THREE
MASK
The Grove’s acting school is the most prestigious in the country, so it stands to reason that their standards are extremely high. Still, I don’t think any of us were prepared for just how difficult some classes are proving to be. Especially masks.
Contrary to Erika’s assurance that mask work would get easier, we all continue to struggle. But as bad as most of us are, Ethan is the worst. Erika has been pushing him harder than anyone else, and, of course, that means he’s always in a crappy mood.
He’s being distant, and even though I’ve made it very clear that I’d love to have more sex, it’s been nearly a week since he’s touched me anywhere interesting. He doesn’t even hold my hand unless I initiate it. Good thing I always initiate it. If he won’t let me have the rest of his body, I’m damn well going to have his hand.
“Erika fucking hates me,” he says, as we head over to the Hub “—a large, four-story building that houses the library, cafeteria, student lounge, and several large lecture theaters—” to meet our friends for lunch.
“That’s not true.”
“Then why force me to work with that particular mask? Anger, sadness, aggression—I could nail any of those.”
“Yeah, but she knows you have an issue with vulnerability, so she’s pushing you to conquer it. Imagine how great it would be if you had a breakthrough. You’d probably top the class.” And become a more affectionate boyfriend.
He shakes his head. “The likelihood of that happening is fucking nil. I can’t do it, Cassie. In fact, I’m not even sure what it is.”
I pull out my phone and google it. “Vulnerable. Adjective, meaning susceptible to being wounded or hurt; open to moral attack, criticism, temptation. Oh, wow! Next to the definition is a picture of you.”
“Funny.”
“Thanks. I try.”
We’re almost at the Hub when I spot a group of second years near the door. I recognize Olivia, Ethan’s more-than-a-little-bitter ex, among them. She frowns when she notices Ethan holding my hand.
“I don’t believe it,” she says as we approach. “I thought all the stories about you having a girlfriend were bullshit, yet here you are with the same girl I saw you with at the beginning of the year. You’re really putting the effort in to get her attached before you dump her, aren’t you? I mean, what you did to me was bad, but this one? She’s going to be cursing your name for years. Impressive.”
Ethan tightens his hand around mine. “And today just keeps getting better.” He tugs on my arm, and we head inside. I’m aware of Olivia staring after us.
“She really hates you, doesn’t she?”
He nods. “Yeah, well, I gave her good reason to.” He mutters that he needs food before disappearing into the crowded cafeteria.
I make my way to the far side of the room and find Jack, Lucas, Connor, Aiyah, Miranda, and Zoe at our usual table in the corner.
Jack looks around with a disgusted expression. “Damn, this place is depressing. Doesn’t the student council have anything better to do than decorate the shit out of everything? It looks like Jingly the Glitter Fairy jizzed all over the damn place.”
“It’s nearly December,” Aiyah says. “It’s festive.”
“Festive?” Jack gestures to the tsunami of tinsel and baubles surrounding us. “It borders on psychotic. Yesterday, they ripped down the Thanksgiving decorations like they’d personally insulted their mothers, and today, there’s a metric shit-ton of Santa porn all over the damn place. No one needs this much fucking tinsel! If I show up to my rugby match this afternoon with goddamn glitter all over me, I’ll make an official complaint to the dean. I will not be known as a human disco ball, no matter how fabulous that would look on me.”
There are giggles before Lucas says, “So, what’s everyone doing this weekend? Jack, did you finally convince that redheaded dance major to go out with you?”
Jack grins. “Hell yeah, I did. I’m taking her to that new Italian place in town. A little wine, a little pasta. And afterward, when I turn on the Avery charm, I predict I’ll be face-deep in her ballet tights by bedtime.”
Miranda glowers. “You realize that buying a woman a meal doesn’t give you the right to bone her, right?”
Jack scoffs. “I’m aware. Plus, I actually like her. If sex was all I wanted I wouldn’t go to all the trouble of taking her out, would I? I’d just invite her over to watch soft porn on Netflix in the hope that it would put her in the mood.”
Connor nudges Lucas. “What about you, dude? Aren’t you seeing that chick with the dreadlocks from visual arts?”
Lucas leans back and puts his hands over his heart. “Oh, sweet, sweet Mariah. I’m taking her away this weekend. Vineyard tour. Bed-and-breakfast. The whole nine.”
Jack frowns. “Shit, that escalated quickly. Haven’t you only been dating for two weeks?”
