Broken Juliet

  “You know what I mean. Are you sleeping with anyone?”

  “No.”

  “Dating anyone?”

  He makes a noise that’s almost a laugh but not quite. “Cassie, if I was capable of dating someone, why the fuck would I have broken up with you?”

  The silence solidifies between us. It feels like we have so much left to say, but neither of us knows where to start.

  At last, he comes up with something appropriate. “Do you have any alcohol in your apartment?”

  “Yeah. Tequila. Or wine.”

  “Can I come in? I need a drink. Plus I don’t really feel like going home. If I have to spend another night in my apartment alone, I’ll . . .” He shakes his head. “If you don’t want me to, it’s fine.”

  I think of the way he separates himself in most social situations. Even when he started coming to parties again, he’d keep to himself. Was he just there to escape his solitude?

  Throughout this whole thing between us, at least I’ve had people to support me. Ruby, Mom, my classmates. Hell, even Ethan’s sister. My pride is mad at me for feeling sorry for him, but I can’t help it.

  “I could use another drink, too. If you want to come in, you can. I suppose.”

  He nods and tries to hide his half-smile. “I will, but please, stop begging. It’s embarrassing.”

  “What can I say? I don’t like drinking alone.”

  He turns to me, eyes almost black in the shadows of the car. “Me neither.”

  He lets out a breath before saying, “One drink, then I’ll be on my way.”

  Flutters tickle my stomach and then move lower. “Okay.”

  *

  I’m laughing so hard, I can barely breathe. Ethan’s in the same boat. He’s wheezing like a cartoon character. I don’t even know what we’re laughing about. This is surreal. After more than a year of bitterness and snark, how the hell did we get here?

  I topple to the side and collide with his shoulder. He leans back against the couch, and I’m so busy marveling over how stunning he is when he’s happy, my head slides down his arm and lands in his lap. We keep laughing. My head bounces off his stomach. It makes me laugh more. I sound deranged.

  He spills some of his drink and licks the liquid off his thumb and forearm before it can drip onto the carpet. I’m transfixed by the motion of his tongue. I want to find out if it tastes like tequila.

  He drops his head back and says, “I think we’re drunk.”

  “I think you’re right.”

  Gradually, our laughter dies down, and I flip onto my back and let my head nestle on top of his thigh. It feels strange to be with him like this, at such ease. Like these are versions of ourselves from an alternate universe in which things are totally different, and we’re both happy.

  I close my eyes and let myself enjoy it. I know this a stolen moment, but it’s exactly what I need right now.

  I feel his fingers stroke my hair away from my face, and I open my eyes to see him staring down at me. There’s an intensity in his expression that makes goosebumps flare across my skin. He threads his fingers through my hair, and everything seems to slow down. I inhale with effort.

  Within three seconds his fingertips have aroused me more than Nick could in three months. The box in which I’ve locked my passion shatters open.

  Ethan licks his lips. “I’m starting to think this was probably a bad idea. Being alone with you.”

  I’m mesmerized by the movement of his mouth when he talks. “Yeah. Probably.”

  “It’s easier when there are other people around. They distract me, you know? When it’s just us, it’s—”

  “Harder.”

  His expression softens. Fingers trail down my cheek.

  “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispers, like he’s afraid I’ll hear. “Every day I think that but can never tell you.”

  His touch is feather-light, but each stroke sinks into my bones. Sets them ablaze. “Why tell me now?”

  “Because I’m too drunk to stop myself. And because neither of us is likely to remember this tomorrow.”

  His chest rises and falls. His eyes are deep and needy. “I miss you, Cassie.”

  My heart races. I’ve wanted to hear that so many times, but now that he’s said it, I have no idea how to respond.

  He’s studying me. Trying to keep himself together. Seeing him like this instantly pulls me apart.

  I look away.

  He sighs. “On a scale of one to wanting-to-kick-me-in-the-balls, how much do you hate me for dumping you? Be honest.”

