Star-Crossed

by Luna Lacour

  Mr. Tennant appeared as if he didn’t understand.

  “It’s not really noise anymore,” he said mildly. “You get used to it, like most anything else.”

  We walked into the living room, where two mugs of tea were steeping on the coffee table. Outside, the beginnings of spring rain pelted like bullets against the window; the noise almost loud enough to mute the still-lingering sound of that ticking clock.

  I looked at Will, who was looking back at me with a silent fixation, and wondered why I was sitting next to him, in his living room, and not in some cab en route to an over-glorified house. The boldness of it all. The youth of it all.

  Which makes sense, really. At eighteen, you’re an adult by standing. You can vote, you can go to war, and you can have sex with a man ten years your senior. Will was twenty-eight.

  I was only eighteen. An adult, but not really. A child, yet far from it.

  And what did this seemingly simple moment make Will? Was he simply a gentleman, inviting his young student in for tea while the rain poured down? A man with no ulterior motives, no filthy thoughts. Or was he, like me, a lurking demon disguised as something with all the proper parts that compose a human? The soft hair, the welcoming smile.

  Maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe it was just two people, sitting on some theatrical-style settee the color of midnight, sipping tea and watching the steam rise like spirits.

  A single lit candle rested on the coffee table, and suddenly compelled I leaned in and dipped a finger into the wax, watching it harden with silent fascination.

  “Sometimes I’m rather impulsive,” I admitted. “Like, ending up here and everything. I just had to get out of my house, and here I am. A result of wandering.”

  I thought about telling him exactly what had gone through my mind; that I had wanted to see him; that I was hoping he’d be out on those front steps, as if waiting for me. As if having the uncanny feeling that I was looking for him, too. A mutual, undisclosed knowing.

  “Why were you wandering?” he asked quietly, setting the mug down. “I imagine your parents must be worried that you’ve just up and left the house.”

  I smiled, shrugging.

  “My father is preoccupied with his mellings in black suits. I’d say his biggest concern is whether or not there’s enough liquor to fuel their fantasy of playing the retail-industry gods of Manhattan,” I paused. “And my step-mother, well, she’s sort of an idiot. I know that sounds terrible and everything, but it’s true.”

  It suddenly felt warm, too warm, and only then did I realize that I was still wearing my jacket. Sliding out of the fabric like a second skin, I tossed it over the arm-rest and exhaled lightly. Will’s steady stare followed down the length of my arms, to my french-tipped fingernails. There was a barely-audible sigh, followed by a soft:

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s a horrid thing, how the world never really prepares us for parenting, or parents, or…well, bloody anything, really.”

  He was right. His eyes were still on my shoulders.

  “Yeah,” I muttered. “I suppose that tonight is just one of those nights where I’m feeling slightly angsty.”

  Mr. Tennant traced a finger over his mouth, nodding like we were both a couple teenagers, and he entirely understood. We were standing on the same patch of ground.

  “It’s a proper feeling though, isn’t it?” he asked. “I mean, feeling angst when you’re young and figuring the world out. When I was growing up, feeling sad was sort of pushed aside as a rubbish emotion. But now that I’m older, I believe that it’s quite alright to feel, as you have said, angsty.”

  There was a brief pause before he added, quietly.

  “I don’t have a remedy for you, though. I’m sorry.”

  I liked that he didn’t brush my feelings off because of my wealth. I liked, as he smiled at me with a smile that told me he was unabashedly sincere, that he treated me as equally as he would some change-shaking punk on the street. So many others would have simply rolled their eyes, assuming that whatever ailment I was suffering from - emotional or physical - could be fixed with a retail therapy binge. The whole: well, it’s better to cry in a mansion than a fucking box mentality that so many carried around in their back pockets.

  It was also, as much as I hated to acknowledge it, partially true. But youth doesn’t care about your wealth, or your social status. Everything, every little detail and utterance under stolen breath, can plague you.

