Star-Crossed

by Luna Lacour

  “You sound groggy,” he said. “What’s wrong?”

  My forehead was pressed against dirty glass; the city buzzed by like a film-strip, gray and gritty and grimly glorious.

  “I’m just getting used to consequence,” I said. Then we hung up.

  Watching Tyler graduate was probably the second best thing ever to be tied to Trinity Prep; it was heartbreaking and wonderful all at once. I helped him with his cap and gown, and sat with his parents in the packed auditorium; glad, given the way things ended, that the lights were focused on the stage.

  The gossip, as I could have only assumed, didn’t come to a halt when I walked out the doors and assumed a new life outside of the one I had known for eighteen years. The comments ranged from mild, soft laughter – soft whispers - to full-on fabrications of an unplanned pregnancy and shot-gun wedding. Mr. Tennant and I, runaway lovers; destined for somewhere with sprawling hills and tie-dyed skies.

  Some of it was darker, of course; I had been groomed and taken advantage of. He had hit me, raped me. He was a horrible, terrible man.

  Nobody really knew the truth. Not even Tyler’s parents; he swore with a great confidence that there would be no confessing my withered affair.

  “This is probably the biggest thing I’ve ever kept from them,” he said carefully. “But I’ll do it for you. As long as you figure something out for yourself, I’ll keep your filthy, blood-soaked laundry hidden.”

  Tyler often told me, after arriving home, that there was something new circulating the halls. That they had taken Mr. Tennant’s photograph off the walls; that, due to a barrage of student complaints, even the posted acclaim from our production of Romeo and Juliet had been removed from the hallways.

  No trace of Will existed. No trace, except for the remaining sighs. The faint, low-eyed girls with their buckled knees and their silent wishing that maybe, just maybe, it could have been them. He was the unrequited fantasy; the most desired face and body that had and likely ever would walk through those doors.

  I had taken away their most precious thing; and from that loss spewed nothing but an unrelenting hurricane. In the halls, he was nothing but a predator. A horrible, debauched human being that preyed on young, unsuspecting girls. He had no emotions, no real claim to make for himself; he was simply a carbon-cutout of the classic, tell-tale demon.

  I was, too. Their descriptions of me, written and then thoroughly scrubbed from the bathroom stalls, were slightly more creative.

  “Do they hate me?” I asked Tyler, as he was straightening his tie. He looked at me, half-smiling. “Am I safe to return for the sake of pomp and circumstance?”

  Tyler chuckled, shaking his head.

  “Yeah,” he said. “They hate you. But they hate him, too. It’s pretty ugly.”

  Mr. Whitman handed out diplomas after several of the heavily-ornamented students gave their introductory speeches. Piper, as I could have only imagined, was the Valedictorian.

  The names were called, one by one. When Tyler stood, taking his diploma with that classic, copyrighted smile, I clapped and choked back a few tears. Most were from my own happiness that I felt for him; some, in truth, were for myself.

  Marius didn’t walk with the class - he had been expelled, too. We had been picked off, one by one. Plucked like dandelions. Will, Marius, myself.

  But we all deserved it, didn’t we?

  TWENTY-TWO

  Summer arrived on cue: a barrage of bikinis and beer bongs; evenings on the pier, spilling liquor and popcorn on blackboard asphalt. Hot afternoons were spent sitting in a stale classroom; head reclined on a warm palm, fingers digging into my skin. A pencil hanging, limp as a cigarette. The walls crawled with white-brick and graffiti art. Occasionally I dozed off, woken by a fellow student tapping me on the shoulder; a mocking jeer.

  Hot evenings were spent on Coney Island, filling plastic cups with tonic and spilling ice chips; flipping burgers and scribbling orders on paper notebooks that also served as napkins; everything splattered with grease.

  It was disgusting. It was liberating.

  Since losing Will, I had become fond of terrible pop songs that seemed to depict everything so perfectly. I loved them in the same way that I hated them; it was like candy, like junk. Like something sweet even if it wasn’t wholesome or necessarily good. Britney Spear’s Everytime followed me along as I sifted through the strange faces, all splattered in neon-glowing paint and drunk smiles. Everything hung heavy with bonfire smoke, cigarette smoke; the fumes of sex and heavy hearts.

