EIGHT
EMAILS AND ZEN
Present Day
New York City
End of day four of rehearsal
When I enter my apartment, I’m met by rainforest noises. Goddamn running water and birds calls with some annoying melodic/electronic crap that makes me want to tear my hair out.
“Fuck.”
“I heard that,” says a very relaxed voice from the living room. “Please don’t pollute our sanctuary with aggressive language. You’re harshing my calm.”
My emotional exhaustion weighs on me like a blanket of lead. I drop my bag in the hall before zombie-walking into the living room and collapsing onto the couch.
“Please turn off this crap.” I sigh as I tilt my head back and look at the ceiling. “It’s not relaxing. It makes me want to torture puppies. And you.”
My roommate, Tristan, is sitting on the large rug in front of me, legs crossed, hands on his knees. His eyes are closed, and his breathing is even and measured. He’s wearing tiny shorts. Nothing else. I take a moment to reflect on how years of yoga have sculpted all six-foot-four of him into the pinnacle of masculine perfection. His long black hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and his face is smooth and free of tension. Having a Japanese mother and a Malaysian father has given him the sort of exotic good looks that should be immortalized by an artist. He’d make a great statue.
Hot Buddha.
Unlike me, he’s the epitome of goddamn Zen.
“Bad day?” he asks.
I spent most of the day making out with my very attractive ex-lover who I’m not even remotely over. Bad doesn’t cover it. “You have no idea.”
Tristan opens his eyes and assesses me with a glance. “Oh, God, Cass. Your chakras are all over the place. What the hell happened?”
“Holt and I kissed.” My voice is tired and croaky. My brain is muddy. I’m so turned around, I can barely speak.
Tristan sighs and shakes his head. “Cassie, after everything we talked about. After you swore to me you wouldn’t jump back into something with him. After you wrote the Oath of Self Preservation.”
“It wasn’t spontaneous, Tris. It was part of the scene.”
He turns off the stereo. Thank God.
“Oh. And?”
“And…”
He waits for me, but I can’t speak. If I open my mouth, a storm of bitterness will swirl out of me and strip the skin from my bones.
“Cassie?”
I shake my head. He knows.
He sits beside me and wraps me in his giant arms.
“Sweet girl.” He sighs as I hug him like he’s the only thing anchoring me to reality.
“Tris, I’m so screwed.”
“You knew this would be hard.”
“Not this hard.”
“What about him? How’s he dealing with things?”
“He’s being a prick.”
“Really?”
I sigh again. “No, not really. Mostly he’s being kind of semi-decent and concerned, but that’s almost worse. I don’t know how to deal with him like that.”
“Maybe he’s changed.”
“I doubt it.”
“Has he apologized?”
“Of course not.”
“What if he did?”
I thought about it. Would I accept it? Could he ever apologize enough for me to forgive him?
“Cassie?”
“Let’s say he did apologize, which is about as likely as small, furry animals flying out of your butt. It wouldn’t change anything. He’s still him, and I’m still me. We’re like these giant magnets that keep flipping over and over again, pulling each other in, then pushing away, and I just— I…”
I deflate and go still.
I can’t say it. I can’t admit that the first time I’ve felt whole in years was when he was kissing me today. It makes me crazy to realize he’s the only one who can make me feel that way.
I rub my face. “I don’t know what to do.”
“You need to talk to him.”
“And say what? ‘Gee, Ethan, even though you completely destroyed me when you left, I still want you, because I’m the world’s biggest glutton for punishment’? I can’t give him that kind of ammunition.”
“You two aren’t at war.”
“Yes, we are.”
“Does he know that?”
“He should. He started it.”
Tristan gives me a look. I know he’s about to say something profound, enlightened, and thoroughly freaking annoying. Whatever he says will be right. He’s always right. I hate that about him.
I also love that about him.
Ever since the night he waited for me at the stage door to tell me how amazing I was in the off-Broadway version of Portrait, we’ve had a connection. I felt like he was meant to be in my life, and I hadn’t had that since Ruby moved overseas in our senior year.
He needed a place to stay, so when my roommate turned out to be a compulsive shoe-napper and fled in the middle of the night with my entire footwear collection, I didn’t think twice about asking him to move in.
