ELEVEN
STAGE FRIGHT
Present Day
New York City
Holt and I are heading to a wine bar not far from the theater for our “talk.”
Walking beside him is both strange and familiar, with just a hint of impending doom—much like most of our time together.
The cautious part of me is whispering that being with him is like wearing the world’s most comfortable pair of shoes that sometimes catapult you headfirst into a wall. It’s like having an allergy to shellfish and refusing to give up lobster. Like knowing you’re about to fall, face-first, into a patch of poison ivy but refusing to halt your steps.
His arm brushes against mine as we walk.
God, how I itch for him.
When we reach the wine bar, he opens the door for me and requests a table in the back. The hostess eye-fucks him within an inch of his life before seating us.
He’s oblivious. As usual.
I wish I could say the same. I have no business being jealous. I’m sure in the years we were apart, he’s lost count of his conquests. Women have always thrown themselves at him, but his popularity exploded when he was touring Europe. His character spent most of the show shirtless, and when sexy promo shots of him hit the Internet, he had women following him from city to city to see him perform.
I didn’t blame them.
I remember how I’d felt when I saw the pictures online. I’d tried to look away, but it was impossible.
Just thinking about it makes my face burn.
I pick up the tapas menu and fan myself. Holt looks at me and frowns.
“You okay?”
“Yep.”
“You look flushed.”
“Menopause. Hot flashes.”
“Aren’t you a little young for that?”
“You’d think so, huh? Being a girl sucks.”
“Except for that whole thing about having multiple orgasms,” he says and raises an eyebrow. “Someone once told me that’s pretty incredible.”
“Well, yeah.” If you want to break it down into the most provocative terms possible. “There’s that.”
“Multiple Ethan,” that should be his nickname. The night he first discovered he could make me do that, I swear, I saw the face of heaven.
I fan myself again.
Dammit, he’s not allowed to talk about this stuff. Certainly not when I’m trying to ignore his sex appeal.
All topics related to sex are out.
How does he not know the rules I just made up?
“Why are you scowling at me?” he asks with a frown.
“Why aren’t we drinking yet? We came here to drink.”
“And talk.”
“And drink.”
“Does menopause make you an alcoholic, too?”
“Yes. And psychotic. Watch your step.”
“Trying to. Not easy with a scowling, menopausal psycho.”
I scowl at him for real.
He laughs.
Add laughing to the list of things he’s not allowed to do when I’m trying to ignore how attractive he is.
He notices I’m not laughing and looks at me with concern.
Concern? On the list.
“Cassie?”
Also, saying my name.
“I’m fine. I need alcohol.”
“Okay. Sure.”
He stares at me for a few more seconds, and sure enough, staring goes on the list. I mentally give up and accept that the list is going to be constantly updated. I try to put it from my mind.
At last a waitress arrives. She introduces herself as Sheree, and proceeds to ogle Ethan as he picks up the wine list. I want to punch her in her lip-glossed mouth.
As Sheree rattles off her wine recommendations, Ethan glances up at me. He’s not listening to her. He’s trying to figure out what I want to drink.
It used to be a game we played, and he never lost. He knew what I wanted even when I didn’t. When to order sweet, or dry, or spicy.
When the waitress finishes, he looks back at the list.
“The question is, Sheree … does my friend want red or white?”
The waitress frowns. “Uh … shouldn’t you ask her that?”
“There’s no fun in asking. I need to deduce. Like a sommelier Sherlock. If I get it wrong, my perfect record will be tarnished.”
“And if you get it right?” Sheree asks with a raise of her eyebrow.
I shake my head. When he used to get it right, I’d reward him with my mouth. No chance of that happening tonight.
“If I get it right,” Ethan says, “maybe she’ll see that, despite all my screw-ups, I still know her better than anyone else ever will.”
He stares at me, and when heat stretches across the table, I have to look away.
Sheree shifts her weight as I pick at the edge of the tablecloth.
If you looked up the word “awkward” in a dictionary, there’d be a picture of this moment.
Before it can go on any longer, Ethan clears his throat and orders the Duckhorn Vineyards Merlot with absolute confidence.
It’s the perfect choice. I don’t know why I’m so surprised.
