Broken Juliet (9 page)

“You were always my incentive to get better, both physically and mentally. You were my reward.”

He wraps around me before burying his face in my neck. “Thank you.”

I take in a shaky breath and try to keep it together. He tightens his arms around me, and I almost can’t breathe.

“You know,” I say, and wheeze for effect, “there’s a difference between snuggling and holding someone captive.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve waited a long time for this, so I’m going to enjoy it.”

Nevertheless, he loosens his grip.

We stay like that for long time, intertwined and breathing each other’s air. Seeing who’ll pull away first. My bladder makes sure it’s me.

When I come out of the bathroom, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed.

I stop in front of him, and he takes my hands. “I want you to come to my place for dinner tonight. I’ll cook. I have something I want to show you.”

I smile and shake my head. “Ethan … I think we really need to take things slowly for a while. Besides, I’m pretty sure what you want to show me, I’ve seen before.”

“Not that,” he says, and pulls me onto his lap. “Although if you play your cards right, I could be persuaded to show you that, too. In fact, cards aren’t necessary. A simple eyebrow raise would do it.”

I roll my eyes.

He pushes my hair away from my face. “Hey, I’m kidding. I promise, my pants will stay on. Please, I really want you to come.” I make a face. “Over! Jesus. Come
over
, and let me make you come.
Make you dinner!
Shit!” He shakes his head. “Sorry. My brain is distracted. When I look at you from this angle I can see right down your robe.”

I slap his arm and pull my robe around me. He tries not to laugh.

I push him, and he falls back onto the bed. Part of me hates how right he looks on it.

He grabs my hand and pulls me down, then rolls on top of me. He’s so happy and comfortable, I barely recognize him.

“I really can’t be blamed for ogling,” he says, as his hands frame my face. “It’s all your fault for being so goddamn beautiful. Do you even understand how attracted I am to you?”

When he leans down to kiss me, I put my hand on his chest to stop him. He immediately rolls off like he’s expecting it.

He sighs and stares at me, unashamedly lustful. “So, yeah. I’m going through this phase right now where I don’t seem to know the meaning of the word ‘slow.’ I promise that from now on, I’m going to try harder not to hit on you every five minutes.”

I laugh and shake my head. “I feel like I should apologize.”

“For what? Not jumping into bed with me the moment you’ve decided you don’t hate me anymore? How dare you? I’m fucking appalled.”

I dig my fingers into his ribs. He squirms and makes a very unmanly noise.

“Hey! You know tickling is now against the Geneva Convention. Quit it before I call NATO. I don’t want my girlfriend to be an international war criminal.”

I flinch. He notices, and his smile falls.

“Fuck. Cassie … I didn’t mean to—”

I laugh, but it’s forced. “It’s fine.”

A few years ago, I couldn’t convince him to call me his girlfriend without coercion and testicular clamps, and now he’s throwing around the term like he’s Mr. Commitment?

“It slipped out, okay? I mean, what I feel for you is a few hundred light-years away from just being my girlfriend, but I’m trying really hard not to freak you out here so I’ve been keeping my epic feelings on the down-low.”

“Well, except for that whole thing where you typed ‘I LOVE YOU’ over a thousand times, right?”

“Yeah. Except for that.”

“Ethan—”

He runs his fingers through his hair as his frustration peeks through. “I know it’s too soon, but I’m not going to lie to you and say I don’t want it, because I do. I want to be your boyfriend. No, wait … boyfriend sounds so fucking lame. I’m nearly twenty-seven years old. I’m not a boy anymore. I want to be your man. Your lover. Your … damn it, I don’t know. Your Ethan. Whatever the fuck you want to call me, that’s what I want to be. My end game is to simply know that I’m yours and you’re mine, and that neither one of us is scared or ashamed of that. I want to take you out and put my arm around you and know that every other man in the room is jealous as hell that I’m the one who gets to take you home and paint your skin with my mouth.”

I don’t know what to say. Getting used to this new version of him is going to take time. He’s so sure of himself.

