Star-Crossed

by Luna Lacour

He smiled.

  “Having my way with you on my classroom desk. Or on stage,” he said. “I can’t stop thinking about what you said to me. About that dream you had where everyone was watching us.”

  “Would you want them to watch?”

  “No,” he said quickly. “But just the thought of it. That particular spot.”

  Will sighed, shaking his head like the idea was preposterous; and it was, certainly. Still, I knelt down between his legs and took his face in my hands, kissing him.

  “Look at me,” I told him. “Don’t take your eyes off me.”

  He listened without protest; his eyes quickly lapping up every movement like the constant shutter-sound of a camera; each millisecond like a frame of film that would forever burn into his mind.

  I stood, taking a few steps back, and slowly stepped out of my flats. Then, taking a deep breath, I unzipped my dress (oh, the convenience of side-zippers) and let it fall to the floor.

  Mr. Tennant’s eyes didn’t move.

  “Come here,” I said softly, outstretching my hand. He took it carefully, pressing his mouth to my fingers.

  The bathroom was cold, and I kept the lights off. In the bedroom-area, the nightstand lamp left an ample, yet subtle amount of light to work with. Nothing too harsh or too bright.

  I turned on the water, let it warm, and stepped inside. Making a point to leave the door open, I let the water cascade down my hair.

  Mr. Tennant simply watched; periodically swallowing; his breath barely heard through the water and glimpses of Morrisey’s vocals.

  “Don’t take your clothes off,” I told him. “You aren’t allowed. You’re only allowed to look.”

  He stepped closer, beads of water catching on his skin; the heat from the stream and his body was nearly unbearable.

  “Oh, the things I would do to you,” he said quietly. Barely a sound.

  There I was, naked in front of him; the only thing I wore was the ring on my finger. We were wired like animals; famished and frantic as our hands grabbed clothed skin and bare skin and eventually it didn’t matter any more.

  “Try me,” I told him. “Anything you want. Except one thing.”

  He was already panting; chest heaving, on his knees and lips grazing over my thigh.

  “What is that?” he asked.

  “You can’t fuck me,” I said. “Not here. Not yet.”

  Every part of me stilled and stopped as Mr. Tennant picked me up, my arms and legs wrapping around him. I was dipping rain droplets everywhere; some of them hanging like dew on the strands of his hair. I kissed the wet spots, tasting the lukewarm water and the delicate skin of his neck.

  Patches of his clothes were soaked, my body was drenched in water, and even then there was nothing focused on other than the soft mattress bounce as he threw me down on the bed. I was totally exposed; every part of me; all sinking into silk beneath his gleaming eyes.

  “I love that I’m so exposed and you’re so clothed,” I said quietly, sitting up.

  Will pressed me back down on the bed; his first possessive gesture, and I loved it.

  He kissed me, catching my lip, and I already wanted every piece of him.

  When he knelt down between my legs, I was already gripping the sheets.

  “I’ve never done this before,” I told him, so soft I wasn’t sure that he’d heard me.

  “Close your eyes, then,” he instructed. His gaze, hooded and hazy, met mine before I finally did as he told. “God, you’re so beautiful.”

  His mouth trailed along the inside of my thigh; warm breath over the sharp rise of my hip bone, my pubic bone. He didn’t miss a single centimeter of skin, his tongue tracing over the milk-colored flesh like something decadent.

  He spread my legs further open, prompting me a with a gentle tone to relax. Relax my legs and relax myself. Take a deep breath.

  I fell further into myself; into the silk; into Will as his mouth pressed against the orchid-shaped sex between my thighs, working in delicate motion with his tongue. His hands traced down the plane of my legs as each breath quickened; my heart was snapped in half and yet still beating.

  I came in waves, in his mouth, blossoming for him in a way that I never had for a man or anyone else.

  When I opened my eyes, he was hovering over me; his hair hung with an angelic sweetness across his flushed face.

  He kissed me. I gasped again.

  “Lie down,” I told him.

  “Why?” he asked. I smiled, still riding the current of post-pleasure bliss.