When the waitress leaves, he leans back in his chair and laces his fingers together on the table in front of him.
“Nailed it, didn’t I?”
I shrug. “Maybe.”
He seems pleased. “I wasn’t sure if I could still do it. It’s been a while.”
“Yeah.”
He stares for a few seconds, before saying, “Too long, Cassie.”
A thick silence settles between us.
We both know this is the last chance for us. Our final opportunity to salvage some good from the train wreck that’s been our relationship.
The pressure is stifling. I clear my throat. My mouth is drier than the Sahara.
How long can it possibly take to grab a bottle of wine and two glasses? Is Sheree tramping the damn grapes herself?
Nerves squirm in my belly. I could really use a cigarette, but there’s no smoking in here.
Holt cracks his knuckles, and I can see him brewing sentences in his brain.
I gaze at his fingers. His thumbs are slowly rubbing against each other, his hands tense and restless. I want to reach out and still them, and reassure him that … what? I’m not going to be a bitch? That I’ll listen calmly and carefully, consider all his justifications in a level-headed way?
I can’t tell him that. It wouldn’t be true.
There’s a very good chance this evening could end badly. That, by talking about all of this, all my good intentions of being friends will disappear.
He knows this as well as I do.
After what seems like several lifetimes, Sheree brings our wine. Holt and I look at her with desperate gratitude as she pours. When she leaves, we both drink deeply, then set our glasses down.
He sighs in frustration and rubs a hand across his face. “It wasn’t supposed to be this difficult.”
“Haven’t you met us?” I say. “We don’t do easy.”
“That’s true.”
My stomach cramps, and I swig more wine to try to get it to relax.
Holt frowns. “You okay?”
I take another mouthful and nod. “Yep. Great. Nice wine.”
I’m not lying about the wine. It’s delicious. I am lying about being okay. I’ve drunk too much, too soon, and as much as I thought I was ready to deal with Ethan, my stomach is telling me I’m really not.
It cramps again, and I wince.
“Cassie?”
I start to sweat because I know what’s coming. Saliva floods my mouth as I run for the bathroom.
I make it just in time.
I’m rinsing my mouth when there’s a knock at the door.
“Cassie? You okay?”
Pause. “Not really.”
“Can I come in?”
“If you have to.”
As bathrooms go, this ones pretty classy. Very clean. High-end fittings. Fresh flowers.
He comes in and closes the door as I finish up washing my hands.
“I used to be the one with the barf nerves,” he says.
I dry my hands with paper towels, then throw them in the trash. “Now, it’s me.”
“Feeling better?”
“A bit.”
He goes to touch my shoulder, but I instinctively move away. Being comforted by him is not something I can handle right now.
He drops his head and sighs. “When I rehearsed this night in my mind—and let me tell you, I rehearsed it a lot—I was a whole lot smoother. There was very little vomiting involved. Now, not only have I made you sick, but I can’t remember any of the things I needed to say to you.”
I turn to check my reflection. I look like hell. No, not even that good. I look like hell after it’s gone through an atomic winter and the zombie apocalypse.
I’m contemplating trying to fix the damage with makeup when Ethan takes a step forward and brushes my hair over my shoulder. It makes goose bumps shiver up my spine.
“Jesus, Cassie,” he whispers. “Even when you’re sick to your stomach, you’re still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.”
I freeze as he stares at us both in the mirror.
“Ethan, you can’t say stuff like that.”
“Why not? Look at us. We’re perfect together.” He grazes his fingers over mine. I close my eyes and inhale. “We always were. No matter how fucked up things got behind the scenes, we always looked like we were made for each other. And we are.”
“Ethan…”
I turn to face him. He leans forward, but I put my hand on his chest to stop him.
He exhales and clenches his jaw. “Touching me right now is probably not a good idea. Not unless you want to shatter my cool, calm demeanor.”
I remove my hand and lean back against the vanity. It does nothing to ease the pull I feel to him. It’s filling every corner of this tiny room.
“How is it after all this time, you still affect me like this?” he asks, inching forward.
“Like what?” I know exactly what he means, but I want to hear him say it.
“Nervous and calm at the same time. Crazy and serene. Feral and civilized. Just having you near me makes me forget about all the crap with been through and just…”
“What?”