  I cried several times. Twice in public. But people didn’t care; they simply kept on walking, swept up in their own lives that seemed, I’m sure, just as silver-screen worthy as my own. Only one boy seemed to mind; a shirtless boy with cornrows and gold teeth and a dragon tattoo that danced up his arm. He handed me a napkin and muttered: don’t be sad, pretty girl.

  On some evenings, I’d roll up the hem of my second-hand jeans and walk along the beach, watching the kids as they tilted back beers and smashed the bottles on the ground. They blared their heavy punk or hip-hop like the angry, savage words were some kind of transcendental love song. Women flocked to the boys, intrigued by the bonfires and music; enticed by the promise of a free buzz. Many of them wore glow-in-the-dark necklaces on their heads like halos. The boys wore only shorts and backward hats; their smiles glowed under a black-light moon.

  We were all angels in this place. Only I was missing mine.

  I tried to move on by changing a few things; my hair, for starters. A girl in my class; this gorgeous, chocolate-eyed beauty from Columbia, bleached the front strands of my hair, then colored them pink. She played with hair and makeup in her spare time; she wanted to go to cosmetology school.

  She had dreams, just like the rest of us.

  Tyler hated my hair, saying it looked trashy. I kept touching the strands in the full-length mirror, ignoring Ty’s twisted grimace in the reflection.

  “I love it,” I said. “I feel brand new.”

  I let one of the boys from my summer class take me out. We bought pizza at this little eatery around the block from Will’s apartment, and I let him hold my hand even though his fingers were uncomfortably cold. He was a tall, with a brush of auburn curls and a vividly-bright smile. Slate-gray eyes with premature crows-feet that crinkled when he grinned. I asked him why he was finishing his degree at the community college, and he answered, totally frank:

  “Just lazy, I guess.”

  A fair enough answer; certainly honest enough. I never told him my history. A part of me felt like he hadn’t earned it; we only share our darkest demons with the people that we feel can somehow identify. Because they have them, too.

  The beginning was long gone. The early mornings spent lying around in the garden, watching the roses shrivel - and then, eventually, bloom. There were no more notable items in my closet; name-brand things with extravagant price-tags. No maids; no helping hands to dress me or make my meals so that my own hands stayed clean. No more masquerades, evening gowns, or masks to hide behind.

  There was only the faint smell of wet pavement and hot ash; the sky was skewered by the city lights.

  There was only me, standing on the sidewalk, barely a stone’s throw away from Will’s apartment, looking down at my shoes while a strange boy peered down at me; his hands framing my face, fingertips running over my cheeks and mouth.

  When he leaned down to kiss me, I tilted my head, just centimeters, to the side. He kissed my cheek, drew away, and appeared unsettled.

  “Did I do something wrong?” he asked quietly. “I just – I like you.”

  “I know,” I said. “I had fun tonight. I did. You seem like a great guy.”

  “But?”

  I sat down on the steps, let my body fall.

  “There is no but,” I said. “I had a nice night with you, but I’m not looking for anything heavy. I’m sorry if you feel misled.”

  He did; it was obvious in his reaction. He tried to apologize, then appeared as if h
e didn’t owe me an apology, and then finally just settled on seeing me in class.

  I raised my hand, attempted a half-hearted wave, and was relieved to see him go.

  The park was mostly empty as I walked along the sidewalk; a few children were playing, clambering over one another on the grass while parents watched idly. It was a warm night, the kind that sticks to your clothes, and I could feel it.

  I swung around the corner, walking towards Will’s apartment with the intent of shooting straight past, hailing a cab, and going home.

  But there was a figure that made me pause; the only thing that possibly could.

  Will.

  Will was sitting on the steps; leaning forward, listening to music as he, much like myself, watched the ongoings amidst trees and swing-sets.

  He seemed almost fascinated. Envious, maybe, that there were children finally playing in the park. But he had no excuse to join their antics; nobody to play with.

  We never really grow up, I realized. Our bodies simply age.