  I pick at the outer seam of his jeans. “Some days, I hate you lots. Most days, to be honest.”

  “And other days?”

  I run my fingernail down the stitching while ignoring how his thigh is tensing beneath my head.

  “Some days I . . .” He grazes his fingernails down the back of my neck and then up into my scalp. It makes a quake of shudders roll through me. “Sometimes I don’t feel like kicking you in the balls at all.”

  “What about right now?”

  I turn to face him as I fight the burn that’s rising up my chest and neck, and the hungry ache that’s pounding down low. “Right now, I have no idea how I feel.”

  He stares at me for a long time then nods and takes a mouthful of booze. He frowns at his glass.

  I sit up and wait for him to say something. He doesn’t. His knuckles go white as he grips his drink.

  “What are you thinking?”

  He shakes his head. “I’m thinking I really want to kiss you, but I can’t.” He gives a short laugh. “While I’m admitting stuff, that’s what I’m thinking pretty much every day. It’s fucking pathetic how often I fantasize about it. I thought I’d be over you by now, but I’m not.”

  His words floor me. So honest and unexpected. So similar to things I stop myself from thinking. I can’t respond. For once, he’s braver than I am. He looks as if he’s waiting for a response. He’s going to be sorely disappointed.

  At last he gives up. “So, care to tell me why you walked out of acting class today?”

  The question takes me by surprise. “Not really.”

  “I thought we were pretty good by the end.”

  “You were amazing.”

  “So, why did you walk out? You looked pissed.”

  I stop and think about it. It’s not easy to put my finger on it, but when I do, it’s so obvious.

  “For so long, I’ve tried convincing myself that we broke up because you were incapable of being truly intimate. Of letting your guard down. Then today in that scene with Connor, you did it. You were everything I knew you could be and more. Passionate. Brave. Loving. Patient. So open and strong. And I was so . . . jealous. And angry. I couldn’t cope. It made me even angrier that you could be like that with a guy you hate, and yet you couldn’t do it with me.”

  “Cassie, I was acting.”

  “No. You were living it. I’ve watched you hold yourself back in every acting class since our breakup. Today was different. You made a breakthrough. A huge one.”

  He downs the rest of his drink, pulls his legs up, and crosses them in front of himself. Then he levels me with the most direct look he’s ever given me.

  “You know why that scene worked so well today?” He takes a breath. “It worked because I imagined I was you, talking to me.”

  It takes me a moment to comprehend what he’s said, and even then, I think I have it wrong. “What?”

  He tugs on his hair. “I recalled all of those times you talked me through stuff. Tried to help me be strong. It seemed appropriate considering the text I had.”

  He shakes his head and fingers the hem of his jeans. “The funny thing is, I never thought I’d have the balls to be like that. Open to being hurt and not giving a shit. But when I did it today . . .” He slowly lif
ts his head and looks me in the eyes. “I could see how different things would be for me if I was. How much better they’d be.”

  He doesn’t say “With you” but I hear it in my mind.

  “I want to be like that,” he says softly. “Unafraid of being vulnerable. The strong one. I’m fucking ashamed of how weak I am. About so many things.”

  I’m stunned into silence. My heart pounds. He’s staring at me. Waiting for a reaction. He’s so close, but I want him closer.

  Seconds pass. Time stretches around us.

  He leans forward. Our legs are touching. Two layers of denim do nothing to insulate me from the effect of his body next to mine. Faces are close. It would be so easy to move forward. Brush against his lips. See if he still tastes as sweet as I remember.

  “Cassie . . .” The dark edge in his voice isn’t helping my restraint.

  I take a deep breath and dig for strength. “One of us should probably leave before we do something stupid.”

  He leans forward a fraction more and inhales. Then he closes his eyes for a second and says, “Yeah. I think you’re probably right.”