His expression turns hungry. “Just bury myself inside you and forget about everything. Make our past go away.”
If only it were that easy.
“I’ve missed you so fucking much, Cassie. You have no idea. You really, really don’t.”
I hesitate. The cautious side of me whispers that I’m about to put on those damn shoes and smash my head into a wall. It warns that I really can’t eat lobster. It screams that I’m about to fall into a giant patch of poison ivy.
I consider my impending fall for about three seconds before putting my arms around his neck and pulling him into a hug. He wends his arms around me, and as he pushes his head into my throat, he lets out a shuddering sigh.
True to form, I start to itch.
Six Years Earlier
Westchester, New York
The Diary of Cassandra Taylor
Dear Diary,
It’s opening night, and it’s been a week since Holt and I made our bet about keeping our hands off each other. Since then, things have been … weird between us.
Well, weirder.
Our dynamic has been off, even while acting. Because we’re both determined to win this ridiculous bet, our kisses have been restrained, our embraces false. A sanitized version of our filthy animal lust.
Erika has felt it, too. She thinks she’s over-rehearsed us and made us stale. But it’s not her fault. It’s ours. And apart from jumping Holt’s bones, I really don’t know how to fix it.
Add to that the sick squirming of opening night nerves, it’s fair to say that I’m kind of terrified. (And when I say “kind of”’ I mean “absolutely.” And when I say “absolutely” I mean it will be a miracle if I make it onstage without experiencing an epic freak-out that involves screaming and/or crying and/or clinging desperately to the wing curtains as the stage manager tries to drag me onto the stage.)
Please, God, let me get through tonight without making a complete fool of myself. Let me be good.
I’m begging you.
As I walk to the theater, I puff on a cigarette. I’m getting better at smoking. Not sure if this is a good thing, but it takes the edge off my nerves.
The show opens at seven thirty. It’s now three o’clock in the afternoon. I’m hoping that being in the theater will help me focus and loosen the tightness in my chest.
That’s the plan, anyway.
Things to do over the next few hours: yoga and tai chi, walk around the set, get in Juliet’s head, place my opening night cards and presents in the dressing rooms, get dressed, try not to barf, enter stage without being coerced by a cattle prod, be amazing.
Simple.
Things not to do: obsess about Holt, barf, run screaming from the theater.
Not so simple.
When I get inside, I go straight up to my dressing room.
Most of the dressing rooms are behind the stage, but there are half a dozen on the mezzanine level. Erika has assigned them to the lead actors. I’m in a room with Aiyah and Mariska, and Ethan is sharing with Connor and Jack.
I unpack my bag and lay out my makeup and hair accessories. Then I pull on some leggings and my lucky Tinkerbell T-shirt before making my way down to the stage.
It’s dark, and the dim glow from the work lights casts long, ominous shadows around the set.
Great. What I need is even more fear pumping through my body, ’cause really, I’m not wound tight enough.
I take a deep breath and walk around the set. Run my hands over the Styrofoam stone and canvas wood as I look out into the rows and rows of empty seats. I try to ignore the goose bumps that rise on my arms when I feel the glow of several hundred pairs of phantom eyes.
I want to be great tonight.
I want Holt to be great.
The whole play kind of hinges on us getting our crap together. I have zero idea how to do that.
I stand in the middle of the stage and breathe while going through several of my yoga poses. Stretch my muscles. Focus my mind.
After a while, the yoga morphs into tai chi. I close my eyes to concentrate on my breathing. In. Out. Move slowly. Synchronize air and movement. Exhale the fear. Breathe in confidence.
I concentrate on images that bring me pleasure. Inevitably, my thoughts turn to Holt. The strong line of his jaw peppered with stubble, masculine and sexy. His lips, unbearably silky and soft. His eyes. Fiery. Nervous. Scared and terrifying at the same time.
My whole body heats up as I think of him.
Staying away from him this week has been torture. I try not to look at him too long, even during scenes, or else the ache gets to be too much. I focus on the wall behind him, or a piece of set, or the top of his hair. Anywhere but in those deadly eyes that make me want to do bad, bad things to him for hours on end.
As I push out a final exhale, I feel calm. Focused and ready.
When I open my eyes, I almost pee my pants because Holt’s face is mere inches away.