“What can I say, man? When it’s right, it’s right. She’s amazing. I may suck at a lot of stuff, but taking care of my woman isn’t one of them.”
I feel a twinge as I hear them talk, because I’m reminded that even though Ethan and I have been officially going out for over a month, he still hasn’t taken me on a real date. Usually we hang out at my place or his. Watch TV. Read. Study.
If I’m really lucky, we make out, but that’s it.
Kind of depressing, really.
“What about you and Holt?” Connor says as he picks at his fries. “Any grand romantic plans this weekend?” His voice has an edge that says he already knows the answer.
I look over at Ethan in the cafeteria line. “Uh, I’m not sure. We haven’t really discussed it yet.”
“Uh-huh.” Connor looks back down at his lunch, and I feel a stab of resentment that he brought it up.
Can everyone see how unromantic Ethan is?
I have a feeling that if I told everyone he bailed on me the morning after we had sex for the first time, no one would be surprised.
It’s like our relationship is one of those stupid logic paradoxes.
When is a boyfriend not a boyfriend?
When it’s Ethan Holt.
As everyone continues to chatter on about their romantic plans, I excuse myself and head to the bathroom. I guess I always knew Ethan wasn’t the most demonstrative person in the world, but I figured once we came out of the relationship closet, it would change.
Apparently not.
When I come out of the stall, Olivia’s there, bent over the sink and snorting something off the counter. When she sees me, she wipes her nose. “Hey.”
I take a breath and slide past her to wash my hands. “Maybe you should do that where people can’t see you.”
“I usually do, but I figure you should see what’s in store for you when Holt breaks your heart. It’s not pretty.”
I shake my head and wash my hands as quickly as possible. “I’m not into drugs.”
“Not yet Give it time.”
I dry my hands and try to ignore her snorting another line off the counter.
When I first met Olivia a few months ago, I couldn’t help but notice how gorgeous she was. She made me feel inferior in every way. My hair was the most common shade of brown imaginable, while hers was a deep tawny color, thick and glossy. While I was curvy and well proportioned for my five-foot-five frame, she was about four inches taller and had the type of slender elegance I’d always envied.
I could imagine she would have looked fantastic standing next to Ethan, both of them equally stunning.
Sadly, the woman standing in front of me appears very different. Her hair is now greasy and dull, her skin uneven and sallow, and the slender elegance she used to possess has given way to sunken cheeks and too-prominent bones.
Whatever demons she’s carrying around from her time with Ethan, they seem to be eating her alive.
As I turn to leave, I feel a pang of sympathy. “Take care of yourself, Olivia, okay?”
Before I can open the door, she touches my arm. “Look, I’m really not here to bust your ass. I just want to make sure you know what you’re getting yourself into.”
“I do, thanks.”
“Do you? Because from where I’m sitting, the Ethan Holt who broke my heart looks an awful lot like the one you’re dating.”
“He’s changed since then.”
She leans back against the sink and crosses her arms. “Let me paint you a picture.” I can already tell I’m not going to like this story. “He grudgingly agreed to let people know you were dating, but he doesn’t act like a real boyfriend. No dates, very little public affection, and it’s like pulling teeth to get him to talk about his feelings or mood swings. Sound familiar?”
I keep my face impassive, even though my adrenaline has kicked up a notch. “I don’t know what to tell you. I like him. A lot. I’m willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.”
Olivia shakes her head. “You don’t get it, do you? You probably think it won’t happen to you, because you’re different or special, and maybe you’re right. But that’s not the problem. You may be different, but he’s not, and he’s the one who’s going to destroy you. Tread carefully. That boy is an avalanche just waiting to happen.”
“So this chick is, what, stalking you now?” my roommate, Ruby, asks as she struggles to open a can of tomato soup.
“Sort of, but I get the feeling she’s kind of trying to look out for me.”
“Yeah, well, bitch needs to step off. That’s my job. Still, she’s right. I can’t believe he’s never taken you on a real date. It seems like the man doesn’t have a single romantic bone in his body.” She dumps the soup into a saucepan.
“He’s not that bad.”
“Cassie, we did the ‘How Romantic Is Your Guy?’ quiz from Cosmo, and Holt’s results were ‘This Man Doesn’t Know He’s Your Boyfriend.’ It’s freaking ridiculous.”
