Broken Juliet (12 page)

“Fuck it,” he groans as he presses his forehead into the Everlast logo. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

I’m desperate to know what’s going through his mind. I long to tell him he’s making it too hard. That it could be so easy and right between us if he’d just give in.

But I know he wouldn’t believe me.

It’s too late for that anyway. The damage has been done.

At this point, we’re beyond repair.

When he rips off his gloves and throws them at the wall, I sling my gym bag over my shoulder and walk away. Every part of me complains. Begs me to go back.

I don’t.

Each step away from him is like dragging my feet though quicksand.

By the time I reach the stairs, the grunting has started again.

“He misses you, you know.”

I didn’t think anyone knew about my secret reading corner at the far edge of the drama block, but I should have realized Elissa is part bloodhound.

I close my book, not sure what to say. She helps by flopping down next to me and filling the silence. “I know you think he’s an asshole or whatever, but … I’ve never seen my brother so ruined over anyone before. He’s like a ghost of who he was when he was with you.”

Bitter laughter bubbles out of me. “Maybe he shouldn’t have dumped me, then.”

She picks at the grass next to her. “He thinks he’s protecting you.”

“Well, he’s wrong.”

“What if he’s not?” She holds her hand up to shield her eyes from the sun’s glare. “What if he’d stayed and all his issues forced you to be the one who walked away? Would that have been less or more painful?”

I shrug. “I guess we’ll never know, will we?”

“Guess not.”

She’s quiet for a moment then says, “He’s not a bad person, Cassie. He’s just … damaged. Scared.”

I blink and pick at the grass, trying to calm the heat that’s rising up my neck. “I know. And now, thanks to him, I know what that’s like.”

She doesn’t reply to that. I don’t expect her to. It’s a conversation killer, and we both know it.

She stands. “Do you at least miss him?”

More than I’ve missed anything or anyone in my short and unremarkable life.

“I’m trying really hard not to.”

“How’s that working out for you?”

“Miserably.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Elissa, you have nothing to apologize for. Your brother, on the other hand…”

She nods. “Do you think you’ll ever forgive him?”

I sigh. “I don’t know. I honestly don’t.”

It’s the truth. I’d like to think I could get past all of this, but I don’t know if I’m strong enough.

“I hope you do,” she says. “You two are meant to be together. I can feel it in my bones.”

The thing that frustrates me more than anything is that I know she’s right.

I just don’t see how it’s possible.

It’s performance day.

We’ve been rehearsing our excerpts for four weeks. Holt and I have hardly spoken the entire time.

Avoidance has become an art form, for both of us.

My group is performing scenes from
A Streetcar Named Desire
. Connor’s playing Stanley. I’m Blanche.

I know now why Erika initially wanted Holt to play Stanley. He’s perfect for the role—moody, intense, full of turmoil and passion, unsure of himself and aggressive because of it. Connor’s doing a good job, but Ethan would have been spectacular.

Blanche is a challenge for me. She’s an aging Southern belle. Distraught over the suicide of her husband. Haunted by having walked in on him having sex with a man. Embarrassed by her sister’s violent oaf of a husband, and fighting her primal attraction to him.

As we prepare to go on, I sneak a peek into the auditorium. All of our classmates are there, as well as the second-year actors. I see Holt, tight jawed and restless in his seat, trying to look interested in something Lucas is saying.

Just as Erika announces our scenes, Holt stands and strides out of the theater.

Even though I’m a little hurt, I’m also relieved.

Now I can pour everything into my performance without being self-conscious about him watching me with Connor.

It also makes me not feel so bad about hiding in the bathroom when he did his love scenes with Zoe earlier. I couldn’t watch them together. I just couldn’t. Just thinking about it made my head pound with rage.

Yep, this not caring about each other thing is going well.

Ruby points to a third-year drama student with shaggy hair.

“Kiss him.”

“No.”

She gestures to a guy I’ve never seen before but who bears a striking resemblance to a young Matt Damon. “What about him?”

“
No
.”

“Here, have some more tequila.”

“It’s not going to make me want to kiss random boys.”

“Yes, it is. Trust me.”