“Jebus freaking shit!” I scream as I flail like a sky-diving octopus.
Holt jumps several feet backward and holds his hand over his chest. “Fuck, Taylor! You scared the crap out of me! Jesus Christ!”
“I scared you?!” I walk over and shove him hard in the chest. “You nearly made me urinate!”
That makes him crack up.
“It’s not funny!” I say as I slap at his chest.
“Yeah, it is,” he says, and backs away as I continue to hit him.
“What sort of freak are you to just sneak up on someone like that?!”
“I didn’t want to disturb you,” he says while trying to grab my slappy hands. “Fuck, stop hitting me.”
He pulls my hands against his chest, but I’m having enough trouble coping with my pounding heart to acknowledge the warm hardness of his pecs under my fingers.
I yank myself free before striding over to the bedroom set and flopping onto the bed.
“What the hell are you doing here? I thought I was alone.”
He stands in front of me, his laughter dying as he shoves his hands in his pockets.
“I thought the same thing. I like to be in the theater for a few hours before opening night. Helps my nerves.”
I run my hand through my hair. “Yeah? How do you feel now, Señor Scare Tactics? Calm?”
“As hilarious as it was, it wasn’t my intention to scare you. I just wanted to … watch.”
As my shock dissipates, I take a moment to register what he’s wearing.
White wife beater, long navy running shorts, and silver/black Nikes.
What the hell?
He’s not allowed to wear that.
I mean … That’s just … He’s …
Dear God, look at him!
Broad shoulders. Beautiful arms. Wide chest. Narrow waist. Muscular calves.
Unfair! Obscenely sexy. Not allowed!
“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks, and shifts his weight.
“Like what?” I manage to ask through my haze of lust.
“Like you want to spank me.”
My tongue tries to choke me at this point. I cough and sputter. “Why are you wearing that?”
He glances down at himself and shrugs. “I jogged here. Thought it might help clear my head.”
My brain seizes on an image of him jogging—arms pumping, face flushed, long legs striding, hair blowing in the breeze.
“You … jogged?”
“Yeah.”
“In that?”
He looks at himself again and frowns. “Yes. What’s your issue? It’s just a tank and a pair of shorts.”
“Just a … You think that is … just a … No! Bad Holt!” My brain has stalled.
He looks at me like I’m a crazy person, yet I can’t stop staring.
What genius decided to call that particular piece of clothing a “wife beater?” It’s not a wife beater. It’s a vagina arouser. A drool inducer. A panty destroyer.
Fricking hell.
“Taylor?”
He takes a few steps toward me, and all the lust I’ve been suppressing floods my body. I jump off the bed and step back.
I will not lose this damn bet, just because he decided to dress like a hot-bodied edible man treat. I will freaking not.
I need to get very far away until the urge to push him down onto the stage and grope him disappears.
“I have to go … do stuff,” I say as I stumble offstage.
“Taylor?” he calls after me, but I don’t stop. I can’t look at those shoulders again. The biceps. The forearms.
Fricking frick!
I run up to my dressing room and slam the door before spending the next two hours doing breathing exercises. The whole time I tell myself that begging Holt for sex on our opening night is a really bad idea.
At five thirty I start getting ready. I want to get it done quickly, so I can put all my opening night cards and gifts in people’s dressing rooms before they arrive.
Good luck cards are traditional to give cast and crew on opening night. I’m also giving them little heart-shaped chocolates to represent the love at the heart of our show.
Yeah, it’s lame, but I’m poor, and the chocolates were cheap.
I finish my makeup, brush out my hair, secure my lucky silk robe, and grab the bag that contains all my goodies. I move through the dressing rooms quickly, all the while pondering that I haven’t finished writing on Holt’s card yet. All I have so far is ‘Dear Ethan.’ After that, I’m at a loss for what to say.
“Good luck on opening night,” seems lame and impersonal, and “Please have sex with me” just seems wrong. I need to aim somewhere in between, but that’s easier said than done.
I’ve delivered most of the cards when I pass his dressing room. I poke my head inside. The room’s empty.
Working quickly, I sneak in and put Connor’s and Jack’s cards in their spots, telling myself I’ll finish Holt’s and give it to him later.
