ELEVEN
OPEN BOOK
Present Day
New York City, New York
The Apartment of Cassandra Taylor
My head is on his chest, my arm draped over his waist. I’m gripping his shirt like it can keep me here in this place. Where everything that happened between us hovers on the edge of my consciousness like white noise. Not forgotten but dimmer.
After our hallway confrontation, he brought me in here. Laid me down. Reassured me we’ll be all right.
Now he has his arms around me and is stroking my arm.
I can’t quite believe he’s in my bed, the scene of so many angst-driven fantasies about him. We’re both fully clothed and completely silent, yet this is the most intimate I’ve been with a man since … well, since him.
He takes my hand and places it on his chest, then presses it down against the pulse of blood and silent promises. I can feel him willing me to trust him.
I want to, but it’s like my heart’s too small for him now. When he left, it collapsed like a balloon, empty and deflated, and over time it atrophied into that shape. And now he wants me to make room for him again, but I don’t know how.
“Ethan?”
“Hmmm?”
“When did you know you were capable of … changing?” He strokes my hand for a few seconds, but doesn’t answer. “I mean, you tried to change when you were with me, right? To become more open?”
“Yes. Jesus. I tried so hard. And failed spectacularly.”
“So, how did you go from the guy who left me twice to the guy you are now?”
He looks down at me. “I did mention I’ve been in therapy for three years, right? And I’m not talking just one session a week. In my darker days it was two … three sessions a week. My therapist had the patience of a saint.”
“Yeah, but you could have gotten therapy when we were together, couldn’t you?”
“Technically, yes. But the thought of it scared the crap out of me, and we both know that back then, I was ruled by fear.”
“Then how did you decide you weren’t scared anymore?”
He takes a deep breath and lets it out. “I was hoping I wouldn’t have to tell you this story, but I guess you deserve to know.”
“What story?” I break out in goose bumps, certain I’m not going to like what I hear.
He grabs my hand and pushes it under his shirt. On the left side of his rib cage, my fingers graze a clump of scar tissue. I’d noticed it when we ran our love scenes, but I was always too distracted by his kisses to find out more.
I lift his shirt and lean over to get a better look. “What is that?”
He strokes my forearm as I continue to graze the rough skin. “That’s where a tube was shoved into my lung to drain out the blood that was drowning me.”
I look up at him and frown.
“And there’s this…” He takes my hand and lifts it to his head. At the back, there’s another patch of raised skin. “That was where my head smashed into a tree. Fourteen stitches.”
Bile rises in my throat. “Ethan, what the hell…?”
He takes my hand and plays with my fingers. “After I left you in senior year, I hit my low point in France. The show was a hit, and I was getting great reviews, but I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I felt so goddamn guilty about failing you. Again. I already told you I was drinking a lot. Getting into fights.”
I nod.
“Well, after our season, we had a week off before we moved on to Italy. The rest of the cast was going to do a tour of the wineries, but I couldn’t cope with being a miserable bastard around them, so I hired a motorbike and just … left. Traveled aimlessly around southern France, thinking I had the world monopoly on self-loathing. Driving drunk, driving too fast, taking crazy risks. I was a fucking mess. I don’t think I had a death wish, but deep down…” He looks at me. “I guess I wanted to hurt myself more than I’d hurt you.”
“Ethan…”
He shakes his head. “Pathetic, right? Well, one night, after hitting a French pub, I decided to make a play for the Italian border. It had been raining. Too much alcohol, too much speed, zero self-esteem. I took a curve too fast and slammed into the guardrail. My bike went cartwheeling across the road as I flew over the rail and crashed down a steep embankment. Pretty sure I hit every damn tree on the way down. By the time I’d reached the bottom, my helmet was cracked, my leather jacket was shredded, and it felt like someone had shoved a dagger into my ribs.”
“Oh, God…”
“I lay there for a while, just trying to breathe. When I moved, I was hit with so much pain, I almost passed out. I managed to pull off my helmet, but that was it. There was pain in my shoulder, my wrist, my chest. I could feel blood running down my leg.”
“What did you do?”
He shrugs. “I tried to figure out if I was dying. And when I seriously thought I was, I took a moment to try and figure out if that was a bad thing.”