  Still, I digested the words slowly, watching as Mr. Tennant jumped up and, sucking in a deep breath, walked over to a mess of DVDs that were scattered all over the living room floor. From beneath the depths, he pulled out Zeffirelli’s Romeo and Juliet.

  “I suppose I should call that cab,” he said. “But I wanted to lend you this.”

  I glanced at the projection screen, at his laptop on the floor, surrounded by the cases and discs. Beyond the walls, the rain had softened into a gentle patter; streaks of water, like ink, ran down black window glass.

  “Could we watch it on the projector?” I asked. “I’ve never watched a film on an actual projector screen.”

  Will appeared uncertain, crossing his arms. His shadow wavered slightly on the screen, looming over him and double his size.

  “Your parents -” he started, shaking his head. “No. I shouldn’t let you linger around here, Kaitlyn. It’s not appropriate.”

  The candle flame was still dancing, rising and falling as the white wax dripped down like sweat from joined bodies.

  Boldly, I stood on my toes, looking up at the ceiling light that glared back at me like a blinding warning, and turned off the lights.

  It was just the two of us, alone in the dark, with only the faint flickering of candlelight.

  “Nobody’s looking for me,” I said quietly. And although I couldn’t quite see his face, I knew that he was looking. I knew that his eyes hadn’t left my frame. “Nobody’s hunting me down tonight.”

  In the background, the clock ticked away. His breath was shallow, my heart was pounding in my throat. I’m not sure how many sped-up seconds passed before he finally said, barely audible:

  “Okay.”

  We sat and watched the film, separated by a square of cushion between us. His hands remained on his knees, mine on my legs that were properly crossed. During the post-nuptials scene, I looked over to see his reaction at the quick flash of skin; glad, in truth, that he wasn’t looking at me. My face was burning.

  I fell in love at the first line, and was muffling sobs at the very end. When the credits rolled, I wiped away the few escaped tears and accepted the tissue that Will handed to me.

  From the faint light, he looked almost distressed. His hands combed nervously through swept-back hair as he stood, straightening himself out.

  “Just a moment,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

  He disappeared into the bathroom, and I waited in the dark for him while watching the drops of rain roll down in streaks of gleaming yellow, the passing cars occasionally sending a ray of white light through the room. It was only after the candle - as if on cue - dwindled and snuffed out, that I stood; acknowledging the ascending smoke as surely some kind of omen.

  Nervously, I walked down the hall, glanced at the bathroom door quickly before spinning around. I was met with the reflective faces of three unmoving clocks. It startled me, and I jumped.

  When Will emerged, he smiled and apologized and insisted that he was fine. His smile read otherwise; uncomfortable, torn.

  I wondered how I appeared to him, standing only inches away in my lace dress, my ballet flats, my makeup so minimal that he could see the natural length of my lashes.

  “Is the oh-so serious Mr. Tennant so terribly affected by sad endings?” I mused. “I came here because the candle went out. It was only mildly scary, though.”

  “Is that why you were standing here?” he smiled. “Looking for protection from the monsters hiding in my apartment?”

  I wanted so badly to touch him; that’s when
I knew. I knew I had to do something, or else I’d lose. Not just the bet, but my first glimpse into the fascinating creature - half-man and half shadowy figure - that stood before me like an unreachable prize placed atop the highest shelf.

  Eighteen years. Eighteen years only getting off to fantasies of something I hadn’t quite pieced together. Kaleidoscope pictures and dreams of different things and sounds and people, floating but never forming into something real. Eighteen years of skewed images that had never quite solidified; orgasms blossoming from blank canvases and sheer frustration.

  The clock kept ticking. I could hear it play like the constant reminder that my life, and every single moment, was only temporary. Every single living thing would someday be turned into ash - and then what?

  I wanted him to touch me. Just touch me. I didn’t want to sleep with him, not on the settee or in his bed. I just wanted to feel his hands on me. I wanted to feel his mouth against my skin. I wanted to hear him say my name; those two syllables like poison on his lips.

