TWELVE
HOPEFUL INDIFFERENCE
Six Years Earlier
Westchester County, New York
The Grove
Two weeks.
Two weeks without talking to him. Two weeks in which every glance has been furtive and fleeting. I can’t say his effect on me is lessening, but I’m certainly getting better at ignoring it.
It’s only when I’m forced to look at him that my control wavers. When he stands in front of the class to perform, the cell-deep magnetism that draws me to him kicks into overdrive and tries to unstitch my resolve.
It’s in those long, surreal moments, when all I can think of is how much I still want him, that the cast iron around my heart threatens to bend.
But then I dial up my bitterness, and just like that, anger is my insulation. It allows the rush of lust to drain away like murky bathwater.
His performances are consistently good, but I roll my eyes when he continues to hold back, keeping those last few fragile pieces of himself safely hidden away, stifled from either shining or shattering.
When he finishes, I clap with everyone else, but I’m applauding his self-delusion more than his performance.
Bravo for faking it yet again, Ethan.
You’re a perfect counterfeit copy of someone I thought I loved.
We’re singing, loudly. Twirling and dancing after having smoked some of Lucas’s home-grown pot. Class doesn’t start for another half hour, and I’m glad because it’s been so long since I laughed, I don’t want it to end.
I don’t know how I know the words to Can’t Take My Eyes Off of You, but I do. We all do.
We’re obnoxious and off-key, but some of the weight I’ve carried in my chest since the breakup is finally lifting. Miranda twirls me toward Jack. He picks me up and passes me to Lucas. Aiyah hugs us both and strokes my hair. Lucas yells a heads-up to Connor, then throws me into his arms. Connor laughs as he overbalances, and then we’re on the floor. Everyone’s laughing. Connor has his arms around me, and as I laugh with him, his smile drops slowly, like paint dripping off a canvas.
He stares at me, and before I know it, I’m not laughing anymore, either. His face is too close. His expression is asking for too much as he sings to me about being too good to be true.
For long seconds, I think he’s going to kiss me, but instead he flops onto his back and pulls me close against his chest. People dance and sing around us, like we’re the centerpiece in some bizarre pagan ritual, and even though it feels wrong to be in such an intimate position, I stay there, testing out my reaction. He’s warm and smells nice, and I like the way he gently strokes my arm.
But I don’t want him.
When Ethan dumped me, I filled all the holes he left with concrete. It protects me against feeling too much. Then again, that’s all there is. No room for anything or anyone else.
I close my eyes. All I get are images of Ethan.
I feel claustrophobic.
“Hey, you okay?” Connor’s worried. So am I.
His voice is wrong. His face is wrong. I want to be in other arms. Have a different heartbeat pounding under my hand.
I stand and stagger toward the water fountain.
I drink forever, and then just let the water flow over my lips and tongue. I feel desiccated.
“Cassie?” Connor’s there, so caring and nice. So different from Ethan. “You okay?”
I nod and try to smile. “Yeah, fine. Just a bit dizzy, I guess.”
No, that description’s too simple. I have full-blown emotional vertigo. I’m completely turned around. Upside down and inside out.
I hate how freaking wrong I feel without him.
I let Connor put his arm around me and escort me to class. I let Ethan see as he hugs me when we arrive. I allow myself to smile when Ethan’s face transforms into a storm cloud of the darkest dimensions.
Good. Let him be pulled inside out, too.
At least now my wrongness has company.
“Miss Taylor?”
Erika is watching me with concern on her face. I’ve been standing near her desk, staring for minutes at the group assignments listed on the board, unable to process what she’s done.
She knows about Ethan and me. How could she not when everyone is still buzzing about it like flies on a rotting carcass? It’s been more than two months, and yet there’s no way she could be completely oblivious to the thrill of expectation that still ripples through the air every time we step into a room together. It’s as if everyone’s praying that we’ll fight. Or fuck. Or both.
Is my facade so flawless that she believes there’s any chance in hell I can perform with him again?
I glance at Holt. He’s staring at the whiteboard with a similar shell-shocked expression.
“Miss Taylor?” Erika says, louder. “Is there a problem?”
Most people have packed up and left, but the few who remain go silent, as if frightened that if they move, they’ll scare off the drama that’s about to happen.