“Ethan…”
I take his hand and he lets out a shaky breath. “It’s weird, you know, facing your own mortality. People talk about their life flashing in front of their eyes, but I didn’t get that. All I got were flashes of you. They were so vivid, it was like I could reach out and touch you. I wondered how you’d react if I died. Would you mourn me? Or would you be happy I’d never hurt you again?”
As I listen, anxiety begins to coil in my chest. Thinking about him dying makes my throat close up.
He strokes my face. “Hey, it’s okay.”
“How could you think I wouldn’t mourn you?”
“I was in a dark place. I wasn’t thinking straight.”
“God, Ethan, if you’d died…” I can’t finish the thought, let alone the sentence. Even at the height of my enmity, I couldn’t imagine living in a world without Ethan. The mere concept was distressing beyond words. “Okay, tell me what happened next before I freak out about the death thing.”
He wraps his arm around me and pulls me in to his side. “I don’t know how long I was lying at the bottom of that hill. Most of the night, at least. I slipped in and out of consciousness, and as time passed, I realized no one was going to find me down there. Unless I did something, I was going to die. I had to get back to the road.”
“But your injuries…”
“Yeah, I found out later that I had a dislocated shoulder, a fractured wrist, three broken ribs, and a punctured lung, as well as a concussion and multiple lacerations.”
“Oh my God! How did you even move?”
“Willpower. Stubborness. The thing is, I knew that climbing up that hill was going to be the most painful thing I’d ever done, but it was necessary. I had to survive, because if I didn’t, I could never get you to forgive me, and that was not fucking acceptable.”
He touches my face, soft and reverent. “So, I climbed. Every step made me scream in agony, but I kept moving, one foot in front of the other. By the time I reached the top, I was sure I’d died and gone to hell. The pain was blinding. I managed to crawl over the guardrail before collapsing on the road.”
“How did you get out of there?”
“A delivery driver found me a couple of hours later and called an ambulance. When I woke up, I was in a French hospital, tubes everywhere, dosed up on morphine. Elissa and the company manager were there. They told me I’d been out for a couple of days. Elissa was fucking furious. She’d been lecturing me for months about my drinking and self-destructive habits. When she was done yelling, she started sobbing. I’d never seen my sister cry like that before.”
“Of course she was upset. She could have lost you. We all could have.”
“But the ironic thing is, the way I was living … it was like I was already dead. It took the accident to bring me back to life. While I was recovering in the hospital, I had a lot of time to think. It occurred to me that, for most of my adult life, I’d had this thing for self-sabotage. When I broke up with you the second time, it was me slamming into the barrier of my goddamn issues. I knew if I didn’t do something to fix them and find a way to get you back, my life was pointless. So, yeah. I decided to live. As soon as I got out of the hospital, I tracked down a therapist who specialized in abandonment issues and climbed the fucking painful hill of recovery. Three years later, here I am. Scarred, but grateful.”
I want to be grateful, too, but I’m too busy being fixated on a mental image of him lying in a hospital bed, crumpled and broken.
“Why didn’t you tell me? You could have asked Elissa to contact me.”
He shakes his head. “I couldn’t. I mean, I’d almost killed myself because I was pining for you. How fucking lame is that? Plus, I vowed the next time you laid eyes on me, I’d be the man you deserved, not some scared little boy.”
I look up at him. “And now, here you are.”
He brushes his thumb over my lips. “Here I am.”
He leans down and kisses me, warm and open and soft. When he stops, I’m boneless.
“You were always my incentive to get better, both physically and mentally. You were my reward.”
He wraps around me before burying his face in my neck. “Thank you.”
I take in a shaky breath and try to keep it together. He tightens his arms around me, and I almost can’t breathe.
“You know,” I say, and wheeze for effect, “there’s a difference between snuggling and holding someone captive.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve waited a long time for this, so I’m going to enjoy it.”
Nevertheless, he loosens his grip.
We stay like that for long time, intertwined and breathing each other’s air. Seeing who’ll pull away first. My bladder makes sure it’s me.
When I come out of the bathroom, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed.
I stop in front of him, and he takes my hands. “I want you to come to my place for dinner tonight. I’ll cook. I have something I want to show you.”
I smile and shake my head. “Ethan … I think we really need to take things slowly for a while. Besides, I’m pretty sure what you want to show me, I’ve seen before.”
“Not that,” he says, and pulls me onto his lap. “Although if you play your cards right, I could be persuaded to show you that, too. In fact, cards aren’t necessary. A simple eyebrow raise would do it.”
