Broken Juliet (10 page)

So beautiful.

I can’t handle it.

One day soon, she’s going to realize I’m no good for her and leave. Destroy me.

Every single brain cell is telling me to get out while I can. To run so far and fast she’ll never find me. Forget that someone as fucking perfect as she is even exists.

But some part of me believes I can do this. That I’m capable of ripping open my chest and just handing over my heart like it’s not going to kill me.

That part is obviously deranged.

I look up, shocked by the depth of emotion in his writing. He’s watching me. Gauging my reaction. He doesn’t flinch from my incredulity.

“I take responsibility for everything I did,” he says, “because even though I can’t change it, I do regret it. I thought seeing these may … I don’t know. Help in some way.”

I’m not so sure.

I go back to the journal.

December 4th

2:48 a.m.
—
She won’t fucking answer. She calls to abuse me in the middle of the night, and then WON’T PICK UP HER FUCKING PHONE?!

3:36 a.m.
—
I can’t stop thinking about her crying. She sounded so lost. And I did that to her. Me.

What a stellar fucking human being I am.

As much as I’m terrified she’s going to ruin me, I’m afraid I’m going to do far worse to her.

So now I’m faced with the decision—man up and be the boyfriend she deserves, or get the fuck out while there’s still a chance we’ll both survive.

Yeah. Easy choice. It’s like asking someone if they’d rather die by drowning or electrocution.

Whichever way it happens, you’re still dead.

11:18 a.m.—She just left. I can still smell her. Fuck, I love her smell. I want to bathe in it.

She was asleep when I got home from my run. So perfect in my bed.

I had a major freakout for the three seconds I believed she’d read this journal, but I quickly realized if she had, she wouldn’t still be here, let alone sleeping. She would have finally seen the level of fuckery she’s burdened with and run for the hills. And I wouldn’t have blamed her.

But no, she’s proven yet again that she’s not like the others. Made me realize she deserves so much more credit than I give her.

I want to be a better man. A better boyfriend.

Don’t fuck this up, Holt. Seriously. If you do, I’ll never forgive you.

She’ll never forgive you.

Reading his thoughts gives me a strange sense of d
é
j
à
vu.

I turn the page and read the last entry in the journal. As soon as I see the date, my stomach lurches.

December 23rd

I did it. Cut the cord.

I feel sick.

I feel more broken without her than I ever did when we were together.

I thought this was the right thing to do … for me … for her. But now …

I can barely swallow, my throat’s so tight.

What the fuck have I done?

Why do I feel so wrong?

Fuck.

And yet, part of me knows I had to do it.

If we’d stayed together, I would have systemically broken her. I’d have tried not to and hated every moment of it, but I would have. She’d have spent all her time defending her actions, reassuring me, putting out fires she had no hand in starting.

I couldn’t bear doing that to her.

I tell myself I want her to move on and be happy, but petty fucking creep that I am, I really don’t. I want her to pine for me and not let another man touch her until I can figure out how to be better. I want to be magically cured of all the shit that runs through my brain on a daily basis and be the man she deserves.

But most of all, I just want to be with her. Especially after last night.

Jesus fucking Christ. Last night.

I didn’t mean for it to happen, but when she stood in front of me, thinking I didn’t love her, I couldn’t stop myself. My brain was screaming that it was a bad idea, but my body wouldn’t listen. I thought maybe it was a good thing. That it would … I don’t know … fix me. Help me be with her, somehow.

But it didn’t.

If anything, it made things worse, because now, I’ll always know what I’m missing. The first time we made love, I was so obsessed with being gentle, I couldn’t let myself go. I didn’t have that problem last night.

I wanted to consume her. Brand my name on every part of her body.

By the time we were done, I think I had succeeded.

The trouble is, she also branded me.

I cried in her arms. I don’t fucking cry. I don’t even know why I did. It just happened.

But then my brain kicked in. My stupid, paranoid brain.

Lying in bed with her as she slept, I felt like one of those animals whose leg is caught in a trap, knowing if I wanted to survive, I’d have to gnaw off a part of myself and leave it behind.

That’s how I feel now. Like I’ve carved out a huge chunk of my heart and left if with her.

It hurts. Fuck, it hurts like hell. But I know it was the right thing to do.

She doesn’t see it like that.

I hope one day, she will.

I almost laugh, but there’s too much simmering anger to allow it.

When I look up, he’s right in front of me. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look so serious.

“I’m not him anymore, Cassie. Never will be again. You have to know that.”

I nod. Every day, I understand that more.

From the moment I met you, it was all about you. I just tried to deny it.”

“And now?”

He gives me a hopeful smile. “Now I know I was a deluded asshole.”

I nod. “You were.”

“I know.”

“I mean, really.”

“I’m not arguing with you.”

We stare at each other, and the push and pull of how we are now makes me disoriented.

“So, what do we do now?” he asks and glances at the book in my hand.

I pick up my wineglass and drain it. “I guess we have dinner. Then … I don’t know. See what happens.”

Dinner is delicious. Conversation is full but tense. I drink too much wine. It helps me relax.

The thing is, relaxed is dangerous around him. Makes me think I’m ready for things. Builds a different kind of tension. One that has nothing to do with our past and everything to do with the here and now of us. The Cassie and Ethan who lapse into silence every few minutes because our brains are too distracted by each other to speak.

Instead, we stare. Avoid touching. Stare some more.

Gentle music plays as he leads me to the couch. The lights are dim, but he sees everything. Studies every movement. Watches me exhale and makes me tingle with need.