As I turn to leave, he appears in the doorway, his face in shadow from the dark hall.
“What, no card for me?” he asks, and something about his voice is wrong.
“Uh … there will be. I just haven’t finished writing your message yet.”
I go toward the door, but he steps inside, cutting me off. He’s still wearing the panty destroyer. His shoulders look amazing. I want to bite them.
“You’ve written messages to everyone else, Taylor, why not me? Am I not good enough for a card from you?”
His face is dark and a little sweaty.
“Holt? Are you okay?”
“Nice robe,” he says as he stares at my breasts. He touches the tie around my waist. “Wearing anything underneath?”
“Just my delightfully fashionable nudie-tard,” I say, as I pull his hand away. “No peeking. You’ve seen it before.”
“Too many times.”
“It’s not that bad, is it?”
He grabs the tie again. “Not if you expect me to continue ignoring you and your fucking ridiculous body.” He runs the silky fabric through his fingers. “I’ve been trying so hard. To be good and respectful. It’d be so easy not to be.”
The energy that’s been missing between us for a week is back, thick and heavy. Desperately magnetic.
My breath catches. “You’re the one who set limits. I want you to do exactly what you want to do to me.”
He exhales as he wraps the silky tie around his hand and steps forward.
“You’re not allowed to say stuff like that.”
His voice is strained. His hands tremble. The small amount of sweat on his forehead is still there, but it’s now shimmering on his neck and shoulders, too.
“Seriously, are you okay?” I ask as he swallows and winces.
The words are barely out of my mouth before he clutches his stomach. He staggers back and flops onto the sofa.
“Fuck.”
“Holt?”
After a few deep breaths, he leans his head back and closes his eyes. “It’s just nerves, okay? Really fucking bad nerves.”
“About the show?”
“Among other things, yeah.”
He exhales a long, controlled breath. “My anxiety goes straight to my stomach. I get cramps and nausea. Such a pussy.”
“You’re not a pussy,” I say. “I understand how you feel.”
He rubs his face. “Unless you have a father who’s only coming to your performance so he can tell you that you’re wasting your life with this acting bullshit, then no … you don’t.”
“Your dad isn’t happy with your career choice?”
“That would be a massive understatement.”
“Ah.”
He drops his head into his hands and tugs at his hair. “It doesn’t matter. I’m going to suck tonight, anyway. He’ll have a ball saying ‘I told you so.’”
“You’re not going to suck,” I say.
“We’ve been fucking terrible all week. You know it as well as I do.”
“Not terrible, just … kind of off.” He shoots me a look. “Okay, we’ve been atrocious. But it’s because we’re trying so damn hard to deny our attraction that our performances are suffering. We can’t shut ourselves down and expect our characters to look like they can’t live without each other. It’s impossible.”
“So what are you suggesting?” he asks. “That I throw you down on this revolting couch, so we can believably play lovers?”
“Well, that’d be nice—”
“Taylor…”
“Okay, fine. We don’t give into our urges offstage. But onstage? We need to let our connection happen. No more fighting it. Because when we open up and let each other in, that’s when the magic happens.”
He looks skeptical. “Just onstage? You think it’s going to be easy to turn it on and off?”
“No, I don’t,” I say as I kneel in front of him so our faces are aligned. “But we have a cast full of people depending on us to get our crap together and make this show work. If we go down in flames, we drag all of them with us. So let’s just get it done, and you can go back to denying your feelings for me next week, okay?”
For a moment I think he’s going to touch my face. Instead, he runs his fingers down the front of my robe. My breath catches.
“Okay. You win. If I can stop feeling like I want to hurl every five seconds, I’ll turn myself on for you.”
The tone of his voice makes the hair on my arms stand on end.
“I have some focusing methods that might help,” I say as he continues to stroke my robe.
“I have to shower and get ready first.”
“No problem,” I say as I stand. “I’ll come back at the half-hour call. When we’re through, we’ll be so damned focused we’ll nail these characters to the wall.”
He sighs and shakes his head.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
“I now have a mental image of me nailing you to the wall. You’d better leave.”
I start to laugh, but the animal hunger in his eyes tells me he’s absolutely serious.
He stands, and my heart races.