  “Because I want to make you feel like that just felt,” I told him. “I want to do it my way this time.”

  He fell with his back against wet bedding, still soaked from my body that was damp from sweat. I smelled of him, earthy and fantastic.

  I slid his pants down slowly without bothering with the zipper, dipping my hand into his boxers and withdrawing his erection that was full and hot against my palm. It felt massive; slick and already slippery.

  His fingers touched my hair; my mouth finding him with an incredibly nervous, tentative desire. I had no idea what I was doing, but every bone in my body screamed to work on instinct.

  I let him lead; let him press his hands lightly to the back of my head, taking in just enough to prevent tears. He tasted like skin and salt, like the silk of his ties and shirts. There was a bitter sweetness as I wrapped my lips around him; something deliciously depraved and primal in the act.

  Each time he moaned, hands gripping my hair tight as rope, I knew I was doing something right; even if I couldn’t take all of him, consumed by nerves and a fear of choking - it was enough.

  His orgasm startled me; a firework of flashing lights and taste of salt and sea water filled my mouth.

  I froze, uncertain what to do. If I spit it out, I would look like a total fool. It might make for some comic relief; but, admittedly, I didn’t want laughter just then. I wanted to savor the music of his breath, the imagined snapshot of his eyes, all pupil, gazing down at me in the street-glazed light.

  So I swallowed, feeling it slide down my throat. I was all nerves – anxious, rattled, relieved all at once.

  I laid down next to him, and we gazed at each other in that painfully jam-colored room.

  With the track on repeat, Morrisey was still begging to get what he wanted.

  Water still stung the glass walls of the shower. A pleasant, rainfall sound.

  Beyond the windows, the city was still thriving; alive and living and engaged in all that our mindless human experience had to offer.

  Will kissed me, not caring what I tasted like. I kissed him, not caring what he tasted like. Our flavors mixed on our tongues and bodies; our scents on skin and clothing.

  His hand was still in mine, eyes on the ceiling.

  When we finally came down, we spent a while just talking. We talked a little about his family life (being the only child) about his past loves (of which there was only one) and what it felt like leaving home.

  Eventually we turned off the music and spent the last few moments in the dark hotel room; listening to the sounds of our breath and the unspoken acknowledgment that we could never walk away from any of this.

  I hung around his apartment for a little while when we returned. He made peppermint tea while I busied myself by looking at the clocks and the photographs; still wondering who the girl with the fair-brown hair was and deciding that I’d ask when it felt more proper. Besides, he hadn’t gone prying into my personal life.

  Eventually we said goodbye, holding hands and smiling like fools as the empty park serenaded us in the form of windblown swing sets.

  “I’ll see you in class, Mr. Tennant,” I told him.

  “I’ll see you on stage, Kaitlyn,” he said.

  Crumpled papers kicked up on the sidewalk; the breeze toyed with my hair.

  “How does it feel knowing that I’m everywhere you turn in that place?” I asked him.

  He smiled. Not a real one, but a practiced one. The smile of an actor.
<
br />   “You can’t even imagine.”

  I spent the entire cab ride with Morrisey soundtracking the brief journey from joyful rapture to skin-prickling despair. My father and Vivian weren’t home; the maids were long gone.

  Marius was in his bedroom, scribbling away in that leather-bound journal; his radio shook the walls with some foreign electric beat.

  When I knocked, he looked up.

  “Yes?” he asked, slamming the journal shut. “What do you want?”

  I can’t do this, I wanted to say. You win.

  His stare was irate, borderline frustrated; a distant door slammed shut, and I jumped, startled.

  Piper was standing behind me, wearing one of Marius’ shirts and nothing else.

  “Hi,” she said sweetly. I swallowed.

  “Hi,” I said. “And nevermind, it was nothing.”

  I returned to my room and closed the door slowly; sliding down to my knees and crumpling to the floor like a used tissue.

  I took a sharp breath, sighing deeply.

  Every inch of me still smelled of him.