I roll my eyes.
He pushes my hair away from my face. “Hey, I’m kidding. I promise, my pants will stay on. Please, I really want you to come.” I make a face. “Over! Jesus. Come over, and let me make you come. Make you dinner! Shit!” He shakes his head. “Sorry. My brain is distracted. When I look at you from this angle I can see right down your robe.”
I slap his arm and pull my robe around me. He tries not to laugh.
I push him, and he falls back onto the bed. Part of me hates how right he looks on it.
He grabs my hand and pulls me down, then rolls on top of me. He’s so happy and comfortable, I barely recognize him.
“I really can’t be blamed for ogling,” he says, as his hands frame my face. “It’s all your fault for being so goddamn beautiful. Do you even understand how attracted I am to you?”
When he leans down to kiss me, I put my hand on his chest to stop him. He immediately rolls off like he’s expecting it.
He sighs and stares at me, unashamedly lustful. “So, yeah. I’m going through this phase right now where I don’t seem to know the meaning of the word ‘slow.’ I promise that from now on, I’m going to try harder not to hit on you every five minutes.”
I laugh and shake my head. “I feel like I should apologize.”
“For what? Not jumping into bed with me the moment you’ve decided you don’t hate me anymore? How dare you? I’m fucking appalled.”
I dig my fingers into his ribs. He squirms and makes a very unmanly noise.
“Hey! You know tickling is now against the Geneva Convention. Quit it before I call NATO. I don’t want my girlfriend to be an international war criminal.”
I flinch. He notices, and his smile falls.
“Fuck. Cassie … I didn’t mean to—”
I laugh, but it’s forced. “It’s fine.”
A few years ago, I couldn’t convince him to call me his girlfriend without coercion and testicular clamps, and now he’s throwing around the term like he’s Mr. Commitment?
“It slipped out, okay? I mean, what I feel for you is a few hundred light-years away from just being my girlfriend, but I’m trying really hard not to freak you out here so I’ve been keeping my epic feelings on the down-low.”
“Well, except for that whole thing where you typed ‘I LOVE YOU’ over a thousand times, right?”
“Yeah. Except for that.”
“Ethan—”
He runs his fingers through his hair as his frustration peeks through. “I know it’s too soon, but I’m not going to lie to you and say I don’t want it, because I do. I want to be your boyfriend. No, wait … boyfriend sounds so fucking lame. I’m nearly twenty-seven years old. I’m not a boy anymore. I want to be your man. Your lover. Your … damn it, I don’t know. Your Ethan. Whatever the fuck you want to call me, that’s what I want to be. My end game is to simply know that I’m yours and you’re mine, and that neither one of us is scared or ashamed of that. I want to take you out and put my arm around you and know that every other man in the room is jealous as hell that I’m the one who gets to take you home and paint your skin with my mouth.”
I don’t know what to say. Getting used to this new version of him is going to take time. He’s so sure of himself.
He leans forward and brushes a stray piece of hair away from my face. “Now, do you have any other questions about how I feel? Or would you like me to describe exactly which parts of your body I’m going to paint with my mouth?”
A crawling heat spreads across my shoulders and creeps up my neck. He’s not allowed to be this sexy when I’m trying to take things slow. He’s really, truly not.
“Ah … no,” I say as I fixate on his mouth. “That was an excellent explanation. I’m good.”
He nods. “Good. Because really, that second part was kind of a trick question. When I get my mouth on you, there won’t be any parts untasted. I want all of you.” He takes a long, slow appraisal of my body. “Every … delicious … inch.” He continues to stare, and I feel myself leaning forward. He clenches his jaw as I get closer, and just when I think he’s going to try to kiss me again, he shakes his head and stands.
“Okay, I seriously have to get out of here, because if I stay, I’m going to make you uncomfortable with all my filthy, relentless lust.” He exhales and rakes his fingers through his hair. “So, tonight. Dinner at my place? I’ll cook whatever you want.”
“Sure. What time do you want me?”
He takes a deep breath. “I want you all the time.”
I shake my head and smile.
“Sorry, but you did ask. If you don’t want innuendo, rephrase the question.”
“Fine. What time would you like me to arrive tonight?”
“Six thirty. I want to discuss something with you before dinner.”
“About?”