  With a grunt of frustration, he pulls back, stands, and walks unsteadily to the table. Then he puts his glass next to the bottle of tequila. When I stand and follow suit, I have to lean on the back of the chair to keep my balance. Gripping it also helps to stop me from launching myself at the gorgeous man beside me.

  Ethan stares for a moment before sighing and running his hand through his hair. “I can’t drive. Is it cool for me to sleep on the couch?”

  No. Get out before I mount you.

  “Sure.” I go to the linen closet and grab extra blankets and pillows before I dump them on the couch. He thanks me.

  “No problem.”

  We stand there for a moment, at a loss as to what to do. We both know this is a bad idea.

  This irresistible pull we’re feeling is exactly why we’ve avoided each other since the breakup. Sure, we’re now experts in ignoring our desire, but constantly living like that is exhausting.

  Soul destroying.

  My fear is telling me to run before it’s too late, but part of me is getting off on it. He makes me feel more alive than I’ve felt in months. The danger of him is part of it. This is why people jump out of planes and swim with sharks. To feel this muscle-trembling rush.

  Judging by how he’s staring at me, he feels the same way.

  “I should go to bed,” I say in barely a whisper.

  He nods but doesn’t look away. “Yeah. It’s late.”

  “So . . . sleep well.”

  “You, too.”

  I only get three steps away before his fingers close around my hand. He tugs on it. There’s hardly any pressure, but I move like he’s pulling me with a steel cable. I step into him, and when he wraps his arms around me, I press my cheek against his chest.

  “Cassie . . .”

  His breath comes out ragged and shuddery as he buries his head in my neck and sinks into me.

  So warm, he melts me.

  Our hearts thunder against each other, and right now, there’s only one thought inhabiting my head.

  Ethan.

  Bastard Ethan. Beautiful Ethan.

  My Ethan.

  Forever mine, regardless of whether we’re together or not.

  “Do you think we’re ready to be friends yet?” he whispers.

  “No.” What I’m feeling for him is in a different universe to friendship.

  “Me neither.”

  “One day?”

  “Stranger things have happened.”

  “Really?”

  He laughs as his arms tighten around me. “No. It’s highly fucking unlikely.”

  “We could pretend,” I say, not wanting to let go.

  He brushes his nose against my ear. “What do you think we’ve been doing all this time?”

  I nod.

  He strokes my back. Breathes against my neck. “I’ve thought about holding you a lot recently. I thought it would somehow feel different to how it used to, but you feel exactly the same.”

  “I’m not.”

  I can feel the weight of his guilt when he says, “I know.”

  I bring my hands down onto his chest. “You feel different, too. Hard.”

  “Yeah, ignore it. I’ve been like that since you and Miranda made out in acting class on Monday.”

  I laugh. “I was referring to your new boxing muscles.”

  He pauses. “Of course you were. Forget I mentioned the arousing lesbianism.”

  “You like that?”

  “No, I like pie. That was like a religious experience. It was one instance in which I was in complete agreement with Avery. You two should totally make out more often.”

  He lets me go, and when I step back, I immediately want to hug him again.

  “Don’t go to bed,” he says and takes my hand. “Stay for one more drink. Please. I’m too buzzed to sleep. I promise to keep my hands to myself and sit on the other end of the couch.”

  I grab the bottle and our glasses from the table. “I guess one more would be okay. We’re already drunk. What’s the worst that could happen?”

  *

  Even before I open my eyes, I can feel them aching. They throb slowly behind my lids. My stomach rolls and I press it against the warmth I’m holding, searching for relief.

  The warmth moans.

  I stop breathing. Acres of man-skin are pressed against me.

  Most definitely naked.

  I open my eyes to see Ethan, unconscious and unguarded, both arms wrapped around me, legs tangled between mine, parts of his body already awake and attentive even as he slumbers.

  No.

  God, no. We’re not that stupid. It was tequila, not a full-frontal lobotomy.

  I would never . . .