“Erika … I just—” How can I say this without everyone … him … realizing how weak I am? “The groups for scene work. I’m not sure I can be in that group.”
Jack and Aiyah are lingering near the door. Lucas is pretending to fiddle with his shoelace. Phoebe and Zoe are keeping one eye on their phones as they slyly watch us. Erika politely tells them all to get out.
Then she turns to Ethan.
“Mr. Holt? Perhaps you should join us. I have a feeling this might have something to do with you.”
Ethan tenses his jaw and unfurls himself from his chair. As he slings his backpack onto his shoulder and walks over, goose bumps prickle my skin.
“Now,” Erika says when he’s standing as far from me as he can without making me look like a plague carrier, “why exactly can’t you work in the group to which you’ve been assigned, Miss Taylor?”
She knows, yet she wants me to say it. In front of him. Sometimes, I think she enjoys watching us squirm.
“I just don’t think me and…” I can’t say his name. If I say it, both he and Erika will see how not over him I am. “I don’t think having both of us in a group would be very fair to other members. There would be … tension.”
Erika looks between us. I don’t look at Holt, but I sense his frown.
“Mr. Holt? Do you agree?”
“Yes. There would definitely be tension.”
“So, you both expect me to give you preferential treatment because working together would be uncomfortable?”
Neither of us answers. That’s exactly what we expect, but saying so would make us seem like selfish assholes.
Erika sighs. “I want to make it clear that during your careers, you’ll have to work with many people you don’t like. People you’d rather avoid. But you can’t run away every time things become difficult. Plus, you’re asking me to give you special treatment simply because you’re no longer dating. If I do this for you, I’ll be setting a precedent that will quickly become a major pain in my ass.”
I know what she’s saying is true, but I still want her to do it.
Ethan and I say nothing. Our silent pleading speaks volumes.
Erika sighs again. “Because of the mix of characters I’ve assigned within each group, the only person I could swap Mr. Holt with would be Mr. Bain.” Ethan tenses. “Would that be acceptable to both of you?”
Ethan asks, “What kind of scenes are we doing?”
Erika’s onto him. “Does it matter? Either you want to stay in Miss Taylor’s group or swap with Connor. What will it be?”
I say, “Swap,” at exactly the same time Ethan says, “Stay.” Then to make sure we truly embarrassed ourselves, we do it again, louder.
Ethan and I stare each other down. It’s the first time we’ve really looked at each other in the past eight and a half weeks. My face and body flush with fierce heat.
It doesn’t escape my attention that Ethan’s ears have also gone bright pink.
“Fine. Whatever,” he says, waving his hand. “Swap me with Connor. Do whatever she wants.”
“Oh, no, by all means, keep Holt in my group. What he wants is far more important.”
“I don’t want this,” he says as he steps closer, “but we both know it’s for the best.”
“Are we still talking about the acting groups? Because if not, I know no such thing.”
Erika rolls her eyes and grabs her folder off the desk. “I don’t have time for this. Give me your decision by the end of today, or the groups stand, unchanged.”
Ethan and I are too busy fuming to even notice her leaving.
He’s too close. My body’s involuntary craving to touch him makes me even angrier.
“Just take the swap, Ethan. You know we can’t work together.”
“Yeah, and it’s real convenient you get to work with Connor instead.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Like you have no clue. Tell me, how long did he wait to hit on you after he found out we’d broken up? Every time I see him, he’s all over you.”
“Connor’s a friend. That’s all. Unlike other people, he actually cares about me.”
“Bullshit. He cares about the possibility of you riding his cock. You’re just too naive to see it.”
“Whatever he cares about is none of your business! You broke up with me, remember? Just because you don’t want me doesn’t mean other men don’t.”
His expression clouds over, and his voice drops to a harsh whisper. “My breaking up with you had nothing to do with how much I wanted you. You know that.”
“You said that you loved me, then you dumped me. Even to a crazy person, that seems nuts.”
I guess this is the part where we fight about our breakup. I’d predicted it would have happened sooner, but I’m ready to come out, guns a-blazing.
“Just admit you broke up with me to protect yourself, Ethan. End of story.”
“That’s bullshit, and you know it. If we’d stayed together, I would’ve hurt you—”
“News flash! You hurt me anyway!”
“I would have hurt you more!”
“So you broke up in the hopes that we could have a chance at being friends, and yet this is the first time we’ve said two words to each other in over two months.”