He squeezes his eyes shut and drops his head back. We both struggle to stay at opposite ends of the couch.

“I should go,” I say, more out of self-preservation than anything.

He sighs. “That is both the best and worst idea in the world.”

“It’s really sad that I know exactly what you mean by that, isn’t it?”

“No. It’s just another reason for you to get out of here while you still can. My noble intentions to take it slow with you only go so far when you look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you want to make every sexual fantasy I’ve had about you for the past three years a very dirty reality.”

“How dirty are we talking?”

“So dirty we’d have to do it in the shower.”

“Wow.” He’s good at shower sex. I remember.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay?”

“No.”

He exhales. “Fuck. I’m calling a car for you before I lose all self-control.”

We both stand, and I stare blatantly when he adjusts himself.

“Can I borrow some of these?” I ask, and gesture to the journals.

“Take as many as you want. From now on, I’m an open book. Even Past Me has no secrets.”

While he pulls out his phone and dials for a car, I pick up a selection of journals. I purposely avoid the ones from our senior year. I can’t even look at them without breaking into a sweat. It’s a safe bet I’m going to need a lot more to drink before I tackle them.

He walks me to the door, and with every step, the desire to leave him lessens. He leans forward and grabs the handle as his chest presses against my shoulder. For long seconds, he stays there, not opening the door. Just pressing against me and breathing.

“Cassie, I’m going to ask you some questions now, and I really need you to answer ‘no’ to them. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

He inhales, and I feel the tip of his nose graze the side of my neck. I close my eyes and shiver as I press back into him.

“Will you stay with me tonight? In my bed?”

He can’t—How can he…?

“Ethan—”

“All you need to say is ‘No.’ That’s it.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. “No.”

“Will you let me peel off your clothes and put my mouth on you? All over you? Taste all the parts I’ve been dreaming of since we’ve been apart?”

Jesus.

Breathe.

“No.”

“Do you want me?”

“No.”

Lies
.

“Do you love me?”

“No.”

All of it.

“Will you stop me if I pin you against the wall and kiss you like my life depends on it? Which it kind of does.”

My heart kicks into overdrive. We both stop breathing.

Finally, a truth.

“No.”

In a second he’s pressed me back against the wall. Our mouths are open and desperate. Then his hands are on my ass as he lifts me. I wrap my legs around his grinding hips and gasp as I drop the books and my bag so I can anchor my hands in his hair. I open myself up to one tiny corner of my need for him and let that part grip his shoulders and biceps as he works himself against me.

“Fuck. Cassie…”

There’s too much of him, all straining, all hard. The deep parts of me ache for him the most. Not just my body. It’s more than that. Some parts spark. Others melt. A flux of chemistry and catastrophe, the same compulsive need that keeps bringing us back together.

A car horn blares. He freezes and pants against my neck while his muscles slowly uncoil beneath my hands.

“You probably should have said ‘Yes’ to that last one,” he says, lips against my throat.

When he lowers me to my feet, I can barely stand. “Probably.”

He picks up the journals and my bag and opens the door, then escorts me downstairs to the waiting taxi.

When I’m inside, he leans in and kisses me gently on the lips. “Thank you for coming.”

I smile. “I didn’t quite—”

“To dinner.” He smiles and kisses me again.

“Oh, that. Thanks for having me.”

“Uh, I didn’t quite—”

“We could do this all night.”

“Is that an offer? Because I could send the taxi driver away and take you back upstairs.”

I smile. “Good night, Ethan.”

He kisses me one more time, lingering this time. I almost forget why I have to leave.

“’Night. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

He closes the door, and the taxi pulls away.

When I get into my apartment and collapse on the bed, I can still feel all the places he touched me. I turn off the light and strip as I let my hands wander, needing to finish what he started, or I won’t be able to sleep.

I don’t mean to close my eyes and picture him, but I do. Of all the many characters and faces I’ve seen over the years, the expression that’s clearest in my memory is the one when he’s touching me. How his mouth drops open in wonder as he brings me pleasure.

It’s that face that lingers behind my eyelids. I pretend my hands are his, and when I cry out in my dark room, I have to stop myself from saying his name.

I’m on the verge of dozing off when my phone buzzes with a message.

I laugh. He always did know me too well.

<
TMI>

<
Really? I can give you more details if u like.>

My laughter sounds way too loud in my silent room, and I realize it’s the first time that’s happened in a very long time.

I’m about to put my phone down when another text arrives.

<
Really want to tell you I love you, but I’m not going to. How hard am I rocking this ‘taking it slow’ thing, huh? (Please don’t take out a restraining order.)>

He signs it with a smiley face, and I snort with laughter. After waiting to make sure we’re really done this time, I snuggle down into my bed. His journals sit on my nightstand, gray in the half-light.

I know they’re probably going to bring up more questions than answers, but I think that inside their pages, I might find some sort of closure. If we’re even going to have a chance of being together, I know I have to find a way to forgive him.

The problem is, I’ve had more practice hating him than loving him.

TWELVE

HOPEFUL INDIFFERENCE

Six Years Earlier

Westchester County, New York

The Grove

Two weeks.

Two weeks without talking to him. Two weeks in which every glance has been furtive and fleeting. I can’t say his effect on me is lessening, but I’m certainly getting better at ignoring it.

It’s only when I’m forced to look at him that my control wavers. When he stands in front of the class to perform, the cell-deep magnetism that draws me to him kicks into overdrive and tries to unstitch my resolve.