by Leisa Rayven
I walk faster. “I’d rather stick needles in my eyeballs than have to pretend to be in love with you, but I’m going to do it because this production accounts for forty percent of our acting grade for the semester, and you will not screw with my GPA!”
“I wouldn’t dream of it, princess. After all, you’d probably just bitch about it in your diary.”
“Yeah! I probably would!”
“You know,” he says while striding easily beside me and my scrambling legs, “millions of people survive their whole damn lives without writing about their sexual fantasies and innermost thoughts in a book that anyone can find and read. You should try it!”
“As soon as you saw what it was, you should have stopped reading!”
“Oh, right, like it was possible to stop reading when I saw you were talking about my cock!”
I stop dead and punch him in the arm.
“Ow! Fuck!”
“This is not my fault! Screw you!”
He grabs my arms and pulls me toward him. “Well, according to your diary, that’s exactly what you need. Is that where all this aggression is coming from? You’re angry I didn’t kiss you the other day and you need to ride my dick for a while?”
“God, you’re an asshole!”
“I notice that wasn’t a ‘no’!”
I instinctively go to hit him, but he grabs my wrist and holds it tight.
“Wrong part of my body to put your hands on, sweetheart. Don’t you want to give some relief to the part of me that’s been hard as fuck ever since I read your stupid diary? Don’t you want to feel the hell you’re putting me through? You want to touch a cock so much? Go right ahead. Put your fucking hands on me and put me out of my misery.”
I wrench my wrist free.
“You’re disgusting,” I say before walking away.
“So that’s a no to the hand job then?!” he calls after me.
I get away from him as fast as I can, and when I turn the corner, I see him still standing where I left him, his head bowed and his hands in his hair.
I walk home on trembling legs, and it’s only when I get inside my bedroom and slam the door that I realize my eyes are wet.
SEVEN
POINT OF NO RETURN
Present Day
New York City
Graumann Theater Rehearsal Room
Day Four of Rehearsals
I’m biting my fingernails. I’ve pretty much destroyed all of them and have moved on to the rough skin of my cuticles. It doesn’t help with my nerves, but it stops me from pacing.
Marco is talking to Ethan. Taking him through the scene.
My stomach lurches with a combination of nausea and irrational anticipation. It makes me want to barf up my lunch.
Marco talks quietly, but I can hear every word.
“Sarah is here to confront you about why you’re pushing her away. Her mother has revealed she’s not the small-town girl you thought she was, and in the process, it’s made you feel like you’ll never be good enough for her. Deep down you’ve always believed this was too good to be true, and now all your doubts have been confirmed.”
Ethan nods as he frowns in concentration. His arms are crossed over his chest. Defensive stance.
He glances at me, then back to Marco, his face stone.
I’ve run out of cuticles. I need a cigarette, but I have no time.
“I want to feel that you think she’s better off without you, but it’s killing you. Understand?”
He nods and his leg judders.
He’s nervous.
Good.
“Cassie?”
My turn.
Marco comes over and puts his arm around me. “You’re confused by Sam’s behavior. You love him, and you don’t care how different your backgrounds are. He seems to have given up, but you want him to fight. Yes?”
I nod. It makes me dizzy. I want to sit down.
“This is where we feel your desperation. You haven’t seen him for days. All you want is for him to stay, okay?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
I sound more sure than I feel. He trusts me to do my job. I don’t want to let him down.
“Take a few minutes to prepare, then we’ll take it from Sarah’s entrance.”
Prepare? How the hell do I prepare for this? To feel these incredibly personal, relevant things? To kiss him?
I pace. I want to find my character, because she’s the insulation between fantasy and reality. But all I find is me. My hurt. My confusion.
I close my eyes and breathe. Long, measured breaths in through my nose, out through my mouth. I try to imagine a white sheet on a clothesline, blowing in the breeze. It’s my focus.
Today I can’t get it. The image is blurry and inconstant, like a TV channel I can’t tune.
My eyes are still closed when I hear footsteps. Then heat is in front of me, and I know he’s staring.
“What?” I ask, eyes still closed. I try to hold on to my focus. It shimmers like a mirage.
“Do you want to talk about anything?”
“Actually, yes. I have this weird burning sensation whenever I pee. What does it mean?”
I keep my breathing steady.
He sighs. “I meant about the scene.”
“I know what you meant.”
“Of course you did.”
“Let’s just get it over with and see what happens.” If I run screaming from the room, then I’ll deal with it.
“Are you sure about that?”
I’ve never been less sure of anything in my life.
I open my eyes. “Fine. What do you want to say?”
He shoves his hands in his pockets. “Where do I fucking start?”
I wait. I know he’s thinking, because he looks like he’s in pain. Some things never change.
“Cassie, don’t you think it’s insane that we haven’t spoken about any of the crap that’s gone down between us, and in just a few minutes I’m going to be kissing you?”
“No, you’re not,” I say.
“Yes, I am. It’s in the script.”