He lets out a bitter laugh. “We can’t handle being friends.”
“There you go again, making assumptions about what I can and can’t handle.”
“Oh, really? You think you could deal with us getting close again? Fine. Let’s workshop that.”
His expression turns predatory, and he takes a step closer. I step back.
“Do you seriously believe we could pretend we don’t want more?” He advances. I retreat. “Just imagine it. ‘Hey, Cassie. Wanna have lunch?’” He’s struggling to keep his expression casual. “How about we study together? Let’s run lines.”
My back hits the wall. He’s so close, we’re almost touching.
“Aw, you’re feeling bad? Let’s hug. That’s what friends do, right?”
His body heat is scorching. My skin is crawling with electricity.
He puts one hand on the wall beside my head and leans down. His voice is quiet and dark. “Once we get our arms around each other, we won’t want to let go. It will be an avalanche of ‘kiss me,’ ‘touch me,’ ‘put your hand down my pants.’ ‘Take off your clothes, so I can be inside you.’”
“Stop.” I can’t breathe.
“That’s the problem. We wouldn’t stop. We’d keep going and all of a sudden we’d be neck-deep in a relationship in which my issues would fucking strangle us all over again. Would that be less torturous than what we’re going through now? Because I don’t know about you, but I’d rather have none of you than little pieces that just keep me wanting more.”
I take a breath and look him in the eye. “So then why the fuss about swapping with Connor?”
His expression softens, and he steps back. “Because the only thing that would kill me more than touching you right now would be watching someone else do it.”
“You gave up your right to decide that. This time the decision’s mine, and since I can’t have you, I choose Connor.”
I don’t realize how I’ve worded it until it’s out of my mouth, and by then, it’s too late.
He looks like I’ve punched him. “Of course you do. Fine. I’ll go and tell Erika.”
He grabs his bag and heads to the door. When he reaches it, he turns back to me.
“Just out of interest, if I have to do a love scene with Zoe in my new group, would you care?”
Now it’s my turn to feel like I’ve been punched but I don’t let him see.
“Ethan, I’ve just spent the past eight weeks teaching myself not to care every single time I see you. I’m getting pretty good at it by now.”
He nods and gives me a bitter smile. “Good for you.”
The campus gym.
I’ve been at this school for over eight months, and this is the first time I’ve stepped inside. It’s big. Just like everything else at this school.
The main floor is filled with cardio equipment and weight machines, and on the second level, there’s a free-weights area and various specialized rooms for things like yoga, Pilates, and boxing. There’s even a racquetball court.
It seems Eva Bonetti, whose name is plastered over the door, was a generous patron of the arts.
Ruby said I should try out the boxing room. Relieve some stress, she’d said. Stop being a mopey bitch, she’d said. Pretend the punching bag is Holt’s stupidly handsome face, she’d said.
I figure it can’t hurt. So here I am, brand-new boxing gloves in hand, resolve firmly in place. Determined to purge some of the emotional pressure that’s been building inside me for the past few months.
It’s Friday night, so the place is practically empty. Of course, most college students have more exciting things to do on the weekend than punch out their frustrations. I’m not one of them.
As I approach the boxing room, I hear grunts coming from inside.
Dammit. I hadn’t considered someone else would be using it.
I reach the door and peer in through the glass panel.
My breath catches.
It’s him.
Broad shoulders in a wifebeater, his arms pumping as he pummels the bag. Jabs and uppercuts blend into thumping roundhouses. His riotous hair drips with sweat.
Every time he hits the bag, he grunts, his face intense and angry. Time and again the gloves thump and smack. I can nearly feel the force of it through the door.
A cold shiver runs up my spine.
He looks desperate. Like he’s fighting for his life. Hitting and hitting and hitting, and seemingly getting no satisfaction from it. It should make me happy to see him suffering so much, but it doesn’t. It makes my throat tighten with emotions I don’t want to feel.
He continues punishing the bag, arms flying, body pivoting to give him more power. Then he kicks it, knees it. Uses so much force, I feel the vibration through the floor. He gets faster and faster, and his noises become more frustrated, until at last he stops and grips the bag as he gasps for breath. His face morphs into an expression of total defeat.
“Fuck it,” he groans as he presses his forehead into the Everlast logo. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”
I’m desperate to know what’s going through his mind. I long to tell him he’s making it too hard. That it could be so easy and right between us if he’d just give in.