I sigh and slump against the couch. “Ruby, I don’t want to kiss anyone.”

“Yes, you do, but you want it to be that douche who dumped you freaking months ago, which is why I’m staging this intervention.”

“Okay, taking me to a party and getting me drunk enough to mack on strangers is not an intervention.”

“It is in my book.”

“Also, I do not want to kiss Holt.”

She rolls her eyes. “Sure you don’t. That’s why, in the five months since you broke up, you haven’t even looked at another guy.”

“That’s not true. I’ve looked.”

“Yeah, you just haven’t touched.” She throws up her hands. “Cassie, don’t you understand that the best way to get over one guy is to get under another?”

“I just don’t feel like getting into anything, okay?”

“I’m not saying you have to pick out china patterns or anything. Just have some fun. Kiss. Grope. Fuck. It doesn’t have to be with the love of your life. You’re nineteen, for God’s sake. You can’t just swear off all men because Holt broke your heart. Men are like vibrators. Just because they’re dicks, it doesn’t mean you can’t use them to have a good time.”

She hands me another shot of tequila and I down it, mainly because I can’t be bothered to argue with her.

I’m starting to feel blurry. Like the room is filled with Jell-O and everyone’s moving slowly.

Ruby’s still talking, but I’ve tuned her out. I don’t want to be here. Also, I know she’s right.

I am afraid of getting hurt again.

Part of me wants to take Ruby’s advice and hook up with someone, purely to feel wanted again. To remind myself that I’m attractive and desired, and not as hollow as I feel. But I know I’ll always feel the twinge of what Ethan did to me. It will always hold me back.

I get up. “I’m going home, Ruby. I’m sorry. You stay. Have a good time.”

She stands and hugs me. “Well, me having a good time is a given. I just wish I could help you get over Mr. Dickface.”

I laugh. “I am getting over him. I swear. I haven’t fantasized about punching him or fucking him for weeks now.”

She pulls back and looks at me in shock. “Seriously?”

“Yep.”

She strokes my cheek. “Awwww, I’m so pwoud of you.”

I smack her hand away and hug her again. She really does give the world’s best hugs.

I call for a cab and head toward the door. Just before I get there, I see a familiar shape silhouetted in the hallway, tall and lanky, chaotic hair. I slow down and lean against the wall for support as I contemplate squeezing past him.

To my relief, when he turns around I see that it isn’t Holt. It’s a guy I’ve never seen before. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Kind of gorgeous. He gives me a smile and moves back against the wall to let me pass.

“Please tell me you’re not leaving,” he says, obviously a little drunk. “It would be a total crime if the most beautiful girl at this party went home before I got a chance to talk to her.”

I shrug. “Sorry. I have some very important sitting around to do. Can’t waste my whole night partying.”

He holds out his hand. “I’m Nick, by the way. Third-year visual arts.”

I put my hand in his, and when we shake, I’m surprised to find it gives me a small thrill.

“Cassie. First-year actor.”

“Very nice to meet you, Cassie.”

“Likewise, Nick.”

He doesn’t let go of my hand, and I don’t remove it. There’s something about the way he’s looking at me that makes me feel less empty. I know we’re both a little drunk, but it’s nice to know someone finds me desirable.

“KISS HIM!” Ruby yells down the hallway.

I pull my hand free and cover my face.

Nick looks at Ruby, clearly bemused. “Uh … is that a friend of yours?”

“Not anymore.”

He laughs. “Does she often scream at you to kiss people you’ve just met?”

“Yeah. More often than I’d like.”

He steps closer. “Well, she seems nice. I’d hate for her to be disappointed.”

Before I register what’s happening, he leans down and presses his lips against my cheek. My skin tingles in a not-unpleasant kind of way, and I instinctively grab his shirt. He pulls back and smiles.

“I hope that was okay.”

“Yeah,” I say, a little dizzy. “That was okay.”

I wait for the guilt to hit me, but when it does, it’s far less potent than I expect.

Maybe I am getting over Holt after all.

Or maybe it’s just the tequila.

Whatever the reason, when my cab pulls up and blares its horn, I say good-night to Nick feeling a lot more confident about my romantic future than before I arrived.