We’ve been best friends ever since, and over the past three years, he’s seen me in every stage of my “I Hate Holt” evolution. He’s helped me overcome many of my destructive tendencies, but today is a definite setback.
“Cassie, what do you want?”
It seems like a deceptively easy question, but I know better. Tristan doesn’t ask easy questions.
“I don’t want him to make me feel these things anymore.”
“I didn’t ask what you didn’t want, I asked what you want. If you could have anything, regardless of present, past, and future, what would it be?”
I think hard. The answer is simple. And impossible.
“I want to be happy again.”
“And what’s going to make you happy?”
Ethan.
No.
Yes. Ethan holding me and kissing me.
Don’t. You can’t. He won’t.
Ethan. Running his hands over my body as he undresses me.
God, no.
Ethan groaning my name as he moves inside me and declares his undying love.
Oh, Jesus.
I stand and stride into the kitchen. My hands tremble as I grab the nearest bottle of wine, tear off the cap, and pour a huge glass. Tristan leans against the doorframe. I feel his disapproval as I drink too much, too fast.
“Cassie—”
“Don’t wanna hear it.”
“I’m going to take you out.”
“No.”
“Yes. You need to chill and stop obsessing over the gorgeous Mr. Holt.”
“Please don’t refer to him as ‘gorgeous.’ Or ‘Mr. Holt.’ In fact, don’t mention him at all. That’d be great.”
“Let me take you to the Zoo. It’s straight night. You can ogle to your heart’s content.”
I drain the rest of the glass. “Tristan, what I need tonight is to drink myself into a semiconscious stupor at home, alone. If I go out, you know that I’ll end up fucking a stranger who’ll make me forget all about the asshole-who-shall-not-be-named for a few short hours. Then you’ll give me a lecture in the morning about meaningless one-night stands and how I use them to desensitize myself to the pain of my past rejections by His Royal Assholeness, and how eventually I’m going to have to treat the cause of the gaping hole in my heart and not just the symptoms.”
He exhales and blinks. “Well, you’ve just packed more self-awareness into that mini rant than you’ve shown in the entire time I’ve known you. I was beginning to think you didn’t listen when I talked.”
“I do listen. And maybe I’m learning.” I refill my glass.
“Thank the ever-loving Sun God,” he says, and walks over to hug me. “Now, when are you going to talk to him?”
I sigh and shake my head. “I don’t know. When I can manage it without falling apart?”
“That would be never.”
“Tristan…”
“Cass, stop procrastinating. The sooner you do it, the sooner you can start planning how to purge all the bad energy between you two.”
“I don’t even know if that’s what he wants.”
He rolls his eyes. “Even I know that’s what he wants, and I’ve never met the man. I’ve read his e-mails, remember? When are you going to stop hiding and let him talk? If you can find a way to forgive him, then maybe … just maybe … you can figure out how to be happy again. With or without him in your life.”
He’s right. As usual.
“You know I hate you, right?”
“No, you don’t.”
I take a giant swig of wine. “Just let me get through the next few days, then … I’ll talk to him.”
He hugs me again. “Good. I love you.”
“Love you, too. Have a good time at the club.”
“You know I will. See you tomorrow.”
I kiss him on the cheek before taking the wine into my bedroom and closing the door.
After I put on some music, I open my laptop and spend a few minutes checking e-mails. There’s one from Ruby that makes me laugh, as well as several from very helpful companies telling me how to improve my penis size. I delete the junk and switch to my desktop.
There it is.
The little icon that forever taunts me. It’s labeled Asshole’s E-mails. I sip my wine and stare at it, with my finger hovering over the mouse button.
I’ve read them all before. Dozens of times. Always with eyes clouded by bitterness and pain.
I wonder what I’d see if I tried to get past all that. Would they portray a different Holt than the one I’d spent so many hours cursing?
“Fucking fucking fuck.”
I open the file.
The familiar words fill the screen, and I take a deep breath.
The first one is dated three months after he left me.