But I know he wouldn’t believe me.
It’s too late for that anyway. The damage has been done.
At this point, we’re beyond repair.
When he rips off his gloves and throws them at the wall, I sling my gym bag over my shoulder and walk away. Every part of me complains. Begs me to go back.
I don’t.
Each step away from him is like dragging my feet though quicksand.
By the time I reach the stairs, the grunting has started again.
“He misses you, you know.”
I didn’t think anyone knew about my secret reading corner at the far edge of the drama block, but I should have realized Elissa is part bloodhound.
I close my book, not sure what to say. She helps by flopping down next to me and filling the silence. “I know you think he’s an asshole or whatever, but … I’ve never seen my brother so ruined over anyone before. He’s like a ghost of who he was when he was with you.”
Bitter laughter bubbles out of me. “Maybe he shouldn’t have dumped me, then.”
She picks at the grass next to her. “He thinks he’s protecting you.”
“Well, he’s wrong.”
“What if he’s not?” She holds her hand up to shield her eyes from the sun’s glare. “What if he’d stayed and all his issues forced you to be the one who walked away? Would that have been less or more painful?”
I shrug. “I guess we’ll never know, will we?”
“Guess not.”
She’s quiet for a moment then says, “He’s not a bad person, Cassie. He’s just … damaged. Scared.”
I blink and pick at the grass, trying to calm the heat that’s rising up my neck. “I know. And now, thanks to him, I know what that’s like.”
She doesn’t reply to that. I don’t expect her to. It’s a conversation killer, and we both know it.
She stands. “Do you at least miss him?”
More than I’ve missed anything or anyone in my short and unremarkable life.
“I’m trying really hard not to.”
“How’s that working out for you?”
“Miserably.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Elissa, you have nothing to apologize for. Your brother, on the other hand…”
She nods. “Do you think you’ll ever forgive him?”
I sigh. “I don’t know. I honestly don’t.”
It’s the truth. I’d like to think I could get past all of this, but I don’t know if I’m strong enough.
“I hope you do,” she says. “You two are meant to be together. I can feel it in my bones.”
The thing that frustrates me more than anything is that I know she’s right.
I just don’t see how it’s possible.
It’s performance day.
We’ve been rehearsing our excerpts for four weeks. Holt and I have hardly spoken the entire time.
Avoidance has become an art form, for both of us.
My group is performing scenes from A Streetcar Named Desire. Connor’s playing Stanley. I’m Blanche.
I know now why Erika initially wanted Holt to play Stanley. He’s perfect for the role—moody, intense, full of turmoil and passion, unsure of himself and aggressive because of it. Connor’s doing a good job, but Ethan would have been spectacular.
Blanche is a challenge for me. She’s an aging Southern belle. Distraught over the suicide of her husband. Haunted by having walked in on him having sex with a man. Embarrassed by her sister’s violent oaf of a husband, and fighting her primal attraction to him.
As we prepare to go on, I sneak a peek into the auditorium. All of our classmates are there, as well as the second-year actors. I see Holt, tight jawed and restless in his seat, trying to look interested in something Lucas is saying.
Just as Erika announces our scenes, Holt stands and strides out of the theater.
Even though I’m a little hurt, I’m also relieved.
Now I can pour everything into my performance without being self-conscious about him watching me with Connor.
It also makes me not feel so bad about hiding in the bathroom when he did his love scenes with Zoe earlier. I couldn’t watch them together. I just couldn’t. Just thinking about it made my head pound with rage.
Yep, this not caring about each other thing is going well.
Ruby points to a third-year drama student with shaggy hair.
“Kiss him.”
“No.”
She gestures to a guy I’ve never seen before but who bears a striking resemblance to a young Matt Damon. “What about him?”
“No.”
“Here, have some more tequila.”
“It’s not going to make me want to kiss random boys.”
“Yes, it is. Trust me.”
I sigh and slump against the couch. “Ruby, I don’t want to kiss anyone.”
“Yes, you do, but you want it to be that douche who dumped you freaking months ago, which is why I’m staging this intervention.”
“Okay, taking me to a party and getting me drunk enough to mack on strangers is not an intervention.”
“It is in my book.”
“Also, I do not want to kiss Holt.”