  “Yes,” I finally said. “That’s exactly what I wanted.”

  I paused for a moment before reaching out and touching his wrist. He didn’t move; his eyes locked on my hand.

  “Are you nervous?” I asked quietly.

  He nodded, swallowing.

  “Yes,” he whispered.

  We looked at each other, something bleeding through our eyes that was both a mix of desire and an unshakeable fear. We were both sick and enthralled; alive and wavering in the space between safety and chaos.

  Let it be known that I crossed the line first. William Tennant, before that irreversible second, was an innocent man.

  Pressing him against the wall, I stood on my toes, and kissed him.

  At first, his hands shot up, like a criminal marked with a red hot target; like he was facing certain death by firing squad. They fell slow as quick-sand, eventually finding my hips where they settled with a shaky hesitancy, hovering just above the fabric.

  There was no gripping of limbs, no clashing of teeth against teeth. Mr. Tennant kissed my mouth like it was something to worship, something to savor. Delicate and delicious, his breath shallow as a pool of puddle water. And if I were still a child, still stuck in the age of sticky-sweet candy and hop-scotch, I would have jumped and played in that murky depth forever.

  In the dark, it was impossible to see him. All I had were what my remaining senses could grant me: touch and taste and the soft, intoxicating sound of his lips against my own.

  I reached down, slowly, and pressed a hand against his covered erection. If he smiled, I couldn’t see it. I felt totally empowered. Awesome not in the sense of something great, but in that sole ability to bring a grown man to his knees.

  “What are you trying to do to me?” he asked. Only there was no seductiveness to the question, no intent to arouse. It was a genuine plea; each word cutting like a razor against calloused flesh.

  “I could ask you the very same thing, Mr. Tennant.”

  I was touching his face, my fingers tracing over the full petal-soft flesh of his lips. The darkness was entirely impenetrable; it was impossible to see whether I was looking into his eyes or something else.

  Around us, the sounds of cars hissing against wet pavement and the wind through branches told us that there was still life outside; even if everything in that moment, between my teacher and I, had managed to freeze. Our mouths met and parted with a fluid urgency; his hands trembling like a teenage boy that had never touched a girl before. Like this was our first shared experience.

  Will cupped my face in his hands, his breath fading in and out, rising and falling. The scent, the warmth, it had already imprinted into my cells.

  “I need to know what you’re thinking,” he said.

  I thought about Juliet, and how she had avoided playing the games that so many other women did. She had succumbed to her true passions. And here I was, locking lips with a man who was entirely fooled; there was no trace, no idea that he was also the key element to my freedom. A pawn in a bet.

  I kissed him again, an unspoken apology.

  “I’m a monster,” I told him. He smiled, like the three words were a joke, leaning in and pressing his mouth against mine. Hot, hot heat. Our mouths didn’t break apart for what felt like a slow-burning eternity. We were breathless bodies in the all-encompassing night. “We’re both monsters.”

  On the cab ride home, I justified what had happened less than an hour beforehand as two people that simply wanted each other. I forced myself not to think about the fact that I would be seeing him in class the next day, or on stage during play practice.

  I tried not to think about the bet, and when that failed, I told myself that perhaps it wasn’t such a bad thing. I wasn’t forcing him to kiss me, after all. And if I succeeded in wooing him into bed, it wasn’t as if I had him under some hex. We were deeply flawed, unquestionably reckless. But in predisposition, there still remains choice.

  It was merely that his choice would gift me with something that would leave me free to bid farewell to the endless vice-like grip of expectancy. The inescapable hell that was closed-in by high gates and even-higher walls.

  I didn’t want to hurt Mr. Tennant. I liked him. I could listen to him talk for hours about anything and everything. Literature, film; his past that was still about as clear as an aged, opaque window.

  The entire thing made me sick. I was sick with myself, sick with Marius, and winded enough that when I made it through the gates and saw Marius standing on my balcony, I slipped behind one of the rose bushes and sprawled out on the soaking wet grass. I didn’t care.