  TWELVE

  April came with the frigid and familiar embrace of spring showers; more rain than would make for romantic stories or cinematic, rapture-worthy kisses. Everything was practically drowning in the downpours; kids scattering from their cars and into the theater or the front doors of Trinity Prep with their binders and folders used as make-shift shields.

  Tyler and I spent one of the sunnier days in the city. I stole a suit from Marius, and combed his hair to the side like a proper gentleman; Leonardo DiCaprio circa Titanic. We ran around Manhattan like two lost, screaming, jovial little kids. We went to dinner at a place with candles and white-tablecloth; Tyler smiled like I’d never seen him smile before as he carved into prime rib and roasted potatoes like it was the first sight of real food after months of fasting.

  For dessert, we scoured the different eateries and settled on this tiny French cafe with a patio. We ate chocolate and green-matcha macarons; doughnuts with pink frosting and custard filling; wiping our mouths and grinning with a glee that made me feel light and ethereal.

  “This is the best night ever,” he told me. “I’ve never lived like this before.”

  “You get used to it.”

  “People always say that,” he said. “You get used to opulence and beauty. But you know, I don’t believe it. I don’t think I would. I think I’d wake up everyday and see everything like it was brand new all over again.”

  I let him hold my hand in the theater, where above the ceiling was painted to look like the evening sky. We watched an old, flickering black-and-white film in a cinema that was inhabited solely by us.

  Beyond the span of space between sidewalks and billboards of models with sunken eyes and thin limbs, everyone came and went like moths; fluttering with invisible white wings towards that invisible white light that we were all searching for.

  I asked Tyler, while we stood like mayflies against the brick wall of a foreclosed bakery, what he was most afraid of.

  “Ending up like my mother,” he answered hastily. “What about you?”

  “Same,” I answered. “Probably the same.”

  Everything, the dulcet strum of day-to-day play practice and glossy-eyed blackboard stares in the classroom eventually merged into a kind of fast-forward as everyone started talking about Spring Break plans and the flowers started to bloom. Already, the roses in the garden had blossomed - and I plucked one, giving it to Mr. Tennant.

  His smile lit up like a thousand light-bulbs, and he decided to keep it on his desk. A few of the students asked about it; about whether or not he had a secret admirer, and he simply smiled; turning to the whiteboard, scribbling assignments and Nabokov-related quotes for the class discussion.

  Sometimes I’d write him little notes at the end of an essay or journal entry; little things like it’s not polite to stare or I can’t stop thinking about you. Our time together became more heated; frantic kisses before first bell, alone in the theater and concealed behind the curtain shadows. Saturdays spent sneaking away, even for less than an hour, all for the sake of finding a way into his arms that seemed to wrap around me so perfectly.

  The giant, golden clock ticked away. William Tennant kissed my throat. With my eyes on the window, I wondered how I’d be able to hold onto everything before something came crashing down. Before the incarnation was finally in my palms, and it was all over. The bet won, my prize claimed, my conscience irreparably shattered.

  Even if he never discovered the truth, would I ever be able to look at him the same way again? Would we even last that long?

  Statistically, no. In my grand, fabricated illusion - it would go on forever.

  For the first time, I felt exhilarated. All of it was almost enough for me to forget how Will had looked that night before I left his apartment; like his heart was twisting into knots. His eyes heavy and arms limp; an almost defeatist sort of look overcoming him.

  I believed that the weight of obligations could make you sick; I saw first-hand how Tyler’s mother looked. Tired, worn; even when she smiled, there was a similar pain to it all. Tyler confided that sometimes it left him awake at night, wondering if she was digging herself an early grave with all the things that life had piled onto her shoulders.

  It killed me, hearing him talk like that. But the only thing I could do was listen and try to distract him the best that I could. Distractions became key, vital. They became essential to keeping all of us alive.

  And of course, the production helped. Mr. Tennant had started with the props, and during practice we were surrounded by painted towers crawling with faux-vines and fuchsia-colored blossoms. We ran the balcony scene on an actual balcony, with Tyler climbing up the vines that were constructed with a surprisingly sturdy rope.