She rolls her eyes. “Sure you don’t. That’s why, in the five months since you broke up, you haven’t even looked at another guy.”
“That’s not true. I’ve looked.”
“Yeah, you just haven’t touched.” She throws up her hands. “Cassie, don’t you understand that the best way to get over one guy is to get under another?”
“I just don’t feel like getting into anything, okay?”
“I’m not saying you have to pick out china patterns or anything. Just have some fun. Kiss. Grope. Fuck. It doesn’t have to be with the love of your life. You’re nineteen, for God’s sake. You can’t just swear off all men because Holt broke your heart. Men are like vibrators. Just because they’re dicks, it doesn’t mean you can’t use them to have a good time.”
She hands me another shot of tequila and I down it, mainly because I can’t be bothered to argue with her.
I’m starting to feel blurry. Like the room is filled with Jell-O and everyone’s moving slowly.
Ruby’s still talking, but I’ve tuned her out. I don’t want to be here. Also, I know she’s right.
I am afraid of getting hurt again.
Part of me wants to take Ruby’s advice and hook up with someone, purely to feel wanted again. To remind myself that I’m attractive and desired, and not as hollow as I feel. But I know I’ll always feel the twinge of what Ethan did to me. It will always hold me back.
I get up. “I’m going home, Ruby. I’m sorry. You stay. Have a good time.”
She stands and hugs me. “Well, me having a good time is a given. I just wish I could help you get over Mr. Dickface.”
I laugh. “I am getting over him. I swear. I haven’t fantasized about punching him or fucking him for weeks now.”
She pulls back and looks at me in shock. “Seriously?”
“Yep.”
She strokes my cheek. “Awwww, I’m so pwoud of you.”
I smack her hand away and hug her again. She really does give the world’s best hugs.
I call for a cab and head toward the door. Just before I get there, I see a familiar shape silhouetted in the hallway, tall and lanky, chaotic hair. I slow down and lean against the wall for support as I contemplate squeezing past him.
To my relief, when he turns around I see that it isn’t Holt. It’s a guy I’ve never seen before. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Kind of gorgeous. He gives me a smile and moves back against the wall to let me pass.
“Please tell me you’re not leaving,” he says, obviously a little drunk. “It would be a total crime if the most beautiful girl at this party went home before I got a chance to talk to her.”
I shrug. “Sorry. I have some very important sitting around to do. Can’t waste my whole night partying.”
He holds out his hand. “I’m Nick, by the way. Third-year visual arts.”
I put my hand in his, and when we shake, I’m surprised to find it gives me a small thrill.
“Cassie. First-year actor.”
“Very nice to meet you, Cassie.”
“Likewise, Nick.”
He doesn’t let go of my hand, and I don’t remove it. There’s something about the way he’s looking at me that makes me feel less empty. I know we’re both a little drunk, but it’s nice to know someone finds me desirable.
“KISS HIM!” Ruby yells down the hallway.
I pull my hand free and cover my face.
Nick looks at Ruby, clearly bemused. “Uh … is that a friend of yours?”
“Not anymore.”
He laughs. “Does she often scream at you to kiss people you’ve just met?”
“Yeah. More often than I’d like.”
He steps closer. “Well, she seems nice. I’d hate for her to be disappointed.”
Before I register what’s happening, he leans down and presses his lips against my cheek. My skin tingles in a not-unpleasant kind of way, and I instinctively grab his shirt. He pulls back and smiles.
“I hope that was okay.”
“Yeah,” I say, a little dizzy. “That was okay.”
I wait for the guilt to hit me, but when it does, it’s far less potent than I expect.
Maybe I am getting over Holt after all.
Or maybe it’s just the tequila.
Whatever the reason, when my cab pulls up and blares its horn, I say good-night to Nick feeling a lot more confident about my romantic future than before I arrived.
Being sort of attracted to someone means I’m on my way to being completely indifferent to Ethan, right?
I’m in the costume cage down in the basement level of the drama block. It’s cramped and dusty, and innumerable costumes from hundreds of productions have been squeezed onto row after row of floor-to-ceiling racks. Students are allowed to borrow them by permission of the facilities coordinator, but finding exactly what you want is always tough. I’ve been looking for something for my monologue from Twelfth Night for almost an hour, and the stale air is making me feel light-headed.
