Broken Juliet

by Leisa Rayven

  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.

  Twenty minutes later, I find a dress I think will suit Viola, and I head into the small curtained-off dressing room 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, screw 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 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 in the headspace to play that?”

  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 help with the . . . ?” 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.

  “Zipper?”

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

  I turn around and feel him 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 into 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.

  “Cassie?”

  “Hmm?”

  “The buttons? Your fingers might be more dexterous than mine.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  I take the edges of the jacket and pull them together. His chest is too broad, so it’s not easy, and he’s right, the buttons do seem too large for the holes. I struggle with the thick fabric but have success with the bottom few buttons before running into problems.

  “Have you put on weight?”

  “A bit. I’ve been working out.”

  “Boxing?”

  He pauses. “Yes. How did you know that?”

  I shrug. “Lucky guess.”

  I pull again but the button’s not cooperating. I hate giving up, so I try again. I tug at the edges of the jacket and try to squeeze the button through. “Almost . . .” I grit my teeth and pull harder. “I can’t get it.”

  “Leave it then,” he says, his voice tight. “It’s fine.”

  Once more the button pops out. “Dammit!”

  “Taylor . . .” He closes his hand over both of mine. “For God’s sake, just fucking stop.”

  Time slows down. He’s touching me. The effect is instantaneous and debilitating.

  My heart skips into overdrive when he lets out a ragged breath. I stare at his hand covering mine. So alien. So familiar. Wrong and right twisting around each other and into my stomach.

  I watch in sick fascination as he rubs his thumb across my knuckles in slow motion. I want to step away, but I’m frozen. I can’t look up at him, afraid of what I’ll do. Or what he’ll do. Even through the thick leather of the jacket I can feel his heart pounding, faster than mine. I know that whatever happens in the next few seconds could very well undo the past eight months of cultivated aloofness.

  “Cassie . . .” he groans.

  He presses my hands more firmly into his chest, and my resolve fails. I want to pull the jacket open and press my mouth to his skin. Taste the warmth there before moving up to his neck. He seems to want it too, because he grips my hands and pushes them beneath the fabric. When my palms are on his bare chest, he inhales sharply, as if in pain.

  I close my eyes and seek the strength to stop. I can’t be like this again. Desperate and needy. The obstacles keeping us apart haven’t changed. Especially not him.

  I open my eyes to meet his gaze. It’s searing. Dark and intense and way too compelling.

  Resolve, where are you when I need you?

  This isn’t him wanting me back. It’s just him wanting me. And me wanting him. Pounding hearts and hormones screaming at us.

  I move my hands over his chest and feel the fast pulse beneath it, looking for an excuse to allow me to have his body without needing anything more. To relieve the aching sexual frustration that’s haunted me ever since we broke up. I come up with nothing. Going any further would only make things between us immeasurably worse.

  I curl my fingers into his muscles before I snap back to reality. Finding strength I didn’t know I had, I pull away, embarrassed and irritated. I hate that I’m practically boneless with desire. That one fleeting touch from him can still affect me so completely.

  I stare at him and try to find my voice.

  He stares back, apparently just as shocked.

  “What the hell was that?” Adrenaline is storming through my veins, making me hot and shaky.

  He blinks and shakes his head. Angry. At himself or at me? “I have no idea.” His jaw flexes, and he drops his head. “That was fucking stupid. I shouldn’t have—”

  “No, you shouldn’t.”

  He snaps his head up to look at me. Definitely angry at me this time. “I didn’t see you stepping back too quickly. You were breathing just as hard as I was.”

  “That doesn’t mean you can . . . that we should . . .” I rake my fingers through my hair. “Goddammit, Ethan, we’re supposed to be past this by now! I shouldn’t feel this way when
—”

  “When what?”

  “When you’re near me! When you touch me. You can’t just do that to me.”

  “Believe me, I know the feeling.”

  I throw my hands up. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “You don’t need to. Just fucking existing is enough to completely ruin me.”

  The sadness in his tone makes me stop for a minute, but it doesn’t make me any less angry.

  “Whatever,” I say as I try to unzip my dress. “Forget it.”

