Ethan takes a sip of champagne and nods at the woman talking to him.
I can’t stop watching him. “No. Not together.”
“Friends?”
He moves his gaze to me and stares.
“No,” I say. “Not exactly friends.”
“What then?”
He frowns. Does he know I’m talking about him? “He’s . . . Ethan.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’m still figuring that out.”
“Hmmm, intriguing.”
“Yep. Definitely that.”
Marco swoops in and kisses me on the cheek. He’s doing that a lot tonight. It’s pretty obvious he’s ecstatic with the reception the show has received.
“Marco, I’m trying to get Miss Taylor to give me the scoop on her relationship with her co-star. She’s being cagey. Care to elaborate?”
“Dear lady,” Marco says, “if I could figure out what’s going on between my leads, rehearsals would have been far less fraught. Then again, the show would have been lifeless. Whatever’s going on between them, I pray it continues. Now, let’s talk about the fabulous write-up you’re going to give us.”
Marco puts his arm around the woman and leads her away.
I barely notice. Ethan’s still staring at me. Amid all this excitement and energy, he calms me.
He excuses himself from the women around him and walks toward me, so handsome in his suit. People congratulate him as he passes, and he acknowledges them but keeps his attention on me.
When he reaches me, he holds out his champagne glass.
“To us.”
“To us,” I say, and clink his glass. “We were amazing tonight, even if I do say so myself.”
“We were,” he says, “but I wasn’t toasting the show.”
He leans in and kisses my cheek. “You’re so goddamn beautiful tonight, you make me think very bad thoughts. Please stop.”
I sip my champagne and resist fanning my face. “Funny. I was about to say the exact same thing to you.”
The rest of the night is a blur. We spend time with his parents and sister. Chat with Tristan and his date. Have our photo taken for a slew of social pages. And through it all, a simmering tension crackles between us.
Every look is filled with heat and expectation. Every touch sends sparks twisting through me.
When the party wraps up, he’s there with my coat. As he slips it on, he presses a soft kiss to the side of my neck.
I shiver and close my eyes.
“Sorry, I’m finding it very difficult to keep my hands off you tonight,” he says and steps away. “Well, let’s be honest. I find it difficult to keep my hands off you all the time. Tonight is just extra tough.”
TWENTY-TWO
BEGINNING OF THE END
Three Years Earlier
Westchester, New York
The Grove
Erika walks into the room like she’s carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. There’s absolute silence. The tension is palpable.
After Saturday night’s showcase, agents, directors, and producers had the weekend to submit offers. Now, it’s the moment of truth when we find out who’s been offered what.
“First of all,” Erika says as she hugs a stack of envelopes, “let me just say how proud I am. The quality of your performances on Saturday was excellent, and I couldn’t have asked for any of you to be more committed in sharing yourselves with your audience. Having said that, for those of you who don’t have firm offers, don’t despair. It doesn’t mean you’re not talented, and it certainly doesn’t mean you’re not employable. It just means you weren’t right for the roles being filled.”
She walks around the room and gives out envelopes. Ethan gets two. So do I. A handful of others get double offers. Most get one. A few don’t get any. Aiyah sits with empty hands and bursts into tears. Erika hugs her and reassures her the work will come.
I open my envelopes with shaking fingers.
The first one is from a repertory company in Los Angeles that wants me to become a permanent member. They perform contemporary pieces and work on a profit-share basis.
When I open the other envelope, I have to read it three times to fully understand what it says. It’s from a producer. He wants to do an off-Broadway production of Portrait. Fully professional. Five weeks of rehearsal, plus a tentative six-week season. He’s already secured the rights and wants Connor and me to be his stars.
I look over at Ethan. He’s frowning at one of his letters. I say his name, and he looks up.
“What is it?” I ask.
He holds up the two pieces of paper. “Well, in the first one, the Lowbridge Shakespeare Company wants me to join their next European tour, doing Mercutio in Romeo and Juliet.”
“That’s fantastic!”
“Yeah.”
“Then why do you look shell-shocked?”
He shakes his head. “The other one is . . . it’s the New York Shakespeare Theater. They want me to do Hamlet.”
“Which role?”
He looks dazed. “The lead. I guess they liked my monologue.”
“Oh, my God, Ethan, that’s incredible!”
“Yeah. I can’t believe it.”
“Believe it. You’re amazing, and your offers prove that. Why aren’t you happy?”
“I am, it’s just . . . I have no idea which one to choose. The European tour is a longer contract, but the other one . . . I mean, it’s Hamlet. For years, I’ve been saying I’d give my left ball to play that role.”
“Then do it. It’s one of the most coveted male roles out there. And you would absolutely hit it out of the park.”
He shrugs. “I hope I would. But, hey, what about you?”
“Well, I’ve been offered a spot in The Roundhouse in L.A.”
“Seriously? Those guys are impressive. Their productions are cutting edge. And the other one?”