When all the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, I know I’m not alone. Sure enough, I turn around to find Ethan watching me.
“I didn’t know you were in here,” he says, seeming annoyed.
My heart rate speeds up “Yeah, well, I am.”
Stop it. You’re indifferent, remember? He has no effect on you anymore.
He exhales and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Are you nearly done?”
His tone irritates me. “I have no idea. Why?”
“I need a costume. I guess I’ll wait til you’re gone.”
I sigh, and turn to the rack. “Just find your damn costume, Ethan. I have more important things to do than avoid you right now.”
I flick through costumes, studiously ignoring him.
He says, “Fine. Whatever,” and disappears from my aisle. I hear him a few yards away, scraping hangers just as aggressively as I am.
After another twenty minutes of searching, I find a dress I think will suit Viola, and I head into the small curtained-off dressing area to try it on. When I pull the curtain back, Ethan’s there, shirtless, bent over the button-fly of what look like leather breeches.
He looks at me and grits his teeth as he pulls at his crotch. “I can’t get these fucking things done up. It’s like trying to thread a goddamn needle with a banana.”
I’d laugh if I wasn’t so devastated by seeing him half naked and practically touching himself.
“Ah, fuck it,” he says as he abandons his efforts so he can slip on the matching jacket. The style is part biker, part Elizabethan doublet. The effect is all sexy.
He steps out of the dressing room and gestures for me to go in. “Go for it. I can wrestle with this stupid fucking costume out here.”
I step inside and pull the curtain across. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t peek through to watch his chest flex as he struggled to button the jacket.
You’re totally and completely indifferent, goddammit!
“What monologue are you doing, anyway?” I say as I drag my attention away from him and pull off my T-shirt and bra.
He grunts in frustration. “Hamlet. I swear to God, these buttons don’t fit through these holes. Do I need an engineering degree to get into this goddamn costume?”
I take a moment to register that we’re having a relatively normal conversation. It’s strange but also kind of cool. Maybe we really will be able to become friends one day.
I pull the dress over my head and try to reach the zipper. “Hamlet’s a bit of an obvious choice for you, isn’t it? Moody. Troubled. Self-destructive.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not really in the headspace right now to play light and fluffy.”
“Are you ever?”
He pauses. “What’s your point?”
I twist my arms up behind me and tug, but the zipper isn’t cooperating. “Fracking crap.”
“Let me guess, you can’t get your costume zipped up.”
The curtain pulls back and he’s standing there—jacket open, bare chest, pants half buttoned. His eyes widen when he registers how low cut my dress is.
“Uh … you want me to…?” He gestures with his finger, obviously trying to drag his focus up to my face. He’s successful for about half a second before he drops back to my cleavage. “Uh … help with the … uh…”
“Zipper?”
“Yeah. That. I’ll help you if you help me.”
I turn around and feel him step behind me. He tugs the zipper up to the middle of my back, then warm fingertips brush across my neck as he sweeps my hair over my shoulder. I think I hear him swallow. The zipper protests as he pulls it all the way up, but he gets it done. The bodice is so tight, I can barely breathe. Taking shallow breaths, I turn and press my hands against my waist.
“Jeez, how did women wear these things every day? I feel like my internal organs are going to merge together in a giant blancmange of gross.”
There’s silence.
When I look up, Ethan is staring. The lust in his expression makes a shiver run through me.
“Uh-huh.”
He steps closer, and now it’s not the dress that’s making it hard to breathe. I stare at his neck because I really can’t look at his face. I study the pattern of his scruff and how it gives way to smooth skin. Even now, after all these months, I remember so clearly how that skin tastes. How he used to moan when I nibbled it.
“Cassie?”
“Hmmm?”
“The buttons? Your fingers might be more dexterous than mine.”
“Oh. Right.”
I take the edges of the jacket and pull them together. His chest is too broad, so it’s not easy, and he’s right, the buttons do seem too large for the holes. I struggle with the thick fabric but have success with the bottom few buttons before running into problems.
“Have you put on weight?”
“A bit. I’ve been working out.”
“Boxing?”
He pauses. “Yes. How did you know that?”
I shrug. “Lucky guess.”
I pull again but the button’s not cooperating.
“I can’t get it.”
“Leave it then,” he says, his voice tight. “It’s fine.”
Once more the button pops out. “Dammit!”