  He pulls off his jacket and says, “What do you think I’ve been trying to do all year?”

  The bodice of the dress seems to tighten like a python, squeezing me to the point of asphyxiation. “Get this damn thing undone.”

  I turn so he can unzip me, and when he does, I stalk into the dressing room. I rip off the dress and pull my bra and shirt back on. Then I gather up my stuff and throw back the curtain. He’s standing there watching me like he’s going to apologize or something. I wait. We stare at each other. No apology is forthcoming.

  Of course not.

  “Oh, hey guys.”

  We both turn to see Avery, holding an armful of costumes. “Oh, wow, did I interrupt something? Need some privacy? Or condoms?”

  I make a disgusted noise and push past him. “Shut up, Jack.”

  As I walk down toward the exit, I hear Avery say, “Dude, are you still pretending she doesn’t have you totally and completely whipped? How fucking deluded are you?”

  As I reach the door, Ethan says, “For once I agree with Cassie, Avery. Shut the fuck up.”

  Hours later, when I get home, I’m still tingling from the memory of my hands on his chest. They crave to feel him again. So does the rest of my body.

  I groan and collapse onto my bed, frustrated beyond belief.

  Indifference? Yeah, right.

  I have no freaking idea what that word means.

  My only consolation is that neither does Ethan.

  THIRTEEN

  AVOIDANCE

  Present Day

  New York City, New York

  The Apartment of Cassandra Taylor

  I snuggle into the warmth beside me.

  Hmm. Boy. Soft skin. Smells good.

  Ethan?

  An arm wraps around me and I snuggle further. It wakes me up from the inside, making me greedy for more.

  I put my hand on his stomach. Feel the taut muscles there. So many muscles.

  Wait. Too many muscles.

  I trail down to his belly button.

  “Sweetheart, if you go much lower we’re going to have to re-examine my sexuality, and I don’t think either of us is ready for that right now.”

  I open my eyes. My roommate Tristan is lying next to me with one of Ethan’s journals open in his hand.

  “You know, I always thought your stories about this guy were embellished out of hurt or bitterness, but reading this? It’s a wonder he could walk upright and talk at the same time. There’s some serious self-flagellation going on in here. Did he actually have his own whip? Or was it all just in his mind?”

  I grab for the book, but he tightens his arm around me and holds it out of my reach.

  “Nuh-uh-uh. I’ve been hearing about his antics for three years. I think I’ve earned a little peek inside his crazy. Of course, the important question is, where did you get these journals? Please tell me you didn’t steal them like a crazy stalker-lady.”

  I rub my eyes. It’s too early for one of Tris’s interrogations. “He gave them to me.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep.”

  “Where?”

  “At his apartment.”

  He pauses. “Uh-huh. So you went over there, picked these up, and left, right? No romantic contact? No reminiscing about how obsessed you are with his cock?”

  “Tristan . . .”

  He pulls back so he can glare at me. “No, don’t you Tristan me. I get home this morning to find your sex-kitten underwear on the floor, Loverboy’s journals on your nightstand, and scruff-rash all over your face. Seems to me you’re determined to screw this up before you’ve even given it a chance.”

  “Nothing happened.”

  “Do I actually need to check if your pants are on fire, Miss Liar? Because it looks like your face has been exfoliated with a sand-blaster.”

  “Okay, nothing much. We kissed.”

  “Just kissed?”

  “And . . . humped against a wall.”

  He exhales. “That’s not nothing.”

  I know he’s right, but admitting it is beyond me. “What do you want me to say, Tris? That it was stupid? It was. Do I know what the hell I’m doing with him? Absolutely not. Did I have highly pornographic dreams about him last night? Hell, yes. Honest enough for you?”

  I slump onto his chest as he tightens his arm around me and rests his head against mine.

  “Sweet girl, I’m not trying to be a dick here. I just don’t want this to go south again. I know he probably turns you inside-out, but if you go too fast, too soon, then you’re going to do exactly the same thing he did—freak out and bail. I’m pretty sure neither of you wants that, right?”