God. He’s going to do it. He’s going to nail me against the wall.
I hold my breath as he moves forward.
To my dismay, he steps around me and grabs the towel off the back of his chair before heading toward the bathroom.
“Get out of here, Taylor,” he says over his shoulder, “before I forget why I let you keep that damn robe on.”
By six fifteen, the theater is buzzing. There are good-luck cards and presents strewn all over my dressing room. My parents sent a huge bouquet of flowers with a card telling me how proud they are and how they wish they could be here.
I wish they were here, too. My first big role, and no one I love is here to see it.
I head down to the stage to do a final check of my props. Everyone I come across wishes me luck, and we hug, but I’m not convincing. I feel nauseated, and my nerves are growing steadily worse as show time approaches.
By the time I make it back up to Holt’s dressing room, I feel like the chicken sandwich I had for dinner is staging a Mutiny on the Bounty–style revolt.
I take a deep breath and knock on the door. Jack yells at me to come in.
“Hey,” I say, lingering in the doorway.
“Hey, sweet Juliet,” Jack says as he finishes swiping some powder over his face. “Loverboy’s in the bathroom.”
“Still?”
I hear some muffled retching noises.
Jack cringes. “Yeah.” He gets up and hugs me. “Have fun kissing him tonight.”
He gives me a sympathetic squeeze before closing the door behind him.
I go to the bathroom door and knock.
“Go away,” Holt says feebly.
“It’s me,” I say into the wood. “Can I come in?”
“No,” he says, his voice cracking. “I’m fucking disgusting.”
“Yeah, well, I’m used to that.”
I push open the door and step into the bathroom. The air is filled with the acrid smell of bile. It almost makes me gag. Then I see Holt slumped against the wall, his face pale and slick with sweat.
“Oh, hell, are you all right?” I crouch in front of him. “You look like crap.”
As a sad testament to my self-esteem, I still find him incredibly attractive.
“I thought you were supposed to be making me feel better,” he says as he pulls his legs up to his chest. “If you’re just going to insult me, I can be miserable and disgusting all by myself.”
“I’m going to help,” I say. “But you’d better do as you’re told. No questions asked.”
“Sure, whatever. Just make it stop.”
He’s already in his costume. White button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The top few buttons are open, revealing a distracting amount of chest. On the bottom half he wears black jeans and boots.
I grab his left foot and start untying his laces.
He tenses. “What the hell?”
“No questions, remember?”
“Okay, but that rule starts after you tell me what you’re doing.”
“I need to get your shoe off.”
“Why?”
“That’s another question.”
“Taylor…”
“Because I need to massage your foot.”
He snaps his leg back and shakes his head.”Nuh-uh. That’s a deal breaker. My feet are gross.”
“I’m sure I can handle it.”
“Yeah, well, I can’t.”
“Holt.” I sigh in exasperation. “Do you want to go out there and kick ass tonight, or do you want to suck like a Hoover and give your dad ammunition to say you’re wasting your life?”
His face drops.
I feel bad for not playing fair, but what the heck? He needs to suck it up.
He grunts in frustration and thrusts his foot at me. I quickly finish unlacing his boot and pull it off, along with his sock.
For a few seconds, I just stare.
His foot is beautiful. Perfect. He could be a goddamn foot model.
I glance up at him and he shrugs. “They’re ugly. Too long. Bony toes.”
“You’re insane.”
I pull his model foot into my lap, and he flinches.
“Trust me, okay? My mother is an expert on every form of alternative therapy around, and while I think most of them are bogus, reflexology is something that’s always worked for me. I’d learned all the pressure points by the time I was twelve, so chill. I won’t hurt you. Much.”
He flinches as I dig my thumbs into the spot where the ball of his foot ends and the arch begins.
“Painful?” I ask. If an organ is inflamed, the pressure point can be tender. Just ask my uterus pressure point around the time of my period.
“No,” he says. “I’m … uh…”
“What?”
He sighs and levels me with a glare. “Don’t you dare give me shit about this, but I’m really fucking ticklish, okay?”
I suppress my laughter. “Ticklish?”
“Yes.”
“You?”
“Yes.”
“Big bad you with the fuck-off attitude?”
He glares at me. “Fuck off.”
“See?”