Being sort of attracted to someone means I’m on my way to being completely indifferent to Ethan, right?

I’m in the costume cage down in the basement level of the drama block. It’s cramped and dusty, and innumerable costumes from hundreds of productions have been squeezed onto row after row of floor-to-ceiling racks. Students are allowed to borrow them by permission of the facilities coordinator, but finding exactly what you want is always tough. I’ve been looking for something for my monologue from
Twelfth Night
for almost an hour, and the stale air is making me feel light-headed.

When all the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, I know I’m not alone. Sure enough, I turn around to find Ethan watching me.

“I didn’t know you were in here,” he says, seeming annoyed.

My heart rate speeds up “Yeah, well, I am.”

Stop it. You’re indifferent, remember? He has no effect on you anymore.

He exhales and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Are you nearly done?”

His tone irritates me. “I have no idea. Why?”

“I need a costume. I guess I’ll wait til you’re gone.”

I sigh, and turn to the rack. “Just find your damn costume, Ethan. I have more important things to do than avoid you right now.”

I flick through costumes, studiously ignoring him.

He says, “Fine. Whatever,” and disappears from my aisle. I hear him a few yards away, scraping hangers just as aggressively as I am.

After another twenty minutes of searching, I find a dress I think will suit Viola, and I head into the small curtained-off dressing area to try it on. When I pull the curtain back, Ethan’s there, shirtless, bent over the button-fly of what look like leather breeches.

He looks at me and grits his teeth as he pulls at his crotch. “I can’t get these fucking things done up. It’s like trying to thread a goddamn needle with a banana.”

I’d laugh if I wasn’t so devastated by seeing him half naked and practically touching himself.

“Ah, fuck it,” he says as he abandons his efforts so he can slip on the matching jacket. The style is part biker, part Elizabethan doublet. The effect is all sexy.

He steps out of the dressing room and gestures for me to go in. “Go for it. I can wrestle with this stupid fucking costume out here.”

I step inside and pull the curtain across. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t peek through to watch his chest flex as he struggled to button the jacket.

You’re totally and completely indifferent, goddammit!

“What monologue are you doing, anyway?” I say as I drag my attention away from him and pull off my T-shirt and bra.

He grunts in frustration. “Hamlet. I swear to God, these buttons don’t fit through these holes. Do I need an engineering degree to get into this goddamn costume?”

I take a moment to register that we’re having a relatively normal conversation. It’s strange but also kind of cool. Maybe we really will be able to become friends one day.

I pull the dress over my head and try to reach the zipper. “Hamlet’s a bit of an obvious choice for you, isn’t it? Moody. Troubled. Self-destructive.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not really in the headspace right now to play light and fluffy.”

“Are you ever?”

He pauses. “What’s your point?”

I twist my arms up behind me and tug, but the zipper isn’t cooperating. “Fracking crap.”

“Let me guess, you can’t get your costume zipped up.”

The curtain pulls back and he’s standing there—jacket open, bare chest, pants half buttoned. His eyes widen when he registers how low cut my dress is.

“Uh … you want me to…?” He gestures with his finger, obviously trying to drag his focus up to my face. He’s successful for about half a second before he drops back to my cleavage. “Uh … help with the … uh…”

“Zipper?”

“Yeah. That. I’ll help you if you help me.”

I turn around and feel him step behind me. He tugs the zipper up to the middle of my back, then warm fingertips brush across my neck as he sweeps my hair over my shoulder. I think I hear him swallow. The zipper protests as he pulls it all the way up, but he gets it done. The bodice is so tight, I can barely breathe. Taking shallow breaths, I turn and press my hands against my waist.

“Jeez, how did women wear these things every day? I feel like my internal organs are going to merge together in a giant blancmange of gross.”

There’s silence.

When I look up, Ethan is staring. The lust in his expression makes a shiver run through me.

“Uh-huh.”

He steps closer, and now it’s not the dress that’s making it hard to breathe. I stare at his neck because I really can’t look at his face. I study the pattern of his scruff and how it gives way to smooth skin. Even now, after all these months, I remember so clearly how that skin tastes. How he used to moan when I nibbled it.