  It took him a moment before he noticed me; his arms were crossed, and he wore the same purple Burberry shirt that he’d worn the afternoon of our hotel escapade. His hair was a mess of beautiful dark waves.

  Finally, much like the very first I had went to his apartment, I revealed myself beneath a streetlight; a small smile, a stuttering heartbeat.

  At first, Will frowned; his eyebrows sunk, his lips pressed together tightly. But he didn’t move, nor did he say anything.

  I sat down beside him, and again, no movement. He looked deeply conflicted, as if he wanted to say something; as if he wanted to address the fact that I had gone ahead and done the exact thing he’d told me not to: come around. Find him again.

  Silently, he handed me one of the earbuds, and motioned for me to listen. I placed it in, he replayed the track, and together we simply sat and listened.

  That was it. I was sitting next to him; ripped jeans, a plain white undershirt that was a size too big. My sleeves were rolled up to the shoulders, revealing my arms that were marked with small scars from a grease splatter; the fabric was just thin enough to glimpse the bra I was wearing beneath. But there was nothing intentionally seductive to the whole ensemble; it was just what I had to work with.

  Will was looking at my hair when I turned to him; his fingers grazed over the pink streaks with a nervous wonder.

  The Smiths played along with the silent viewing of playful, elated children. It was borderline Catcher-esque, the sight of it all. Each one of my heartstrings, one by one, tightened and tremored.

  A silent tear fell. First one, then another, as Morrisey crooned on about wanting the things he’d never had before. I wanted what I didn’t have, too.

  He was sitting right next to me.

  I felt his hand touch mine; a tender, gentle gesture. His fingers closed around my palm, pulling me up with him. He didn’t speak, but instead opened the door and led me inside; the familiar golden beacon pouring over the blue cement. A sudden blanket of warmth; painfully, wondrously familiar.

  We walked up the steps, he unlocked his door, and I went in first. The mess that had been left before was now cleaned up; no traces of splintered glass, no broken clocks. And yet that wasn’t all, either. All the clocks had been removed from the wall; it was utterly bare, and totally barren save for the few marks that had been left behind.

  I took a step further in, glancing around. It was then that I noticed it wasn’t just the clocks; everything was sealed up, stowed away.

  Boxes lined the floors; a roll of clear tape sat on the coffee table. The midnight-blue settee was littered with newspaper; all of his beautiful little nonsensical items carefully wrapped. Old books sat in tall stacks, scattered all over the floor.

  A hand touched my shoulder; fingers curved around the bone. A series of breaths kissed my hair, each inhale sharper than the next.

  His lips first kissed the top of my head; innocent, sweet, warm. One half of me was puzzled; uncertain if this was something I should let happen. A soft kiss, or the gentle clutching of his fingers as they gripped my sleeve and exposed the nape of my neck.

  Burning lips, a single kiss. Nothing hard; just painful heat.

  I closed my eyes; my breath dropping a decibel, shallow as death. Silent as the still and voiceless items that we were surrounded by.

  Will turned me towards him, running a finger down a flushed, tear-stained cheek. I felt bitten and exposed; vulnerable and savage all at once.

  There was still a look of suffering in his eyes; he simply held it, cradling it in his arms silently. Neither of us had said a word to each other. Nothing had been spoken yet.

  But we didn’t need to.

  His thumb skimmed over my lips, his hand down my throat; his fingertips fell slowly down my chest, in between my breasts, down the slope of my stomach. He took a step closer, raising my arms and tugging the shirt from over my head. It caught my hair, a gentle snag. A welcomed pain.

  I watched him, wide-eyed, as he took off his own shirt, throwing it to the floor. My heart was a rhythmic drum as he kicked off his shoes, and I threw off my sandals, and the both of us slid out of our jeans.

  What followed seemed to happen in a series of clipped events: his scooping me into his arms, my legs wrapping around his waist. My knocking into the wall and stilling, just briefly, as Will locked eyes with me again.

  Say something, I thought. Say anything.

  This wasn’t how it was going to be. It maimed and excited me all at once; I was drugged by his touch, and marred by his silence.