“What I mean, dumbass, is that Sam is going to be kissing Sarah. You and I will be elsewhere, right?”
He takes a step forward, and I resist retreating. I don’t do that anymore.
His body heat burns through my clothes. As much as I don’t want to look into his eyes, he doesn’t give me much choice.
“We both know it doesn’t work like that,” he says so softly only I can hear. “As much as we want it to be the character’s emotions, it’s still going to be my arms around you, and my mouth on yours. Now, I feel pretty weird about that considering all our baggage could fill a goddamn department store, but since you seem cool not discussing anything, let’s crack this fucking thing open and see what falls out.”
His ability to make me viciously angry within thirty seconds is remarkable. He wants to talk now because it suits him?
The only thing worse than his ability to make relationship decisions is his sense of timing.
“You had three years to talk,” I say. “But the only time you’d contact me was when you were drunk and unintelligible.”
“That’s not true. The e-mails—”
“Were full of mind games and pathetic attempts to get me to chase you … again. They were vague and self-pitying, and not once did you apologize, you arrogant bastard.”
“Is everything all right?” Marco calls to us. We plaster fake smiles on our faces and nod.
“We’re fine,” Holt says, voice tight. “Just workshopping some ideas.”
“Excellent. Let’s get started, then.”
Holt turns back to me, but I’m done with this conversation.
“Let’s just get it done,” I say, not in the mood to be in the same room with him, let alone play a love scene. “Grab your script, and let’s go.”
He laughs, but the sound is hollow. “I don’t need a script for this scene.”
“No, I don’t suppose you do.”
We take
our starting positions on opposite sides of the space.
Marco claps his hands to silence the room. “Okay, when you’re ready, Cassie.”
I enter the space, more angry than I should be at this point in the play, but fuck it. I’ll take the anger and make it work.
We play the scene, strong words and bitter emotions parrying between us. I circle him. He keeps his distance. Hurt and evasive.
He’s nailing it.
“Do you honestly think we stand a chance?” he asks. I can feel his intensity from across the room. “We don’t. You know it. I know it. Your country club bitch of a mother knows it, and she’s the only one with enough guts to say it out loud. Stop fighting the inevitable. The inevitable always wins.”
My voice is small but simmering. Anger floods me. He’s wrong. As usual.
I crawl into Sarah’s skin and make her reactions mine. “When did you become such a coward?”
“About the same time I found out I knew nothing about you.”
“You do know me! You know the only things that are important.”
“Bullshit! I knew the person you were pretending to be, and lady, you’re one hell of an actress. You had me completely fooled.”
The room is humming with tension. He’s looking for an out. I’m not going to give it to him.
I step closer. “Sam, I know you love me. I know it like I know the sky’s blue and the world’s round. If you leave now, you’ll wake up in five years and wonder what the hell you’ve done, because people search their whole lives to find what we’ve got, and you’re throwing it away. Don’t you see that?”
My anger is filling the air, making it thick and hard to breathe.
He can’t even look at me. A wounded animal about to go to ground.
“I can’t be your project, Sarah. I’m not something you can fix.” He turns to leave.
“Wait!” The torment in my voice stops him. “You were never a project to me. And you’re not leaving until you tell me you don’t love me.”
His shoulders slump, and he mutters a curse word.
“Say it!”
He turns. His expression is full of conflict. Brimming with pain.
“If you want to ruin us,” I say, my voice tremulous, “then at least do the job right.”
He’s struggling, but I won’t back down. “Say it.”
He takes a breath. “I don’t love you.”
I can practically hear his heart cracking through the pain in his voice.
I order him to say it again. He does, but quieter. I’m breaking him, so he can’t walk away. He has to stay and be broken with me.
I tell him to say it one more time, and he can barely breathe with the effort. “I … don’t … love you.”
His attention is focused on the floor. Shattered.
“Do you believe it yet?” I ask.
When he looks at me with eyes full of agony and saltwater, I feel like I’m drowning.
“No,” he says, and before I have time to think, or prepare, or run, he’s striding toward me, and his hands are on my face. His touch makes me gasp. As the air rushes into my lungs, he covers my mouth with his.
Everything explodes. My body and mind seize. Senses overload, and three years disappear in a blinding millisecond.
His lips are just as I remember. Warm and soft. Delicious beyond words. He inhales sharply, and his hands tighten, one on my cheek, the other at the back of my neck. He makes a small sound in his throat, and heats flood me. My body is against his, and my hands are in his hair, and every single reason I should stay away melts as our mouths open to each other.
It’s rough and desperate and full of passion I don’t want to feel. But this … this is where all the best memories of him live.
This is what we should have been. Always. Mouths and hands on each other, breathing each other’s air. Reveling in our soul-deep connection, not running from it.
His hands trail over a trembling body that hasn’t felt this fire for far too long.
This is why I haven’t had a long-term relationship for the past three years. It’s why I sleep with men once and never call them again. Because they don’t feel like this.
I desperately want someone else to ruin me the way he does, but they don’t even come close. This is the first time I’ve truly felt aroused since he left, and I hate myself for it.