“You’ll see.” I’m immediately cautious. He gives me a half smile. “Don’t panic. I think it’s going to be a good thing. Trust me.”
I’m trying. I’m really, really trying.
“Do you want me to bring anything?”
He stares for a few seconds. “Just you. That’s all I need.”
Time is a fickle whore. Whenever you want it to pass slowly, it speeds up, and whenever you’re full of nervous impatience, it crawls like a sloth on sedatives.
The entire contents of my closet lie on my bed. Everything has been tried on at least twice. My hair is sleek and straight. Makeup light but careful.
I remind myself that this is not a date. It’s dinner.
Just dinner.
Then why am I wearing underwear that cost more than the national debt of some small African countries?
I shouldn’t be going to this much trouble. I shouldn’t be this nervous. And I really shouldn’t get so flustered when I imagine the look on his face when he sees this sex kitten underwear.
Shit. If he sees this underwear. If, not when.
I sit on the bed and drop my head in my hands.
Maybe I should cancel. I’m not ready for this.
I take some deep breaths and look at the clock. Tristan, my Zen-master roommate and life coach, will be home soon. He’ll know what to do. What I should wear.
My phone buzzes with a message from him.
<Hot yoga student asked me out for a drink. Home later, if at all. There’s a new bottle of Shiraz in the kitchen. Use it wisely.>
I text him back.
<Fuck you, Tris. I hope he has a tiny dick.>
He replies with a smiley face and what looks like a giant schlong emoticon.
Where the hell did he even get that?
Damn him.
To be fair, he doesn’t know I’m going to Ethan’s place for dinner. If he did, he’d probably cover me in barbed wire, strap a chastity belt on me, and then insist on coming with me to protect my vagina chakra, if there is such a thing.
I sigh and take off my pretty underwear and replace it with my most boring white cotton thong and bra. Then I put on comfortable jeans and a plain T-shirt, pull my hair back into a ponytail, and take my makeup back to just mascara and lip gloss.
Done.
No pressure.
Just dinner.
And him.
Nothing more.
I’ve barely knocked when the door opens, and he’s there.
Oh God, he is so there.
Freshly shaven, navy shirt, dark jeans, no shoes.
I think I gape. I can’t be sure.
He’s staring at me, too, dragging his gaze slowly over my body before settling on my face.
“Hi.” He looks nervous. For some reason, that makes me feel a little better.
“Hi.”
He doesn’t move.
“You look … I just…” He blinks. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”
How does he not understand that statements like that make me want to murder my resolution to take it slow with him and bury it where no one will find it?
“Uh … thanks. You look good, too.” Really good.
He ignores my compliment as he continues to stare.
“Uh … Ethan?”
He shakes his head and remembers his manners. “Shit, sorry. Come in.”
“Thanks.”
He steps back and lets me enter. A rush of goose bumps crawls over my skin as I pass. The hallway smells like him, and I automatically take a deep breath.
I haven’t seen his New York place yet, so I drink in every detail.
His apartment is compact but stylish. More grown-up than his Westchester digs. More refined.
“Elissa decorated,” he says.
I nod. “It’s nice. It’s just you here?”
“Yeah. Ever since I got back from Europe. Elissa is living in the East Village like the bohemian she is. I miss having her around, but it was time, you know? Can’t live with my baby sister forever.”
“Uh-huh.”
We lapse into silence as I wander around and check out his knickknacks and photos. I run my fingers along the spines of his book collection as I try to get to know him again.
I can feel him watching me. Waiting for my approval. It’s kind of strange.
I stop when I spy a familiar title. “Kristin Linklater—Freeing the Natural Voice.”
I turn to him, and he laughs. “Every time someone mentioned the title of this book in class, Jack Avery would fart.” He laughs harder.
“Is that why you keep it on your shelf?”
He shrugs. “What can I say? Avery was a dick, but the boy was funny. Plus, Linklater really knew what she was talking about.”
I shake my head. “You have all our old textbooks here.”
“They’ve been useful over the years. They were also … reminders … of our time at drama school.”
“I burned all of mine.”
I say it before I register how he’ll feel about it. Judging by his expression, it doesn’t make him happy. I hadn’t meant that to be a reflection on him, but I guess it is. I purged those books just like I purged everything that reminded me of him.
He drops his head. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Everything I needed from those books I learned by heart.”