  Our mouths met; hard, deep kisses. Will pushed me harder against the wall, his hands framing my face and eyebrows raised in devouring expectation.

  He carried me into the bedroom, sprawled me out on the cold sheets, and stripped off my underwear. I watched in insufferable, throbbing anticipation as they peeled slowly down my thighs, dangling from one foot. I sat up, yanking his boxers down, and he pushed me backward.

  We were naked in the dim room; everything was blanketed in a fog of temporarily subdued torment and Cimmerian shade. His cologne was his own scent; nothing was masked; everything, every drop of sweat, bled into my skin. Into my pores. Each breath seeped into me; a sustaining torture.

  He was already hard; my fingers wrapped around the length of him, drawing him into me. I watched his lips part, his discretion slowly fall.

  We collapsed into each other, his movements deliberately slow. He sank each inch into me, refusing to slide out as he thrust. Will stayed inside, moving like the soft, steady rocking of a lullaby.

  We interlaced fingers, he kissed me. I raised my hips to let him sink in even deeper, biting back the subtle tinge of pain. Almost too much, yet never enough.

  I loved each sound he made; each soft moan, each gasp. As he started thrusting harder, I loved how he closed his eyes, and burrowed his face into my neck as if looking at my own would have caused him to lose it. But he never unlocked his hand from mine; his grip tightening, my body beginning to spread with that first blossoming of warmth.

  It was a slow orgasm; a perfect unfolding of myself into Will. I was glad he didn’t come right away; my heavy, drunken state allowing me to watch him move with a blissful contentment. He came with a frantic thrust, a soft hiss, a low moan.

  Our hands unlocked, our eyes met. A trail of fire erupted in my chest, singeing my bones; setting every part of me aflame.

  We didn’t break the silence in words. Will still didn’t speak, and I didn’t know what I could possibly say; we were never so close and yet so completely apart. Our unclothed bodies separated by a blade of shadows.

  “Where do you go at night?” he asked quietly. The first words spoken since I had seen him on those steps. “Why did you come here again?”

  He remained hovering above me; his arms taut, strained.

  “I went out with someone,” I confessed. “But it was nothing, I swear.”

  The look on his face was enough for me to contemplate stepping out in front of a movi
ng train.

  “I need something to help me forget you,” I said. “You’re everywhere I walk. You’re in each set of eyes I meet; every hand I touch, every small smile as I’m scanning faces in a crowd. You’re all of them. Give me a sea of strangers, and all I’ll see is you.”

  I broke down in slow-motion; my throat tightened, a small sob escaped, eyes closed, my vision became blurred.

  “And now you’re leaving.”

  Will rested his head against my chest; his eyes fell to the empty wall on which our shadows were only visible through a slant of moonlight through the open window.

  “I need to find a way to forget you,” he said wearily, strained. “I want to forget you.”

  “Do you mean that?”

  Water pooled and spilled down my stomach; a soft inhale, a shuddering breath. He was crying.

  “Yes,” he said. “I need to forget you.”

  He wiped his nose with a bare wrist, covered his eyes with his hands. Will couldn’t look at me, and I couldn’t look at him.

  On the nightstand sat the ring; the chain was coiled around it, as if Will had been holding the thin string with a tight fist. It was knotted, tangled.

  I picked it up and held it in my palm, my face still burning, every bone cracking beneath the skin. My heart felt as if it had been stitched in two, and the seams were slowly fraying. Forcibly being tugged apart.

  “Where do you plan on going?” I asked.

  “Home,” he said. “I’m going home.”

  He was leaving the country; we would be severed by an entire ocean. The distance, the hours; the unavoidable reality that we would become nothing but vague memories to one another. Eventually we would blur, shift, bleed out like old watercolors that are eventually replaced with something vibrant and new. With something real.

  I took the ring, leaned towards the window, and let it fall from my hand. Will watched me, unmoving and yet completely horrified.

  There was the faint sound of metal against metal; a gentle ting. I glanced out the window, and saw that, perhaps by the grace of God, it had fallen into a vent. There was no retrieving it; no frantic scramble to locate where it had landed.