“Well, the other one is off-Broadway.”
“Are you kidding? Jesus, Cassie, that’s great!”
“Yeah, I know . . .”
“I’m sensing a ‘but’.”
I take a breath. “It’s for Portrait.”
He blinks. “As in, Portrait with . . .”
“Connor. Yeah. They want both of us.”
He seems okay about it. “For how long?”
“Eleven weeks to start. Then, if it does well, who knows? A few months. A year if we’re really lucky.”
He nods. “Wow. A year. Off-Broadway. That’s . . . wow. Amazing opportunity.”
“Yeah. I guess.”
A knot forms in my stomach. It feeds off the furrow in his brow and the dark energy that swirls around him.
He almost manages to shake it off when he takes my hand in both of his. “Seriously, Cassie, it’s unbelievable. I’m really happy for you.”
“Really?”
He smiles. “Really.”
He’s very convincing. Then again, he’s an excellent actor.
*
Present Day
New York City, New York
The Apartment of Cassandra Taylor
“I can’t look.”
“Me neither.”
It’s 6 am and Ethan and I are sitting cross-legged in the middle of my living room with a stack of newspapers and printouts from various blogs sitting between us.
Reviews.
“Okay, you read the Times,” I say. “I really can’t handle that.”
“Fine. Then you have to read the Post,” says Ethan. “That guy shook my hand for way too long last night. And he stroked it a little.”
“Fine.”
We both pick up a paper and flick to the arts section. I read the Post review. As I do, my face becomes hotter and hotter. When I reach the end, I glance over at Ethan.
He’s frowning at the Times and shaking his head.
He puts the paper down and exhales. “Well that was . . . unexpected.”
“He liked it?”
“No. He loved it. Loved everything about it, except for the script. But he said all the other elements worked so well, it didn’t matter.”
“He liked us?”
He nods. “Absolutely. And I quote: ‘The two lead actors have the kind of mesmerizing chemistry that will have audiences returning to this show over and over again. Most of the people I spoke to on opening night have already planned their return visit. It’s that kind of magic that will ensure this show has a long and prosperous future. A must-see night of theater.’”
“Wow.”
“Exactly.”
The rest of the reviews are pretty similar. They all love the show, particularly the chemistry between Ethan and me. By the time we’re finished reading, I’m so embarrassed by all the praise, I feel like I need to splash cold water on my face. I also feel strangely emotional.
“Hey.” Ethan touches my face. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Just . . . happy, you know?”
“You look like you’re going to cry.”
“Shut up. Talking about it will make it happen.” I blink and will the tears to go away.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize! That’s worse than talking about it. Dammit.” I blink faster, but it’s too late. The tears fall in fat streams down my cheeks. Ethan cups my face and wipes them away. It only makes it worse.
He pulls me into his arms, and I cry. It’s been a long time since I cried happy tears. He presses his lips against my forehead and strokes my hair.
It feels so good . . . so absolutely and emphatically right, it makes me cry harder.
*
Three Years Earlier
Westchester, New York
The Grove
He hasn’t touched me for nearly a week. Well, he’s touched me, but not the right way. Not how I need him to.
He’s shutting down and pulling back, and it makes me sick to think I’m just as powerless to stop it now as I was last time.
Still, I have one thing to try. One desperate play in what I’m suspecting is an unwinnable game.
“I’m going to tell Erika I’m passing on Portrait.”
He looks up from the book he’s studying and frowns at me. “What?”
“I’m passing. I’ll take L.A. instead.”
“Cassie—”
“I mean, it’s still an amazing gig. Plus, it’s not like Broadway is going anywhere. I’ll get there some other way.”
He lowers his book and sighs. “Don’t be stupid. You can’t turn it down. Especially if you think you’re doing it for me.”
“I think I’m doing it for us. I know how crazy it must make you to think about me doing that show with Connor eight times a week.”
“So what? Making me part of this decision is ridiculous. It’s your career. You need to do it.”
“Not if it means losing you.”
He rubs his eyes. “If you don’t take it, you’ll lose me anyway, because I’ll never forgive myself for fucking up something so important. Please, Cassie. Take it.”
“But—”
“No, this is not up for discussion. You’ve been given an amazing opportunity, and I’m not going to let you sabotage it because of me. No fucking way. You tell Erika you’re taking it, or I will.”
He slams his book closed and shoves it in his bag.
“Where are you going?”
“Home.”
“But what about our Arts in Society final?”
“I’ll study by myself.”
“Why are you so angry with me?”
He slings his bag over his shoulder and turns to me. “I’m not angry with you. I’m angry with me. Angry that you think you need to sacrifice your career for me.”
“Ethan—”
“No, Cassie, this is fucking crazy. This isn’t love. It’s fear. You’re afraid of my reaction, and you’re letting it rule your judgment. What the hell am I doing to you?”
“You’re not doing anything! Sometimes to make things work, you have to make compromises.”