“Taylor…” He closes his hand over both of mine. “For God’s sake, just fucking … stop.”
I freeze. Time slows down.
He’s touching me.
The effect is instantaneous and debilitating. My heart skips into overdrive when he lets out a ragged breath. I stare at his hand covering mine. So alien. So familiar. Wrong and right twisting around each other and into my stomach.
I watch in sick fascination as he rubs his thumb across my knuckles in slow motion. I want to step away, but I’m frozen. I can’t look up at him, afraid of what I’ll do. Or what he’ll do. Even through the thick leather of the jacket I can feel his heart pounding, faster than mine. His chest is rising and falling rapidly, and I know that whatever happens in the next few seconds could very well undo the past eight months of cultivated aloofness.
“Cassie … he groans.”
He presses my hands more firmly against his chest, and my resolve fails. I want to pull the jacket open and press my mouth to his skin. Taste the warmth there before moving up to his neck. He seems to want it, too, because he grips my hands and pushes them beneath the fabric. When my palms press into his bare chest, he inhales so sharply, it’s like he’s in pain.
I close my eyes and seek the strength to stop. I have to. I can’t be like this again. Desperate and needy. The obstacles keeping us apart haven’t changed. Especially not him.
I open my eyes to meet his gaze. It’s searing. Dark and intense and way too compelling.
Resolve, where are you when I need you?
This isn’t him wanting me back. It’s just him wanting me. And me wanting him. Pounding hearts and hormones screaming at us.
I move my hands over his chest and feel the fast pulse beneath it, looking for an excuse to let this happen. To allow me to have his body without needing anything more. To relieve the aching sexual frustration that’s haunted me since the day we broke up.
But there’s no excuse. No alternate reality in which this would make things anything but immeasurably worse.
I curl my fingers into his muscles before I snap back to reality. Finding strength I didn’t know I had, I pull away, embarrassed and irritated. I hate that I’m practically boneless with desire. That one fleeting touch from him can still affect me so completely.
I stare at him and try to find my voice.
He stares back, apparently just as shocked.
“What the hell was that?” Adrenaline is storming through my veins, making me hot and shaky.
He blinks and shakes his head. Angry. With himself or me?
“I have no idea.” His jaw flexes, and he drops his head. “That was fucking stupid. I … I shouldn’t have—”
“No, you shouldn’t.”
He snaps his head up to look at me. Definitely angry with me this time. “I didn’t see you stepping back too quickly. You were breathing just as hard as I was.”
“That doesn’t mean you can … that we should—” I rake my fingers through my hair. “Goddammit, Ethan, we’re supposed to be past this by now! I shouldn’t feel this way when—”
“When what?”
“When you’re near me! When you touch me. You can’t just … do that to me.”
“Believe me, I know the feeling.”
I throw my hands up. “I didn’t do anything!”
“You don’t need to. Just fucking existing is enough to completely ruin me.”
The sadness in his tone makes me pause, but it doesn’t make me any less angry.
“Whatever,” I say as I try to unzip my dress. “Forget it.”
He pulls off his jacket and says, “What the fuck do you think I’ve been trying to do all year?”
The bodice of the dress seems to tighten like a python, squeezing me to the point of asphyxiation. “Get this damn thing undone.”
I turn so he can unzip me, and when he does, I stalk into the dressing room. I rip off the dress and pull my bra and shirt back on. Then I gather up my stuff and throw back the curtain. He’s standing there watching me, like he’s about to apologize or something.
I pause. We stare at each other. No apology is forthcoming.
Of course not.
Freaking typical.
“Oh, hey, guys.”
We both turn to see Jack Avery, holding an armful of costumes. “Oh, wow, did I interrupt something? Need some privacy? Or condoms?”
I make a disgusted noise and push past him. “Shut up, Jack.”
As I walk down toward the exit, I hear Avery say, “Dude, are you still pretending she doesn’t have you totally and completely whipped? How fucking deluded are you?”
As I reach the door, Holt says, “For once I agree with Cassie, Avery. Shut the fuck up.”
Hours later, when I get home, I’m still tingling from the memory of my hands on his chest. They crave to feel him again. Want more of him beneath them.
I groan and collapse onto my bed, frustrated beyond belief.
Indifference? Yeah, right.
I have no freaking idea what that word means.
My only consolation is that neither does Ethan.