…
From: EthanHolt <[email protected]>
To: CassandraTaylor <[email protected]>
Subject: <none>
Date: Fri, July 16 at 9:16pm
Cassie,
I’ve been sitting here looking at my screen for two hours trying to get up the courage to e-mail you, and now that I’m typing, I have no fucking idea what I’m going to say.
Should I apologize to you? Of course.
Should I beg for your forgiveness? Absolutely.
Will you give it to me? I doubt it.
But even though I hurt you, I still think I did the right thing by leaving. I needed to go while one of us still had a chance to be whole.
Now I’m smiling, because I can imagine you rolling your eyes and calling me an asshole. You’d be right. I warned you on the first day we met, remember? I was so damned frightened of you, I said we shouldn’t be friends, but you made us friends anyway.
You wound up being the best friend I’ve ever had.
I miss our friendship.
I miss you.
I guess that’s all I wanted to say.
Ethan.
…
The next one is a month later.
From: EthanHolt <[email protected]>
To: CassandraTaylor <[email protected]>
Subject: <none>
Date: Fri, Aug 13, at 7:46pm
Cassie,
I’ve decided to keep writing to you, even if you never reply, because I’m going to pretend you read these and think of me. You know how good I am at pretending.
The show’s going well. The cast is good, and I’m glad I’m back playing Mercutio instead of Romeo. Playing the romantic lead was never my strong suit, as you know.
I often get chest pains when I think of you. It’s not fun. I’m too young to have a heart condition, but I’m afraid to get it checked out in case they tell me what I already know: that it’s defective and can’t be fixed.
I sometimes wonder what you’re doing and hope you’re moving on. That’s what you deserve, but there’s a part of me that hopes you’re miserable I’m gone.
I miss you.
Ethan.
…
And the next one. The one I’ve read more than any other. The one I read when I miss him so much I can almost feel his hands on my body.
From: EthanHolt <[email protected]>
To: CassandraTaylor <[email protected]>
Subject: <none>
Date: Wed, Sept 1, at 2:09am
Cassie,
It’s two am, and I’m drunk. Soooooo fuking drunk. I want you so bad. I wannt you naked and panting. I wanna see your face as you come, and … God … I want you.
Of course, I never did figure out how to fuck you, did I? Coulnd’t just detach and treat it liek sex, ’cause it never was. Ever. It was so much more.
I brought a girl home with me tongiht. A pretty girl. Beautiful, even.
Not as beautiufl as you, but then no one is.
She wanted me to fuck her, but I coudn’t. Couln’t barely kiss her because her lips didn’t taste like yours, and she didn’t smell right because she wan’t you.
Now I’m hard as a fucking rock sitting here writing to you and, I know I’ll never be inside you again, and it’s all I can thing about. So when I finish writing trhis, I’ll probably fuck my hand while I fantasize about you, and then hate myself just a little bit more.
I’m pathetic.
I don’t want to obsess over you anymore. It hurts too much.
I miss you too much.
Ethan.
…
And then, there’s this.
From: EthanHolt <[email protected]>
To: CassandraTaylor <[email protected]>
Subject: No excuse
Date: Wed, Sept 1, at 10:16am
Cassie,
I’m so ashamed of the e-mail I sent you last night. I have no excuse. I drank too much, and, well, you know the rest.
Please delete it and forget it happened.
That’s what I’m going to try to do.
Ethan.
…
After that I didn’t hear from him for months. Then this arrived.
From: EthanHolt <[email protected]>
To: CassandraTaylor <[email protected]>
Subject: <none>
Date: Thu, Jan 13, at 12:52pm
Cassie,
Happy New Year.
It’s been a while.
How are you?
Of course I don’t expect you to answer that. You never answer me. That’s understandable.
I’ve been getting help. Talking to someone about why I continuously fuck things up. I’m trying to get better. I know I should’ve done this a long time ago, but better late than never, right?
My therapist says I need to let go of my fear, so I can let people in. I don’t fucking know anymore.
I think maybe I’m not meant to be happy. If I couldn’t be happy with you, I have no hope.
I want to make things better between us. Maybe get back to being friends. But I have no idea how to do that. And even if I did, I doubt you’d want to. Would you?
I’d like to be your friend again, Cassie.
I miss you.
Ethan.