  “No. But whenever I’m with him, all I can see is him, and that terrifies me. And when we’re apart, I think that maybe we’re better that way, and that also terrifies me.”

  He rubs my arm. “Fear is normal in this situation, but you can’t let it boss you around. Scared people either shut down and avoid the thing they fear, or get angry at it and lash out. You and Ethan have done both of those things and it doesn’t get you anywhere. The ultimate tragedy is that ever since you met, you’ve been completely nutso in love with each other and wasted too much time being stubborn asses about denying it.”

  I close my eyes, not liking how this conversation is tightening my chest.

  Tris sighs. “If it’s any consolation,” he says quietly, “the one thing these journals prove is that he always loved you.”

  I laugh. “Even when he was breaking my heart?”

  “Yep. Even then. I mean, listen to this one from six years ago: ‘New Year’s Eve. I can barely function with so many thoughts of her running through my head. I feel like a crazy man. I keep thinking, “What if she could have fixed me?” If anyone could have, it would have been her.

  I’m dreading next year. It’s going to be a fucked-up charade of pretending I don’t want her. I’m exhausted just thinking about it.

  Part of me hopes when I see her again, she’ll break down and beg me to be with her. If she did that, there would be no way to deny her.

  Please let her beg me. No, wait, don’t.

  Fuck I hate this.

  Happy fucking New Year.’”

  Hearing this doesn’t help, but somehow, knowing he was as miserable as I was is strangely satisfying.

  Tristan turns the page. “And here are his New Year’s resolutions: ‘Stop thinking about Cassie. Stop dreaming about Cassie. Stop fantasizing about Cassie when I masturbate. Be kinder to my mom and sister. Try not to imagine smashing my father in the face every time he says something annoying. Run more. Drink less. Be a better person. For Cassie.’ ”

  He puts the book down and looks at me. “You have to admit, despite his issues, the boy was totally crazy about you.”

  “It doesn’t excuse what he did.”

  “I don’t think he wants you to excuse him. I think he wants you to understand that he was confused.”

  “And stupid.”

  “Well, yeah, obviously stupid. I find you hot, and I’m a bona fide cock lover. I have no idea why that hot-blooded straight boy thought he could be anything but totally obsessed with you.”

  He keeps flicking through the pages. I lie there and listen to his steady heartbeat as I try to sort through my feelings about Ethan.

>   “Tris? Do you think it’s possible that soulmates who love each other aren’t actually supposed to be together?”

  He pauses and then puts the book down. “I think a better question would be, do you think it’s possible?”

  I don’t answer him, because if I admit that it’s crossed my mind, the small spark of hope inside me will sputter and die.

  FOURTEEN

  PASSION

  Five Years Earlier

  Westchester County, New York

  The Diary of Cassandra Taylor

  Dear Diary,

  Humans are strange creatures. We lie every day, in a thousand different ways. The most common lie is, “I have read the terms and conditions.” The second most common lie is, “I’m fine.”

  Some people believe that actors are just professional liars. We create characters from our imaginations, become a different person for hours, days, months.

  The best actors keep all the parts of themselves in little boxes and bring them out in an unending parade of different combinations.

  I used to be pretty good at doing that, onstage and in life, but ever since Ethan and I broke up, my compartments have been confused. In the filing cabinet where I keep my feelings for him, the drawer labeled “lover” is firmly locked. So is “boyfriend”. The “friend” drawer rattles and tries to squeeze open, but it’s so squashed beneath “hurt” and “resentment” it’s practically buried.

  I don’t talk about him anymore. Not to Ruby. Not to Mom. Not even to Elissa, who I confided in the longest because she always sought me out. Talking about him maintained tiny cracks in my resolve, and always made me bristle and want.

  It’s better now. I’ve locked my passion away. Put it in a strongbox and covered it in concrete.

  Ethan and I go to class, do our work, avoid each other when possible and snark at each other when we can’t. We have no patience for these platonic versions of ourselves. Even now, more than a year after our breakup, our hearts and bodies fight against the distance and suppression, but we’ve gotten good at ignoring them.

  We’re second-years now, and so far we haven’t been cast in anything together. I think Erika has given up trying to mediate.