I check on the premade rolls I’d put in the oven a few minutes ago. They’re still way too pale. “He’s been hurt before. He just doesn’t show his affection like normal guys, I guess.”
“And how does he show his affection? Because from what I’ve seen, he doesn’t kiss or hug you hello, he barely holds your hand, he slept with you once but won’t do it again. There are no presents, no dates, and no epic love poems written while high on peyote.”
I frown. “What was that last thing?”
“Never mind. Long story. My point is, the boy has zero romantic game, and you’re the one who’s suffering. I can’t believe you’re not more pissed about this.”
“Well, I’m not happy about it, but what can I do?”
“Okay, here’s my advice. You’re being a doormat.”
“That’s not advice. It’s a statement. And an insulting one at that.”
“Dammit, Cassie, woman up!” She stirs the soup aggressively. “He’s treating you like crap because he’s got issues or whatever, but that’s no excuse.” She pours some milk into the saucepan. “Call him on his bullshit or else stencil WELCOME on your boobs and be done with it. It’s your choice.”
I know she’s right, but I can’t help feeling like one wrong move with Ethan could have disastrous results.
“Oh, crap.” Ruby frowns at the saucepan, then picks up the soup can and reads the instructions.
“What?”
“I think I’ve fucked this up.”
“How is that possible? It’s soup. From a can.”
“I put in too much milk. Apparently, I was supposed to measure it or some bullshit.” She dips in her spoon and sips it.
“What’s it taste like?”
She shrugs. “Tomato-flavored milk.”
I sigh and lean against the counter. “Not the weirdest thing you’ve ever made.”
“Nope.”
“Serve it in mugs?”
“Okay. At least we have rolls.”
“Oh, frack!” I open the oven door and smoke wafts out. When I pull out the baking sheet, the rolls are black. “Dammit.”
“Who’s the bad cook now? You were only in charge of reheating, for God’s sake.”
We stand there for a few moments and look at the pathetic remains of our horrible dinner. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I have an urge to call Ethan to see if he’d come over and cook something for us, but I figure if he wanted to talk or spend time with me, he’d let me know.
“Wine?” I ask.
Ruby sighs. “Most definitely. I don’t think I can fuck that up.”
“Word.”
Oh, God. Ow.
I wince as I open my eyes. Sunlight pierces my pounding brain like an ice pick.
I’m on the floor, surrounded by wine bottles and pizza boxes. Judging from the disgusting taste in my mouth, I not only drank way too much last night, I also smoked a crapload of cigarettes. My mouth feels like the floor of a cock-fighting ring.
As I stretch and rake my tongue across my teeth, I see Ruby lying on the couch, her arm thrown over her face.
I really hope she feels this bad when she wakes up. Even though I can’t remember much about last night, I’m almost positive it’s her fault.
My head throbs and my stomach churns, and when I put out an arm to steady myself, something on my hand catches my eye. My knuckles have the word “HOLT” written on them in black eyeliner.
What the…?
My other hand has “SUCKS” scrawled across it.
I hear a groan and glance over at Ruby.
“I didn’t do it,” she says from behind her arm. “Well, okay, I did, but you told me to.”
“You remember last night?”
“You don’t?”
“Not really.”
“Well, I ranted for a couple of hours about how much of a bastard Holt is, until you agreed with me. Then you did this to my face.”
She lifts her arm to reveal the most horrendous makeup job I’ve ever seen. Her eyebrows are thickened, and her jawline has been drawn in, all sharp angles and bad shading.
“You tried to make me look like Holt, because you wanted to punch him in the face for being so closed off.”
“Oh, God, Ruby, did I hit you?” It was hard to tell with all the makeup.
“No, but you did make a particularly yelly phone call to Holt at around two a.m.”
“What?! What did I say?!”
She sits up, then grabs her head and groans. “You said a lot of stuff. I may have been doing drunken cheers in the background. By the end, I felt sorry for him. You really bitched him out. Then you hung up and passed out.”
“Oh, God.” I feel sick, and not from the alcohol. I scramble around the floor and uproot debris as I try to find my phone. “Why didn’t you stop me?!”
“Honey, I was even drunker than you were. Plus, he totally deserved it. For a drunk chick, you were quite eloquent. Except for the part when you cried.”
I stop what I’m doing and look up at her. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
“Nope. About ten minutes into it, you sobbed something about how he’s your first boyfriend, your first lover, and you’re supposed to feel giddy and in love, but all you feel is confused and lonely, because even when he’s with you, he’s not totally there.”