  Something had occurred in that moment; a small pull within me. But I was too blind to acknowledge it.

  When Marius found me, I was staring into the faint glow of a distant fountain; water poured from a basin held by this cherubic-looking boy with the tiniest wings. There was no way he could fly with them, made of stone; yet, a part of me wanted to break them off and see if was possible for me to succeed.

  He sat down wordlessly, fingers tracing over the rose bush thorns; dressed in pajama pants and a black T-shirt. Marius stretched his legs and stared down at my motionless frame; my lace dress slowly soaked in the fallen rain.

  “Where were you?” he asked quietly, his eyes on the stars.

  “Where do you think?” I replied, sitting up. “I went to take care of some business.”

  “Is that what you’re calling it?” he practically sneered. “Business.”

  “Isn’t that what you call it?” I asked him. “Or are you in love with all the girls you screw and then leave on the sidelines, weeping? Thinking the entire thing was their own damn fault. The Business of Heartbreak. You should think about a legitimate business venture there, Marius. There might be some money in it if you feel like getting in touch with some particularly vindictive ex-boyfriends.”

  He said nothing. I sighed.

  “I’m having second thoughts,” I said after a minute. “About the bet.”

  “You know that forfeiting means you lose,” he said coolly. “And if you throw in the towel, I win.”

  “I know,” I said. “I just don’t want to ruin his life. I just don’t want to destroy his reputation.”

  Marius laughed lightly; gentle as the fountain song and flightless angel.

  “Who needs to know?” he asked. “It’s only once. Just once.”

  “Just once,” I repeated, monotone. Automated. “But he’s an innocent man, Marius.”

  Correction: was. He was an innocent man. Past-tense. The feeling of his hands still scalded like a hot brand on my skin. I only wish he had left a mark; something to keep with me for the night, before morning came and all I would be left with was the scattered aftermath.

  “You’re wrong,” Marius took my hand, spreading my fingers out so that we were palm-to-palm; his fingers, long and slender, made me feel small and delicate in a way that was less feminine and more frightening. “There’s no such thing as an innocent man. And beside
s, why should you care? What happened to you not having a heart? Or is there something beating somewhere in that body, Little Lost Girl?”

  “Don’t call me that,” I told him. “I’m far from lost.”

  “You’re wrong again,” he said. From his pocket he withdrew one of the ruby chokers that Henry had given to me, dangling it in front of my face with a painful gleam. I shouldn’t have left the box on my bed. “You live inside that head of yours. With your fantasies, and your failures, and this fetishization you’ve developed of the single thing you’ve never tasted. The fruit you’ve yet to bite into. But does any of it matter, Kaitlyn?”

  Marius dropped the jewels into my hands. I glared at him.

  “Then why do you want me so badly?” I asked.

  He pressed his lips together, shoulders rising and falling.

  “You couldn’t begin to understand,” he answered. “There’s no point in asking.”

  “That’s a bullshit answer,” I spat, standing. “And you know it. You’re just as fucked up as I am. We both are.”

  I shivered beneath my thin dress, the jacket still hanging in my arms. It was nearly dragging on the rain-drenched ground.

  “I told you,” he said quietly. “I told you we aren’t so different, you and I. But you didn’t want to believe me.”

  As he rose, the wind kicked up and raked through the bushes, sending a quivering gust of heady air. I was ill and intrigued; loathing myself and yet clinging to this idea that I was still clean of any blood that would potentially stain my hands.

  The pool, lit up and emitting a faint blue glow, gave a beckoning call. I walked towards it, grabbing Marius by the hand, and together we stared into the very bottom.

  But I didn’t jump in. I couldn’t bring myself to. I was freezing from the rain and wet clothes, and frozen for another reason entirely.

  Marius’ hand was still in mine, and I drew away.

  “Tell me something,” I said. “How would you do it?”

  “Do what?” he asked quietly. His pale eyes danced over the even paler water. A faint blue light was cast over us, bathing our bodies in a transcendental glimmer.