He leans forward and brushes a stray piece of hair away from my face. “Now, do you have any other questions about how I feel? Or would you like me to describe exactly which parts of your body I’m going to paint with my mouth?”

A crawling heat spreads across my shoulders and creeps up my neck. He’s not allowed to be this sexy when I’m trying to take things slow. He’s really, truly not.

“Ah … no,” I say as I fixate on his mouth. “That was an excellent explanation. I’m good.”

He nods. “Good. Because really, that second part was kind of a trick question. When I get my mouth on you, there won’t be any parts untasted. I want all of you.” He takes a long, slow appraisal of my body. “Every … delicious … inch.” He continues to stare, and I feel myself leaning forward. He clenches his jaw as I get closer, and just when I think he’s going to try to kiss me again, he shakes his head and stands.

“Okay, I seriously have to get out of here, because if I stay, I’m going to make you uncomfortable with all my filthy, relentless lust.” He exhales and rakes his fingers through his hair. “So, tonight. Dinner at my place? I’ll cook whatever you want.”

“Sure. What time do you want me?”

He takes a deep breath. “I want you all the time.”

I shake my head and smile.

“Sorry, but you did ask. If you don’t want innuendo, rephrase the question.”

“Fine. What time would you like me to arrive tonight?”

“Six thirty. I want to discuss something with you before dinner.”

“About?”

“You’ll see.” I’m immediately cautious. He gives me a half smile. “Don’t panic. I think it’s going to be a good thing. Trust me.”

I’m trying. I’m really, really trying.

“Do you want me to bring anything?”

He stares for a few seconds. “Just you. That’s all I need.”

Time is a fickle whore. Whenever you want it to pass slowly, it speeds up, and whenever you’re full of nervous impatience, it crawls like a sloth on sedatives.

The entire contents of my closet lie on my bed. Everything has been tried on at least twice. My hair is sleek and straight. Makeup light but careful.

I remind myself that this is not a date. It’s dinner.

Just dinner.

Then why am I wearing underwear that cost more than the national debt of some small African countries?

I shouldn’t be going to this much trouble. I shouldn’t be this nervous. And I really shouldn’t get so flustered when I imagine the look on his face when he sees this sex kitten underwear.

Shit.
If
he sees this underwear.
If
, not
when
.

I sit on the bed and drop my head in my hands.

Maybe I should cancel. I’m not ready for this.

I take some deep breaths and look at the clock. Tristan, my Zen-master roommate and life coach, will be home soon. He’ll know what to do. What I should wear.

My phone buzzes with a message from him.

<
Hot yoga student asked me out for a drink. Home later, if at all. There’s a new bottle of Shiraz in the kitchen. Use it wisely.>

I text him back.

He replies with a smiley face and what looks like a giant schlong emoticon.

Where the hell did he even get that?

Damn him.

To be fair, he doesn’t know I’m going to Ethan’s place for dinner. If he did, he’d probably cover me in barbed wire, strap a chastity belt on me, and then insist on coming with me to protect my vagina chakra, if there is such a thing.

I sigh and take off my pretty underwear and replace it with my most boring white cotton thong and bra. Then I put on comfortable jeans and a plain T-shirt, pull my hair back into a ponytail, and take my makeup back to just mascara and lip gloss.

Done.

No pressure.

Just dinner.

And him.

Nothing more.

I’ve barely knocked when the door opens, and he’s there.

Oh God, he is so there.

Freshly shaven, navy shirt, dark jeans, no shoes.

I think I gape. I can’t be sure.

He’s staring at me, too, dragging his gaze slowly over my body before settling on my face.

“Hi.” He looks nervous. For some reason, that makes me feel a little better.

“Hi.”

He doesn’t move.

“You look … I just…” He blinks. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

How does he not understand that statements like that make me want to murder my resolution to take it slow with him and bury it where no one will find it?

“Uh … thanks. You look good, too.” Really good.

He ignores my compliment as he continues to stare.

“Uh … Ethan?”

He shakes his head and remembers his manners. “Shit, sorry. Come in.”

“Thanks.”