He nods.
He knows.
“Would you like something to drink?”
“God, yes.”
“I have a red you’re going to love.”
He disappears into the kitchen and I continue to explore, looking for something. I don’t know what. Something about me, maybe. About us. Something real and familiar.
On the wall opposite the windows, I see them. At first I’m not sure what I’m looking at, but then I realize what they are—masks. Two of them. From a distance, they seem like the standard comedy and tragedy faces so many actors have in their homes, but a second look causes me to catch my breath. Not comedy and tragedy. Strength and vulnerability. The same masks we used at drama school. The ones we both had trouble with.
“I convinced Erika to give them to me.” I turn to find him a few feet away, a glass of wine in each hand. “I bought her a whole new set in Italy.”
He passes me a glass, and I take a sip. “Why did you want them? I mean, you failed that class. Erika kicked your ass for weeks.”
“Yeah, but only because she expected more from me. It took me a long time to expect more from myself. To see that being vulnerable takes a shitload more strength than being closed off and sullen.” He takes a step closer, and I take another mouthful of wine while trying not to look at him. “Every time I look at those masks, it reminds me. Every time I look at you, it reminds me, too, but you weren’t around for a long time, so the masks were a good placeholder.”
I keep my eyes on the masks, but I can feel him staring at me. As I tip the glass back, I realize my wine is almost gone. I need to slow down, or I’m going to get drunk and do things I may regret.
I feel warm fingers on my wrist, and he’s right behind me, warm breath on my neck as he says, “I want you to have something.”
He takes my hand and guides me over to a large bookcase with doors. His palm is sweaty, and I wonder what has him so anxious.
He puts our glasses on the side table, and when he takes my hands, I swear I feel him tremble.
“Cassie, for so long I kept you guessing as to what I was thinking and feeling. I never want you to have to guess again. So from now on, anything you want to know, I’ll tell you. Anything.”
He pulls open the doors and gestures to the rows of books inside. “You want to know my motivations for all the shit I put you through in drama school? It’s all there. Every fucked-up thought process and bad decision. Every time I broke both our hearts in an effort to avoid pain. Read them if you want. Burn them. Whatever works for you.”
I look closely at the spines of the books. Dates. Years. Rows and rows of journals, starting from when he was in high school. Some years have a single volume, others have several. The year we met has five. No surprise there.
I pick up the last one from that year and open it to a random page.
November 18th
Tonight, she went down on me for the first time. And … Jesus Christ … I’m still shaking. I can’t get the image of her out of my head. So eager to please me. So trusting.
So beautiful.
I can’t handle it.
One day soon, she’s going to realize I’m no good for her and leave. Destroy me.
Every single brain cell is telling me to get out while I can. To run so far and fast she’ll never find me. Forget that someone as fucking perfect as she is even exists.
But some part of me believes I can do this. That I’m capable of ripping open my chest and just handing over my heart like it’s not going to kill me.
That part is obviously deranged.
I look up, shocked by the depth of emotion in his writing. He’s watching me. Gauging my reaction. He doesn’t flinch from my incredulity.
“I take responsibility for everything I did,” he says, “because even though I can’t change it, I do regret it. I thought seeing these may … I don’t know. Help in some way.”
I’m not so sure.
I go back to the journal.
December 4th
2:48 a.m.—She won’t fucking answer. She calls to abuse me in the middle of the night, and then WON’T PICK UP HER FUCKING PHONE?!
3:36 a.m.—I can’t stop thinking about her crying. She sounded so lost. And I did that to her. Me.
What a stellar fucking human being I am.
As much as I’m terrified she’s going to ruin me, I’m afraid I’m going to do far worse to her.
So now I’m faced with the decision—man up and be the boyfriend she deserves, or get the fuck out while there’s still a chance we’ll both survive.
Yeah. Easy choice. It’s like asking someone if they’d rather die by drowning or electrocution.
Whichever way it happens, you’re still dead.
11:18 a.m.—She just left. I can still smell her. Fuck, I love her smell. I want to bathe in it.
She was asleep when I got home from my run. So perfect in my bed.
I had a major freakout for the three seconds I believed she’d read this journal, but I quickly realized if she had, she wouldn’t still be here, let alone sleeping. She would have finally seen the level of fuckery she’s burdened with and run for the hills. And I wouldn’t have blamed her.