  And he definitely would never . . .

  Ethan moans again and rubs his erection against me.

  “Hmm. Cassie.”

  No, no, no, no.

  I try not to launch into a full-blown panic attack. I must still be dreaming.

  I close my eyes and breathe. It doesn’t help. The room smells like him. And me. And sex.

  Lots and lots of sex.

  Images of last night come back to me.

  Darkness and light. Long blinks and gentle touches. Fingers. Palms. Barely there. Tentative and surreal.

  Hair between my fingers. Hot breath on my neck. Then his mouth.

  Oh, Mary. His sweet, talented mouth. Silk lips. So soft at first, then ravenous. Cleansing all the bitter words from my tongue. Exorcising every sliver of restraint until all that’s left is primal, and desperate, and writhing.

  His thigh presses between my legs and I grind . . . and grind . . . and grind. All of him, hard and swollen.

  Floating. High on alcohol and sensation. More skin revealed. Clothes pulled. Half-naked stumbling.

  Panting breaths against my ear, begging me to tell him to stop. Pleading for strength. Praying to be inside me.

  The weight of him, heavy and electric. Stirring all my synapses. Transforming everything he touches into insatiable flesh. Mouth and fingers all over me. Making me crazy. A frenzy of wrongness and “God, yes” and please, please, please.

  And then he’s inside me.

  I can barely comprehend the pleasure.

  I sigh and pant and very nearly cry.

  He’s gentle. Holding still and swearing.

  He bites my shoulder. Kisses it better. Groans like he’s riding an angel all the way into the pits of hell.

  I can’t get enough.

  God, please, Ethan, move. Thrust. Let me feel the perfect deepness of you. Sliding home and rolling through me.

  There are strong arms and low moans, and he feels amazing after all this
time. He fits perfectly to my body. Plays its rhythms. Hits every beat until everything is wire-tight and singing.

  The couch, the floor, the hallway, the wall, the bed. Time and again he fills and refills me. Guides me through every type of ecstasy there is. Shows me all of its gasping forms. Just when I think we’re done, he touches me again and the fire roars back to life.

  In the end, we collapse, exhausted. I fall asleep smiling. Refusing to think about what morning will bring.

  I open my eyes and stare down at Ethan.

  Already, my chest is tightening.

  What we did, what we shared last night, doesn’t fix anything. Not one of his issues.

  If anything, it complicates things even more.

  We tried to suppress our passion, but it wouldn’t be denied. It brought us together with longing and loneliness. Stripped away our anger and common sense and doused us in lust.

  Then it lit a match and danced as we burned.

  Even now, everywhere he touches me blazes to life. I should climb out of bed and wash away every trace of him. Try to forget how incredible he felt.

  But I can’t move. Can’t bear to drag myself away.

  Then he opens his eyes and looks at me. Panic fires in his expression. He looks down at himself, naked and hard, then takes in the catastrophe of clothing littering the floor and bed, and frowns. When he sees the slew of condom wrappers strewn across the nightstand, comprehension and disbelief dawn behind his bloodshot eyes.

  “Fuck, Cassie.”

  “Seems like you’ve been there, done that. Now what?”

  FIFTEEN

  JUST SEX

  Sex is a primal, ancient instinct stamped into every corner of our DNA. We must screw to survive.

  It’s instinctual. Simple. Except when it’s not.

  After the initial shock of waking up together wears off, Ethan and I talk. Agree that it was a mistake. That it was the tequila. That we can’t and shouldn’t do it again.

  Ever.

  Then we screw two more times and fall asleep in each other’s arms.

  Yep.

  Simple, this is not.

  Several hours later, we make it as far as the front door. He’s wearing clothes, and I’m wearing a robe. His hair is ridiculous. Mine is even more so. I look like Hagrid if he’d been electrocuted in a wind tunnel. Ethan’s looking at me as if he’d like to do very bad things to Hagrid.