…
There are more, but I can’t read them. The wine is gone, and my eyes are stinging.
I compose an e-mail.
…
From: CassandraTaylor <[email protected]>
To: EthanHolt <[email protected]>
Subject: End of the week
Date: Fri, Sept 4, at 9:46pm
Ethan,
For the sake of the show, I guess we should make time to talk. How about tomorrow night, after rehearsal?
Cassie.
…
I click send before I chicken out.
My dreams hate me. They always take me back to a time when all I was trying to do was forget. Or remember. I never could work out which.
The man kisses my neck as he increases his pace. Long, deep strokes. I make all the right noises, but I’m not even close.
“Cassie, look at me.”
I can’t. That’s not how this works. Looking at him shatters the illusion, and as flimsy as it is, the illusion is all I have.
“Cassie, please.”
I push him onto his back and take control. Ride him with desperation. Try to make it more than it is.
He groans and grabs my hips, and I know it’s almost over. He trails his hands over me, reverent and loving. I don’t deserve it. How does he not know this by now?
“Cassie, please look at me.”
His voice is all wrong. I move faster, making it so he can’t speak. When he grunts and goes still, I don’t get satisfaction. Just relief.
I pretend to come and collapse onto his chest, and even though he wraps his arms around me, the distance between us widens.
I listen to his heart. So strong. Fast and steady. Unafraid of loving. The sound is foreign to me.
I climb off and collect my clothes. He follows my every step with his eyes.
“You can’t stay?”
“No.”
He exhales. He’s tired of that answer. So am I.
“Just tell me one thing,” he says and sits up.
“What?”
“Are you ever going to think about just me when we make love?”
I pause, then pull on my T-shirt. I hate that I’m so obvious.
“Cassie, he left you.”
“I know.”
“Let him go.”
“I’m trying.”
“He’s on the other side of the world, and I’m here. I love you. I have for a long time. But that’s never going to make a difference, is it? No matter how much I want it to.”
He gets up and pulls on his boxers. Sharp, frustrated movements.
I don’t blame him. He deserves more.
I sit on the bed, defeated. This started out of spite, but now I want it to work. I’d give anything to not be this dysfunctional.
But I am. Trying to pretend otherwise isn’t working. And the relief I feel at hurting someone instead of being hurt makes me hate myself.
He stands in front of me, and when I hug him, he squeezes me tight.
“I can’t believe Ethan Holt’s screwing things up for me, even when he’s not here.”
The mere mention of his name makes my chest tighten.
I pull back and run my fingers over frown lines, trying to get them to loosen.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I know it’s a total cliché, but it’s absolutely not you. It’s me.”
He laughs. “Oh, I know that.” His expression softens. “Still, I hope you get closure one day, Cass. I really do.”
I nod and look at his chest. “Me, too.”
Then he kisses me, gentle and slow, and I nearly cry because I want it to feel so different.
Leaning his forehead against mine, he says, “And I hope that bastard realizes that letting you go was the stupidest thing he’s ever done.”
He walks me to the door and kisses me once more before saying, “See you tonight at the theater?”
I nod and say good-bye, and just like that, we’re back to being onstage lovers only.
It’s better this way.
As I leave, I vow not to inflict myself on innocents anymore. Get in, fuck, get out. No strings attached.
Love is weakness.
That’s not the only thing Holt taught me, but it’s the thing I remember most.
I almost fall off my chair as I jolt into consciousness.
My heart pounds furiously, fueled by latent guilt.
Jesus, what time is it?
I look at the clock. Ten forty-five. I’ve been asleep at my desk for an hour.
My mouth is dry, and when the room tilts, I’m reminded I drank a whole bottle of wine. I groan and push away from my desk, my whole body protesting as I get up and go into the bathroom.
I take a quick shower and brush my teeth as a pit of dread yawns in my stomach.
I e-mailed him.
I e-mailed him and said that we should talk.
I’m so not ready for that to happen. If he tries to excuse his behavior, I’ll end up punching him in the head. I know it.
I towel dry my hair and don’t even bother brushing it before I pull on my favorite pajamas and crawl into bed. I open a book and try to read, but my eyes are blurry. I rub them and sigh.