“This isn’t a compromise! This is you giving up your dream for me, and it pisses me off that you think you have to. That I’ve made you think that.”
“You haven’t, I just—”
“Please stop. I’ve tried really fucking hard to just breathe through this thing with Connor, but I can’t, and you know it. But this? It isn’t the solution.”
“Then what is? Is there one? Because you’re really starting to worry me here.”
His expression softens, but he doesn’t reassure me. I don’t know if he can at this point.
“I have to go.”
“Wait.”
He stops, one hand on the door. I go to him and make him look at me. He does it grudgingly.
“I love you.” I stand on my toes to kiss him. He inhales and wraps an arm around me, and even though he kisses me back, it doesn’t last long. When he pulls away, his hand is still on the doorknob.
“I love you, too,” he says as he cups my cheek. “That’s the problem.”
He pulls open the door and heads down to his car. I watch him until he’s out of sight.
*
Present Day
New York City, New York
Graumann Theater
When I arrive at the theater, I dump my bag in my dressing room and go to find Ethan. He’s been helping me with some meditation techniques, and even though I’m not very good at them, he’s a patient teacher.
Of course, Tristan has been trying to get me to meditate since the night we met, so when he found out, he lost his shit. Well, to be honest, he rarely loses his shit, but he did go quiet for a long time and stare at me in a hostile manner.
I go to Ethan’s dressing room, but he’s not there. His voice is echoing somewhere in the theater, so I follow the sound.
When I get backstage, I see him talking on his phone and pacing.
“I don’t know about this. I mean, the show’s only been open a month. We’re barely getting on our feet. Yes, I know it’s a fantastic opportunity but . . .” He scrubs his face and sighs. “I am listening to you. I get that. And no, this has nothing to do with Cassie. I just . . . I don’t know if the time is right for this.”
On hearing my name, I slink back into the shadows.
He finishes the conversation by saying, “I’ll think about it,” and I quietly slip into his dressing room as he hangs up.
When he appears a minute later, he seems surprised to see me.
“Oh, hey.”
“Hi. You okay?”
“Yeah. Good.” He puts his phone on the counter and sits on the floor. “Ready?”
“Sure.”
He hardly looks at me. We go through the routine of our meditation, but it’s obvious his mind is somewhere else.
My meditation is crap. My breathing is choppy, and all I can do is wonder what the hell that conversation was about and why he’s hiding it from me.
We finish our cycle and when I open my eyes, I get the impression he’s been staring at me the whole time.
“You want to snuggle?” he asks quietly.
I stand and shake my head. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Everything all right?”
“Yep.” I can feel all the parts of me that have recently started opening up wilt under weight of whatever’s going on with him. I’ve been getting better at trusting this new him, but now . . . the doubt is back. “I just have some stuff to do.”
He grabs my hand. “Wait. What’s going on?”
I shake my head. I’m incapable of confronting him, because I’m terrified of what he’ll say. “Nothin
g. I just don’t feel like snuggling tonight.”
I pull my hand free and walk out. I need to get away from him.
I can’t even comprehend what I’d do if things went wrong again.
TWENTY-THREE
SINK OR SWIM
Three Years Earlier
Westchester, New York
The Grove
I feel like a submarine.
It’s a weird analogy, but I remember seeing a movie when I was a kid in which a submarine had been hit by a torpedo. There were all these compartments that started filling up with water, and people were racing through corridors and sealing air-tight doors behind them so they wouldn’t drown.
Recently I feel like I’m closing off all the areas I had opened up to Ethan when we got back together, and the torpedo hasn’t even hit yet.
Ethan notices. He sees me pulling away just as he had. We talk about how we’re going to spend some time together in New York after graduation, but it’s never with any conviction. I don’t think I could fake conviction now if I tried. Everything is desensitized and nothing hurts.
Conversely, nothing feels truly good, either.
We still have sex, but it’s like the intimacy is just fading away. In the past, I might have fought against it, but not anymore.
I’m not the caretaker of this relationship. I took on that responsibility once and was nearly ruined by it. If he thinks I’m going through it again, he’ll be sorely disappointed.
We’re both waiting for the other to magically fix us, all the while knowing it’s not possible.
*
Present Day
New York City, New York
Graumann Theater
We start on opposite sides of the stage, and through the next scene we’re slowly drawn to each other. It’s a metaphor in movement, and I take a deep breath and open myself up, letting emotions attach to each word.
“Someone once said, ‘If you love something, set it free. If it comes back, it’s yours. If it doesn’t, it never was.’”
The lighting is dim, but as we move toward each other, it brightens slowly.
“You don’t believe that?” Ethan asks.
“I do, but the thing is, sometimes people want to leave because they’re scared, or misinformed, or insecure, or confused. And it’s at those times, when two people stand on the brink of falling or flying, that you have to ask yourself: do I let this person go? Or do I make sure, before they take one more step toward the door, they know all the reasons they should stay?”