“Oh, God.”
“Then you said something like, ‘Why don’t you just let yourself love me? Don’t you understand how good we could be?’ And, well, by that point, I was crying, too, so…”
I rub my eyes. “Oh, Ruby, this is bad. Bad, bad, bad.”
“Yeah, we need to never drink that much ever again.”
I shove stuff off the coffee table, desperate to find my phone. At last, I find it under a pizza box. It’s switched off and covered in grease.
When I turn it on, there are eight missed calls and two text messages.
“Crap, crap, crap…”
I read his first text message.
<Call me back. Now.>
I press the phone against my pounding head.
I don’t want to look at the next message, but I know I have to. He sent it an hour after the first one.
<I fucking hate that I made you cry. Call me when you get this. I don’t care how hungover you are. We need to talk.>
I stare at the screen for a long time as I reread his words.
“Cassie? Everything okay?”
“I don’t know. He said ‘we need to talk.’”
“Oh, shit.”
“That’s what I thought.”
I dial his number. It goes to voicemail. “Hey, this is Ethan. Leave a message. Or not. Whatever.”
I hang up.
“Dammit!”
“It’s only seven,” Ruby says, “and you did keep him awake with your drunken verbal abuse. Maybe let him sleep.”
“I need to borrow your car.”
“Uh … you don’t think you’re still too drunk to drive? I sure as hell am.”
“I need to get over there, Ruby.”
She rubs her eyes. “Fine. The keys are on my desk. But you might want to shower and get changed first. You have pepperoni stains on your boobs.”
I look down, and I’m not at all surprised to see she’s right. “Ruby, we are never drinking again.”
“Amen.”
Half an hour later, I knock on Holt’s door while nausea and panic fight it out to see which can make me vomit first. When he doesn’t answer right away, panic quickly takes the lead. I knock again.
After a few more seconds, I hear shuffling footsteps, then the door opens a crack to reveal Elissa’s squinting face.
“Cassie?”
“Hey, Lissa.”
“It’s seven thirty in the morning.”
“I know.”
“On a Saturday.”
“I’m sorry. Is your brother here?”
“No, or I’d freaking kill him. He bellowed something about going for a run about an hour ago. I hope he gets hit by a car. The hotheaded idiot banged around the apartment from like, three a.m. Swearing and slamming things around as he cleaned.”
“He … cleaned?”
“Yep. He only cleans when he’s beyond agitated. He started to vacuum around four. Did something happen between you two last night?”
“Uh, the thing is, I was drunk, and I … well, I think I verbally abused him.”
“You drunk-dialed him?”
I screw up my face. “Apparently.”
“Well, that explains a lot.” She yawns. “Do you want to come in and wait?”
“Sure. If that’s okay.”
“It’s fine.” She pulls the door open, then shuffles back toward her room. “He shouldn’t be long. Make yourself at home. I’m going back to bed. When he gets back, slap him over the head for me, would you?”
“Okay. Thanks. Sorry for waking you.”
“No problem.” She closes her door behind her, and I gaze around the living room. It’s spotless.
Never before has a tidy room given me such a sense of foreboding.
My head aches, so I sit on the couch and flick through a magazine for a few minutes, until I realize I’m barely looking at it. I toss it back onto the coffee table and head into Holt’s room. His bed has been made with military precision. Sitting open in the middle of it is … oh, God.
Is that his diary?
His neat writing covers both pages, and a pen lies along its spine.
Temptation, thy name is Holt’s Journal.
The urge to read it is almost impossible to resist, but I know how it feels to have your privacy invaded, and even though I’d give my left arm to get a sneak peek inside his brain, the breach of trust wouldn’t be worth it.
I close the book, careful not to look at what he’s written, and place it and the pen on the nightstand. Then I crawl onto the bed and shove my face into his pillow.
Hmmm. Smells so good.
Please don’t let him be angry with me. Let me be able to fix this.
Please.
Something brushes against my neck.
Lips. Warm breath.
I turn toward it, wanting more.
“Cassie?”
Shh. You’ll scare away the lips.
“Hey … you awake?”
“No. Shhh. More lips. My boyfriend will be back soon.”
The lips return. A different shape. Smiling?
They move up my neck, across my jaw. So soft but next to something rough. His chin. Cheek.