He exhales and grabs his stomach. “Just get on with it.”
I smile and massage him again. One part of my brain registers that him being ticklish is adorable, while the other part focuses on getting him in a fit state to walk onstage in half an hour.
After a few minutes, his breathing slows.
“Is it making a difference?” I ask as I massage all over his arch, hitting points for his intestines, colon, and pancreas.
“Yeah.” He sighs. “The cramps are letting up a little.”
I keep circling my thumbs, and his foot gets heavier as he relaxes.
It’s a big foot. My brain dredges up a piece of trivia I once heard about foot size being related to penis size.
I try to concentrate on what I’m doing. Thinking about his penis right now could end in disaster.
I continue for a few more minutes until his pinched expression releases. Then I pull his sock and boot back on and watch as he laces it up.
“Thanks,” he says, and gives me a grateful smile. “I feel better.”
“Feel well enough to get out of this stinky bathroom?”
“Yeah.” He stands and heads over to the sink where there’s a toothbrush, some toothpaste, and a bottle of mouthwash. “Uh … just give me a minute, okay? Don’t want you kissing someone who tastes like regurgitated turkey sub.”
I quickly wash my hands before he shoos me away. Back in the dressing room, I slump into the couch while I listen to the most thorough mouth cleansing since the toothbrush was invented. He finishes with a world-record-length throat gargle. I shake my head as I realize that even gargling sounds sexy coming from him.
I’m clearly disturbed.
At last he emerges, smelling minty fresh. I motion for him to sit cross-legged on the floor.
Helping him has calmed me a little, but I’m still not feeling confident I can pull off a good performance tonight.
As if sensing my anxiety, Holt gestures to my feet. “Uh … do you want me to … you know … do you, or something?”
He looks so uncomfortable with the idea, I almost say yes just to torture him.
“I’ll pass,” I say. “We don’t have a lot of time. Let’s just get focused so we can go out there and rock this show.”
He nods and looks grateful.
I tell him to close his eyes and focus on an image he finds calming. I try to picture a plain white sheet blowing in the breeze. It’s something Meryl Streep uses to calm herself. It usually works well for me, but not tonight.
I’m too aware of Holt sitting close to me. His scent and energy make my body thrum and pound, ruining any chance of finding my happy place.
I don’t think he’s faring much better, because his breathing is choppy and uneven. He grunts in frustration before saying, “This isn’t working.”
I open my eyes.
He’s staring at me. “You’re too close and too far away.”
Just then, the intercom above the door crackles to life and the stage manager says, “Ladies and gentlemen of the Romeo and Juliet Company, this is your fifteen-minute call. Fifteen minutes until places. Thank you.”
I’m certain my face is the definition of panic.
I’m not ready. Not even close. I’m unfocused. Characterless.
Where the hell is Juliet? I can’t find her.
I scramble to my feet and pace. “We should have started earlier. We’ve been here all afternoon, for God’s sake!”
“Taylor, calm down. We can do this.” His voice is remarkably peaceful.
“No, we can’t,” I say as I shake out my hands and roll my head. “There’s not enough time.”
“Just breathe.”
I walk over to the door and press my forehead against it as I drag in uneven breaths.
I can picture the audience, filing into their seats, flicking through their programs. Full of excitement and anticipation for a performance that isn’t going to suck. They’re going to be disappointed.
“I have to go,” I say as I grip the door handle.
“Where?”
“Away. I need to do … yoga … or something.”
I turn the handle.
He covers my hand. “Taylor, stop.”
I pull the door open, but he slams it shut.
“Holt! Open the door!”
“No. Calm down. You’re freaking out.”
“Of course I’m freaking out!” I say as I turn to face him. “The show’s starting in less than fifteen minutes, and I have no idea what the hell I’m doing!”
“Taylor—”
His hands are on my shoulders. I ignore them.
“It’s my first big role. Erika said directors and producers from Broadway are going to be in the audience.”
“Stop—” He frames my face with his hands. I ignore him.
“There are reviewers out there, for frick’s sake! They’re going to say I killed the show. Me. Killed it dead.”
“Cassie—” He strokes my cheeks. I ignore it.
“They’re going to print stuff about how terrible I am, then the whole world is going to see how much of a fraud I—”
Then he’s kissing me.