I’m tense, horny, and drunk. Damn, I need to get laid.
I can’t remember the last guy who gave me pleasure. Honestly, I have no idea what his name was. Matt? Nick? Blake? I know it had one syllable.
Whatever his name, he was an adequate lover, but he didn’t make me come. Few of them do. They feed my ego and make me forget for a while, but they never make me feel like Holt did. Then again, they never rip my heart out of my chest and shred it into a thousand pieces, either, so there’s that.
My phone rings. I know it’s Tristan wanting to tell me about the latest piece of delicious man-meat he’s discovered at the club.
I pick up the phone and jab the answer button. “Listen, dancing queen, I’m drunk, horny, and in no mood to hear about pretty men who aren’t going to fuck me. So for the love of my poor neglected vagina, order yourself another Cosmo and please fuck off.”
There’s a pause and an uncertain cough. “I’m more that happy to fuck off, but if it makes a difference, I wasn’t going to talk about dicks. I’m far more interested to hear more about your poor neglected vagina. How’s she been? We haven’t had a face-to-face in a while.”
Heat floods my cheeks. I shouldn’t have any shame left around him, yet I always seem to find just a little bit more.
“What do you want, Holt?”
“Well, considering you’re horny and drunk, I’d really like to be within groping distance. Failing that, I just want to talk. I got your e-mail.”
I rub my eyes. I have no patience for his charm tonight. “Yeah. Okay.”
“Saturday night would be great. Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me yet. There’s a strong chance we won’t make it through the evening without me throwing something at you, but I guess things can’t get much worse between us, right?”
He laughs. “I don’t know. There were times when we were less civil than we are now. Still, I appreciate the chance to clear the air.”
He goes silent, and so do I. We used to be able to talk on the phone for hours. Now, we’ve barely made it through a minute before the awkward sets in.
“So, was that all you called to say? Because you could have just told me tomorrow.”
There’s silence for a moment. Then he says, “I called to tell you something that couldn’t wait until tomorrow.”
A chill runs up my spine. “And what’s that?”
“I just needed to tell you … I’m sorry, Cass.”
I stop breathing and squeeze my eyes shut as a bizarre storm of emotions swirls within me.
Those words. Those simple, powerful words.
“Cassie? Did you hear me?”
“I don’t think so. It sounded like an apology, but in your voice.”
He sighs. “I know you didn’t hear me apologize nearly enough during our relationship, and I’m sorry for that, too. But before we spent one more day together, I had to say that. It was killing me not to.”
In my shock, I almost miss how slurred his speech is.
“Holt, you’ve been drinking, haven’t you?”
“A little,” he says.
“A little?”
“Well, a lot, but that has nothing to do with me apologizing. I should have done it the moment I saw you on the first day of rehearsal, but … you didn’t want to listen. And, well, you were scary.”
“You haven’t seen my hair since I got out of the shower. I’m still scary.”
“Bullshit. I bet you look beautiful.”
He’s really drunk. He only ever compliments me when he’s lost feeling in his extremities.
“What are you drinking?”
“Whiskey.”
“Why?”
“Because … because of you. Well, you and me. And kissing. Definitely because of the kissing.”
I don’t tell him that I drank a whole bottle of wine for the same reason.
He sighs. “Jesus, Cassie. Kissing you?” He groans. “I’ve been fantasizing about it for three years, but none of my fantasies compared to what happened today.”
His voice lowers so much, I don’t know if he’s even talking to me anymore. “I’ve missed kissing you. So much.”
Goddammit. I can’t hear this.
“Holt, please…”
“I know I shouldn’t say any of this, but I’m drunk, and I miss you, and … did I mention being drunk?”
I laugh, because like this, he’s my friend again. But I know that it’s not real and it won’t last.
“Go to bed, Ethan.”
“Okay, pretty Cassie. ’Night. And don’t forget how sorry I am. Please.”
I smile despite myself. “You know you’re going to have a giant hangover in the morning, right?”
He chuckles. “Has anything I’ve said tonight made you hate me any less?”
“Maybe.”
“A little or a lot?”
“A little.”
“Then it’ll be worth it.”