“Who do you think is kissing you?”
“Hmm. Orlando Bloom?”
Lips freeze, mid-kiss.
“Bloom? Seriously? Your boyfriend would kick that pasty Englishman’s ass.”
“Are you implying that you’re my boyfriend?”
More kisses that linger on my neck, then press softly against my ear. “I’m not implying anything. I’m stating it as fact.”
“Impossible. My boyfriend isn’t this affectionate.”
The lips stop. Breath exhales. Tension leaches from his body into mine.
I swallow, eyes still closed. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“What I just said. What I said last night. Please don’t be angry. It was the wine’s fault.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“Okay. You’re right. I can’t blame that entirely, but it helped.”
He cups my cheek. “Cassie, it wasn’t the wine, or you, or even Ruby, although I could hear her cheering you on. If it was anyone’s fault, it was mine.”
The excuse I’m about to say dies on my tongue. I open one eye. “Um … what?”
“You called me a fucking terrible boyfriend, and you were right.”
Both eyes open. “Did I actually use those words?”
“Yes.”
“Even the ‘F’ word?”
“Yes. Not gonna lie, it made me kinda hard.”
I push up on my elbow and assess him. He must have just gotten out of the shower, because he’s only wearing boxers. The sight of his naked chest distracts me. What’s even more distracting is how he’s not flinching away from my scrutiny.
I shake my head. “I’m sorry, but what exactly are you saying?”
He drops onto his back and closes his eyes. “Everything you said. All the criticism … You were right. I’ve been keeping you at a distance.”
“Why?”
When he pauses, I stroke his arm to urge him on. After a few seconds, he opens his eyes and gazes at the ceiling. “Do you know what my first thought was when I walked in and found you in my bed?”
“What?”
“That you’d read my journal.”
“But I didn’t. I swear—”
He turns to me. “I know. When I stopped and thought about it, I realized you wouldn’t do that. And yet, my first instinct was to think the worst of you, because that’s how I cope with … things. People. I’m always prepared for the worst, so when it happens, I won’t be surprised. Or disappointed. I figure, if I don’t really try, I can’t really fail, right? So that’s what I’ve been doing.”
“Ethan—” I put my hand on his shoulder, and he tenses.
He sits up. “I was angry with you last night, really fucking angry, not because what you said was wrong, but because it was all true. You brought up all the things I hate about myself. Shit from my past that has no right affecting you but does.” He shakes his head. “I’m going to try harder. I know that sounds like bullshit, but it’s all I can do, right?”
I don’t know if he’s trying to convince me or himself.
“Try to do what?”
“Be … better.” He cups my face and kisses me. There’s an edge of desperation in the grip of his fingers, the way his eyes are still closed when he pulls back. “I can do this. Be the boyfriend you deserve.”
“I believe you.”
As I say it, I know I’m lying, but I do believe he’s going to try.
The next morning, I’m throwing the last of my books into my bag and shoving a piece of toast in my mouth when I hear a knock at my door.
I open it to see Ethan, smiling and holding out a cardboard cup.
“Dickachino?” I ask, concerned.
“No, just hot chocolate. Extra marshmallows.” He smirks and gives me a quick kiss.
He’s freshly shaven and wearing faded jeans and a blue sweater. For a moment, I can’t process him like this. Here. Attentive. Smiling. Not dressed all in black like the grim reaper.
Does not compute.
His smile drops. “What the fuck is that look for? You’re staring at me like I’m a serial killer. The cocoa isn’t poisoned.”
Okay, that’s more familiar.
“It’s just, you’re not usually…” I’m distracted by how gorgeous and … unburdened he looks. “Uh, what are you doing here?”
He pushes past me and puts the cup on the table. “I’m being a better boyfriend, remember? Regular boyfriends walk their girlfriends to class, so here I am.” He picks up my bag and slings it over his shoulder. “Fuck me, what do you have in here?”
“Books.”
“Lead books?”
“I’m thinking regular boyfriends are nicer than you.”
“I’m nice.”
I snort. “Okay.”
He wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me against him, then kisses me in a way that makes my body go from zero to hormonal overload in about two seconds.
He looks down at me in triumph. “You can’t tell me that wasn’t nice.”
I nod. It’s not a valid answer, but it’s all I can manage.
“Ready to go?”
“Okay.”
He grabs my hand and pulls the door closed behind us.
I think I like this new boyfriend.