I can’t ignore that.
He pushes his weight against me and groans as he sucks gently at my lips. I draw in a noisy lungful of air as my whole body blazes to life.
I hear myself moan, then I’m kissing him back, frantic and desperate, trying to find solace in his delicious mouth.
He freezes before pulling back and staring at me in shock.
“Oh … dammit.”
We’re both breathing heavily, staring at each other.
“You kissed me.”
“I didn’t mean to. You were freaking out. I wanted to make you stop.”
“By putting your tongue in my mouth?”
“I didn’t use tongue.”
“I’m still freaking out a bit. Maybe some tongue is warranted.”
He sighs and looks down. His hands are still on my face, his body still pressed against me. “Jesus. I just lost our bet.”
“Yes, you did.”
“Fuck.”
“If you insist.”
He pushes away and runs his hand through his hair.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your ten-minute call. Ten minutes, thank you.”
Panic grips us again.
We have to do something. Now.
“I have a crazy idea,” he says.
“Does it involve your tongue?”
“No.”
“Damn.”
He grabs my arm. “Come here,” he says and pulls me over to the couch.
He sits and tugs me toward him. I understand what he’s trying to do and place my knees on either side of his hips. I sink into him and mimic our position in the death scene. As our bodies connect, we both expel groaning sighs.
I bury my face in his neck and just breathe, and all of a sudden, every ounce of panic melts away.
He makes a noise and tightens his arms around me.
“Best focusing exercise ever,” I murmur into his skin.
I push my fingers into his hair and massage his scalp. He moans and slumps down as his hips push into me.
“Fuck, yes.”
The churning in my stomach eases, replaced by tingling expectation.
He squeezes me tighter, and I marvel over how well we fit. He knows how to hold me, and I know how to soothe him. It’s instinctual. Our bodies talk to each other without us having to say a word.
It makes no sense for us to not be together. I wish I knew what keeps holding him back.
“Are you ever going to tell me about your ex?” I ask.
“Which one?”
“Any of them.”
“Wasn’t planning on it.”
“So you’re just not going to date ever again?”
“That’s the plan.”
“It’s a dumb plan.”
His arms tighten around me. “Better that than to inflict myself on someone again.”
“Nay, gentle Romeo,” I say, borrowing Mercutio’s lines, “we must have you dance.”
He strokes my back. “Not I. Believe me, you have dancing shoes with nimble soles. I have a soul of lead so stakes me to the ground I cannot move.”
The intercom crackles again. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your five-minute call. Five minutes, thank you.”
We stay wrapped around each other for as long as we can, exchanging energy. By the time the next call comes, I feel like I’m a part of him.
I’m eerily calm.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the Romeo and Juliet Company, this is your call to the stage. Please take your places for Act One. Thank you.”
We silently unfold ourselves and stand. He takes my hand before opening the dressing room door and leading me downstairs.
Backstage, everyone is in their positions. Tension and expectation are thick in the air. A few people look at us as we pass, and they raise their eyebrows when they see Holt holding my hand.
I don’t care. I feel like an electrical transformer, buzzing with energy. I glance at Holt, and his face is calm but intense. He has the air of a superhero, all restrained strength and disguised power. Where his fingers are wrapped around mine, there’s a thrumming of energy, and I know we’re ready. Our characters are just lingering beneath the surface, waiting to inhabit us as soon as we walk onstage.
Then the lights change, and everything goes quiet as we hear the opening lines of the prologue.
“Two households, both alike in dignity, in fair Verona, where we lay our scene. From ancient grudge break to new mutiny, where civil blood makes civil hands unclean. From forth the fatal loins of these two foes, a pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life.”
As I exhale with excitement, Holt pulls me into a dark corner behind a curtain and turns to me, every inch my Romeo.
“Ready?” he asks quietly.
“I’m amazing,” I say with absolute confidence.
I hear the sounds of the Montague and Capulet boys fighting, and I know it’s almost time for his entrance.
He stares at me, eyes glittering from the stage lights. “Me too. Let’s show them a Romeo and Juliet they’ll never forget.”
All I can do is nod, because he’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
He leaves me to take his place on the brightly lit stage, and just like that, the make-believe is real.