt talks with his mom for a few more minutes, but I can no longer make out what he’s saying.

Just as well.

When he comes back into the bedroom, he throws the phone onto the bed and stalks over to his dresser. After he grabs a T-shirt, he yanks it over his head and slams the drawer shut.

“You okay?”

“Yep.”

“You’re angry.”

“It’s fine.”

“Me coming to Thanksgiving would be awkward as hell, huh?”

He sighs. “Cassie—”

“Why would it be awkward?”

He rakes his fingers through his hair. “You’ve seen how Dad and I together. There’s no way I’d subject you to that again.”

I take in a shaky breath. “Okay. If that’s what you want.”

He takes one look at my face and sighs before sitting beside me. “Cassie, it’s not that I don’t want you there, but—”

Before he can say anything else, he’s struck by another coughing fit.

When it’s over, he flops back onto the bed, exhausted.

I guess we’re done talking about Thanksgiving.

I lean over and rub his back. “Is there anything I can do?”

He shakes his head. “I’m just tired. And my chest hurts.” His voice is a husky mess.

I go and grab him some pain-killers and cough medicine. After he takes both, he crawls under the covers.

I sit beside him and stroke his hair. “You know, my mother used to have this book. It was written by this self-proclaimed swami who believed that if we go against what our souls need, the disharmony in our bodies makes us sick. Like, if we don’t say what we’re feeling, we’ll get a sore throat, or if we do something we know is wrong, we’ll get a headache.”

His eyes are bleary as he looks up at me. “And if we have a sore throat, a headache, and a chest infection we’re … what? Emotionally dysfunctional? Heartsick?”

I shrug. “You tell me.”

He coughs. “Sounds pretty right. I think my mother invited you to Thanksgiving because she thinks you can fix me.”

I run my fingers across his forehead. “I didn’t realize you were broken.”

He gives me a short laugh. “Maybe not broken, but definitely defective.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“After how I’ve treated you, you should.” He sighs and turns away from me. “I don’t work right, Taylor. Don’t you know that by now?”

I stroke his back. “If I’d been betrayed by my girlfriend lover and my best friend, I wouldn’t work right, either.”

He’s silent for a few seconds, then he says, “As much as I’d like to blame all my issues on Vanessa and Matt, I was wrong way before then.”

“How long before?”

“Always.” He doesn’t look at me as he talks. Maybe it’s easier for him like this. “As a kid, it was hard for me to make friends. I had trouble showing affection. I always felt kind of … off.”

He’s silent for a long time. Just when I figure he’s asleep, he whispers, “One day, my parents sat me down and told me I’d spent the first couple of years of my life in foster care. I don’t remember it, but just hearing the words made me have a panic attack. I was nearly three by the time they adopted me.”

Three? Oh, God.

I used to think his insecurities were somehow augmented by his dramatic prowess, but it turns out he has real, justified abandonment issues.

I stroke his arm, trying to be supportive.

He takes a few shallow breaths. “I’ve never told anyone this before. But with you…” He turns onto his back and looks up at me with tired eyes. “I don’t know if my birth parents gave up on me because I was defective, or whether I became defective when they gave up on me, but the end result is the same. After I found out, every time Dad missed a track meet or canceled our weekend plans, I put it down to me not being his real son. That’s when we started fighting. I was just some loser’s castoff kid he and Mom took pity on.”

“Ethan, no…”

“Suddenly my wrongness made sense. Like I was an imposter in my own life. And that made me really fucking angry, because I figured, ‘Why bother,’ you know? Why keep pretending? I’m not a real son or a real brother. I’m no one’s real anything. Maybe that’s why I’m a good actor. Every character I play is more real than I am.”

I take my hand out of his hair and stroke his face. He closes his eyes, and the muscles in his jaw tense and release.

“Ethan, come on. I’ve seen enough of your family to know that you’re absolutely real to all of them. They adore you, even your dad. And as for me, I’ve never met anyone as real as you in my whole life. Every day you inspire me to stop being what others want and just be myself. So don’t you dare sit there and tell me you’re not real to anybody. You’re surrounded by people who love you, despite your determination to push them away. If that’s not real, I don’t know what is.”

I expect him to argue, but to my surprise, he doesn’t. Instead, he searches my face, intense and frowning. “I’m surrounded by people who love me, huh?”

“Why does that surprise you?” I ask as I stroke his forehead. “You’re kind of amazing.”

His expression changes, and it looks like a smile is trying to escape from a maze of confusion. If it wasn’t so damn attractive, I’d find it funny.

“I just— I don’t…” He squeezes his eyes shut and pulls me over to him. I put my arms around him as he takes in a shaky breath.

We don’t say anything else, but it doesn’t feel as though we have to. He’s told me his darkest secret, and even though it explains so much about why he is like he is, I’ve decided it doesn’t matter. If and when he finally gets up the courage to be with me, I’m all in.

Hell, I’m all in already.

The next day, Holt practically throws me out of his apartment. Not in a nasty way. Just in a one-of-us-should-be-going-to-class way. When I call him that night, he sounds much better. His voice is coming back, and he tells me the coughing fits have become less frequent.

The following day is crazy busy, and it’s not until I’m dozing in bed that my phone buzzes.

I look at the screen and smile when I see the caller ID.

“Hey, sicko.”

“Hey.”

It’s crazy that one tiny word from him can make me almost dizzy with happiness. And it’s not even a special word. Just a boring old one-syllable greeting, yet I can feel a stupid grin plastered all over my face like cheap wallpaper.

I thought things might have gotten weird between us, since he told me he was adopted, but it hasn’t. If anything, it’s like telling me has removed a burden.

He still hasn’t said anything about getting our relationship back on an intimate footing, but I’m grateful we’re not staying away from each other.