  When he kissed me, the noise in the room dropped to a note beneath silence. The world stopped; his hands, young and erratic, were warm as fire.

  Kissing Tyler was different than Will. While Tyler’s kiss felt like the impending explosion of a firework, Mr. Tennant’s mouth against mine was like oxygen drizzling from a cannula; enabling a deeper breath; giving me the sneaking suspicion that there was a deeper strength concealed somewhere amidst entrails and bone. It didn’t leave me hungry or breathless; I was alive. I was eighteen. I was voltaic and, at the core of it all, just a young girl reveling in the sweet comparison of two vastly different lips against my own.

  Measurements were taken for costumes; I envisioned Tyler and myself dressed in the old-garb of centuries past. Velvet and pearl-adorned caps and jewel-inlaid crosses hanging around my neck; my hair braided with golden ribbons.

  I danced with Tyler at the masked ball, and he tripped over my foot. The entire room laughed. We did, too.

  Mr. Tennant gave instructions, rehearsing lines with Tyler on the side while I sat in my seat and listened to one of Tyler’s favorite songs by this band I had previously never heard of. The song was called Angels on the Moon, and the title alone was enough to make me fall in love.

  Marius and Tyler practiced their swordplay. Sometimes Piper watched; and after she was gone and out of earshot, I’d remind Marius that he should probably stop fucking her, literally and figuratively, in a prompt sort of way.

  “Like you have any idea about how I feel about anything or anyone,” he said harshly. “Why don’t you focus on the more pressing matter at hand, like bagging Mr. Tennant.”

  His eyes followed me up the stage, where Tyler and I took a few words of advice from Will. Tyler absorbed them gratefully; eyes wide and brimming with the same awe and borderline infatuation as the rest of us. He adored Mr. Tennant.

  Everyone did. Trinity Prep had even taken to hanging his portrait with the rest of the more-esteemed faculty. His blurb next the photograph, engraved in gold plating, spoke of his accolades: Oxford, the Globe Theater.

  After-school hours were spent by myself; focusing on homework; listening to my father talk about business and branches and Yale. Wh
en Marius left to visit his father in Long Island, these discussions were even more difficult to avoid; so I became accustomed to turning on my auto-pilot. Dazed; listening but not really. Living, but more like floating.

  I was only really alive outside the garden gates. With Will, or Tyler. Away from the bullshit and decadence that had managed, much like stomaching spoonfuls of sugar, to make me sick.

  Still, I managed to walk through the corridors without any visions of Biblical destruction; a Noah-worthy flood or asteroid turning the stone-structure into rubble. I was becoming more and more aware; more lucid; more rooted to the ground than I had ever been before. I wasn’t so detached.

  The fantasies were slowly fading; replaced by something wonderful and real and exciting. Something worth waking up for; worth enduring the moments of in-between. Stuck in the classroom; my bedroom; the dining room table while my father drank liquor with his men in suits and Vivian left the house smelling continuously of honey and baby powder.

  And then, on one Friday morning, I decided that I was ready to make the final plunge. I would finally attempt to seduce – really seduce – Mr. Tennant. When it would happen, I wasn’t entirely certain. But it would be soon.

  First bell rang, and I left to attend all the classes that didn’t really matter to me - they were simply necessary. I spent these hours staring at the blackboard; listening to the sound of chalk move against grainy surface. Listening to the incoherent ramblings from the teacher who I had come to identify solely based on her over-stressed perm.

  In Literature, Mr. Tennant was all playful laughs and punk-rock music. He was drinking coffee and laughing with a few of the other students when I entered; the rose I’d given him was beginning to wilt. It rested in a separate coffee mug on his desk; the ceramic was painted with the very last line of The Great Gatsby.

  On his computer, he was playing The Smiths.

  There wasn’t much time to contemplate this, though. Tyler, who had taken the empty desk behind me, had started picking off pieces of notebook paper, rolling them into tiny balls, and pelting me in the back with them.

  “God, you’re so immature,” I said, grinning. We both laughed.