I pull my mouth free and manage to gasp, “Ethan,” before he mumbles, “God … Cassie,” and kisses me again.
My body can’t get enough of him, even if my brain knows it’s wrong. Every part of me craves him.
The noises he’s making are plaintive and desperate. Hands pull me closer. Arms wrap around.
I can’t believe that in the world of wrong we’ve created together, this can still feel so right.
“Okay, that’s enough,” Marco says before clearing his throat. “Let’s stop there before we need to get you two a room. Good job. Excellent chemistry.”
The spell is broken, and as I pull back, Holt’s eyes snap open. “Cassie …”
I push him away. He can’t kiss me like that and say my name with that tone, and completely own me without my fucking permission. He steps forward, but I can’t cope anymore. Before he can touch me again, I slap him.
He steps back, his expression so confused that for few seconds, I feel bad for doing it.
I shouldn’t. This is his fault. He knows what sort of power he has over me. He counted on it, and he exploited it. Now my body is pounding and aching. Needing him in ways I can’t deal with.
I hate that he can still make me feel like this. That with one kiss, he can demolish every single defense mechanism I’ve ever had against him.
I hate him for doing it, but I hate myself more for wanting him to do it again.
Six Years Earlier
Westchester, New York
The Diary of Cassandra Taylor
Dear Diary,
After all the crap he’s put me through in the past two weeks, Holt admitted he was attracted to me.
Well, he said reading my diary made him hard, which I guess is the same thing.
Why do I even care? He’s a rude, egotistical, apology-phobic ass, and nothing good would ever come of us hooking up. Except maybe some mind-blowing sex.
Oh, the sex. I can just imagine.
I can’t deny it anymore. I want him, even though he drives me insane.
And now that I’ve admitted that to myself (and to you, dear diary), I’m absolutely terrified he’s going to read this, because according to him, it’s inevitable. As soon as I write down something highly mortifying, the universe is going to find a way to let him see it.
Well, in that case: Hey, Holt! Yeah, you diary-reading jerk! I want to grope you. Wanna have angry sex and blow my horny, virginal mind?
I drop my pen and rip the page out of my diary before scrunching it up and throwing it at the trash can. It bounces off the edge and joins the other seven balled-up pieces of paper littering the floor.
“Fudging corksucker!” I launch my diary across the room, and it hits the door with a loud thud. I flop back onto my bed and throw my arm over my eyes.
It’s no use. I can’t write in my diary anymore. He’s ruined the ritual of it, because I can’t get past the terror that he’ll read it again. The one thing that helped me make sense of my ridiculous feelings for him is now unavailable, and that sucks beyond all words.
“Cassie?” There’s a knock at the door, and Ruby’s head appears. “You okay?”
“No,” I say before rubbing my face and sighing.
“Holt?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“He’s playing Romeo. I’m Juliet. We got into a fight.”
“About the diary?”
“Among other things.”
“Still no apology?”
“Of course not. Plus, he practically demanded I give him a hand job.”
“That’s not cool. He should have at least said ‘please.’” She walks o
ver and sits on the edge of the bed. “You know he likes you, right?”
“I don’t care.”
“Yes, you do. You like him back.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Sometimes liking someone has nothing to do with what you want and everything to do with what you need.”
“Ruby, he’s a dick.”
“You’re passionate about him.”
“We’d be terrible together.”
“Or wonderful.”
I exhale and sit up. “So what are you saying?”
“I’m saying you should make a move.”
I rub my eyes. “God, Ruby, no. We just don’t mesh. It’s like we’re oil and vinegar. No matter how much we shake each other up, we’re never going to blend.”
“Cassie,” she says, giving me her best heed-the-pearls-of-wisdom-I’m-about-to-impart expression, “you forget that even though oil and vinegar don’t blend, they still make delicious salad dressing.”
I narrow my eyes. “Okay, that makes zero sense.”
She sighs. “I know. I’m sorry. I had nothing. Still, salad dressing is delicious. My point is this: You should fuck Holt. It’d be yummy.”
I look at her in shock. “What?! I should … what? I mean … I can’t even comprehend—”
“Don’t you dare tell me you’ve never thought about jumping that boy’s bones, because I know you have.”
I slump and pout. “Okay, fine, I’ve thought about it. Doesn’t mean I’d actually do it.”
“Need I remind you that you dry-humped him shamelessly when you were drunk? And from all reports, he wasn’t complaining.”
“That doesn’t count.”
“You rubbed your girl flower on his love muscle, Cass. It counts.”
I pull my hair over my eyes and groan. “Ruby …”
She parts my hair and glares at me. “Cassie, you’re obviously hung up on this guy. You’re going to have to deal with whatever’s bubbling between you before you both have a complete meltdown. You can’t go on with all this unresolved sexual tension. It’s not healthy. I vote for fucking him until you both can’t stand, but hey, that’s just me.”
I grunt in frustration and flop back onto my bed.