He steps back and lets me enter. A rush of goose bumps crawls over my skin as I pass. The hallway smells like him, and I automatically take a deep breath.

I haven’t seen his New York place yet, so I drink in every detail.

His apartment is compact but stylish. More grown-up than his Westchester digs. More refined.

“Elissa decorated,” he says.

I nod. “It’s nice. It’s just you here?”

“Yeah. Ever since I got back from Europe. Elissa is living in the East Village like the bohemian she is. I miss having her around, but it was time, you know? Can’t live with my baby sister forever.”

“Uh-huh.”

We lapse into silence as I wander around and check out his knickknacks and photos. I run my fingers along the spines of his book collection as I try to get to know him again.

I can feel him watching me. Waiting for my approval. It’s kind of strange.

I stop when I spy a familiar title. “Kristin Linklater—
Freeing the Natural Voice
.”

I turn to him, and he laughs. “Every time someone mentioned the title of this book in class, Jack Avery would fart.” He laughs harder.

“Is that why you keep it on your shelf?”

He shrugs. “What can I say? Avery was a dick, but the boy was funny. Plus, Linklater really knew what she was talking about.”

I shake my head. “You have all our old textbooks here.”

“They’ve been useful over the years. They were also … reminders … of our time at drama school.”

“I burned all of mine.”

I say it before I register how he’ll feel about it. Judging by his expression, it doesn’t make him happy. I hadn’t meant that to be a reflection on him, but I guess it is. I purged those books just like I purged everything that reminded me of him.

He drops his head. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Everything I needed from those books I learned by heart.”

He nods.

He knows.

“Would you like something to drink?”

“God, yes.”

“I have a red you’re going to love.”

He disappears into the kitchen and I continue to explore, looking for something. I don’t know what. Something about me, maybe. About us. Something real and familiar.

On the wall opposite the windows, I see them. At first I’m not sure what I’m looking at, but then I realize what they are—masks. Two of them. From a distance, they seem like the standard comedy and tragedy faces so many actors have in their homes, but a second look causes me to catch my breath. Not comedy and tragedy. Strength and vulnerability. The same masks we used at drama school. The ones we both had trouble with.

“I convinced Erika to give them to me.” I turn to find him a few feet away, a glass of wine in each hand. “I bought her a whole new set in Italy.”

He passes me a glass, and I take a sip. “Why did you want them? I mean, you failed that class. Erika kicked your ass for weeks.”

“Yeah, but only because she expected more from me. It took me a long time to expect more from myself. To see that being vulnerable takes a shitload more strength than being closed off and sullen.” He takes a step closer, and I take another mouthful of wine while trying not to look at him. “Every time I look at those masks, it reminds me. Every time I look at you, it reminds me, too, but you weren’t around for a long time, so the masks were a good placeholder.”

I keep my eyes on the masks, but I can feel him staring at me. As I tip the glass back, I realize my wine is almost gone. I need to slow down, or I’m going to get drunk and do things I may regret.

I feel warm fingers on my wrist, and he’s right behind me, warm breath on my neck as he says, “I want you to have something.”

He takes my hand and guides me over to a large bookcase with doors. His palm is sweaty, and I wonder what has him so anxious.

He puts our glasses on the side table, and when he takes my hands, I swear I feel him tremble.

“Cassie, for so long I kept you guessing as to what I was thinking and feeling. I never want you to have to guess again. So from now on, anything you want to know, I’ll tell you. Anything.”

He pulls open the doors and gestures to the rows of books inside. “You want to know my motivations for all the shit I put you through in drama school? It’s all there. Every fucked-up thought process and bad decision. Every time I broke both our hearts in an effort to avoid pain. Read them if you want. Burn them. Whatever works for you.”

I look closely at the spines of the books. Dates. Years. Rows and rows of journals, starting from when he was in high school. Some years have a single volume, others have several. The year we met has five. No surprise there.

I pick up the last one from that year and open it to a random page.

November 18th

Tonight, she went down on me for the first time. And … Jesus Christ … I’m still shaking. I can’t get the image of her out of my head. So eager to please me. So trusting.