But no, she’s proven yet again that she’s not like the others. Made me realize she deserves so much more credit than I give her.
I want to be a better man. A better boyfriend.
Don’t fuck this up, Holt. Seriously. If you do, I’ll never forgive you.
She’ll never forgive you.
Reading his thoughts gives me a strange sense of déjà vu.
I turn the page and read the last entry in the journal. As soon as I see the date, my stomach lurches.
December 23rd
I did it. Cut the cord.
I feel sick.
I feel more broken without her than I ever did when we were together.
I thought this was the right thing to do … for me … for her. But now …
I can barely swallow, my throat’s so tight.
What the fuck have I done?
Why do I feel so wrong?
Fuck.
And yet, part of me knows I had to do it.
If we’d stayed together, I would have systemically broken her. I’d have tried not to and hated every moment of it, but I would have. She’d have spent all her time defending her actions, reassuring me, putting out fires she had no hand in starting.
I couldn’t bear doing that to her.
I tell myself I want her to move on and be happy, but petty fucking creep that I am, I really don’t. I want her to pine for me and not let another man touch her until I can figure out how to be better. I want to be magically cured of all the shit that runs through my brain on a daily basis and be the man she deserves.
But most of all, I just want to be with her. Especially after last night.
Jesus fucking Christ. Last night.
I didn’t mean for it to happen, but when she stood in front of me, thinking I didn’t love her, I couldn’t stop myself. My brain was screaming that it was a bad idea, but my body wouldn’t listen. I thought maybe it was a good thing. That it would … I don’t know … fix me. Help me be with her, somehow.
But it didn’t.
If anything, it made things worse, because now, I’ll always know what I’m missing. The first time we made love, I was so obsessed with being gentle, I couldn’t let myself go. I didn’t have that problem last night.
I wanted to consume her. Brand my name on every part of her body.
By the time we were done, I think I had succeeded.
The trouble is, she also branded me.
I cried in her arms. I don’t fucking cry. I don’t even know why I did. It just happened.
But then my brain kicked in. My stupid, paranoid brain.
Lying in bed with her as she slept, I felt like one of those animals whose leg is caught in a trap, knowing if I wanted to survive, I’d have to gnaw off a part of myself and leave it behind.
That’s how I feel now. Like I’ve carved out a huge chunk of my heart and left if with her.
It hurts. Fuck, it hurts like hell. But I know it was the right thing to do.
She doesn’t see it like that.
I hope one day, she will.
I almost laugh, but there’s too much simmering anger to allow it.
When I look up, he’s right in front of me. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look so serious.
“I’m not him anymore, Cassie. Never will be again. You have to know that.”
I nod. Every day, I understand that more.
From the moment I met you, it was all about you. I just tried to deny it.”
“And now?”
He gives me a hopeful smile. “Now I know I was a deluded asshole.”
I nod. “You were.”
“I know.”
“I mean, really.”
“I’m not arguing with you.”
We stare at each other, and the push and pull of how we are now makes me disoriented.
“So, what do we do now?” he asks and glances at the book in my hand.
I pick up my wineglass and drain it. “I guess we have dinner. Then … I don’t know. See what happens.”
Dinner is delicious. Conversation is full but tense. I drink too much wine. It helps me relax.
The thing is, relaxed is dangerous around him. Makes me think I’m ready for things. Builds a different kind of tension. One that has nothing to do with our past and everything to do with the here and now of us. The Cassie and Ethan who lapse into silence every few minutes because our brains are too distracted by each other to speak.
Instead, we stare. Avoid touching. Stare some more.
Gentle music plays as he leads me to the couch. The lights are dim, but he sees everything. Studies every movement. Watches me exhale and makes me tingle with need.
He squeezes his eyes shut and drops his head back. We both struggle to stay at opposite ends of the couch.
“I should go,” I say, more out of self-preservation than anything.
He sighs. “That is both the best and worst idea in the world.”
“It’s really sad that I know exactly what you mean by that, isn’t it?”
“No. It’s just another reason for you to get out of here while you still can. My noble intentions to take it slow with you only go so far when you look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you want to make every sexual fantasy I’ve had about you for the past three years a very dirty reality.”
“How dirty are we talking?”
“So dirty we’d have to do it in the shower.”
“Wow.” He’s good at shower sex. I remember.
“Are you sure you don’t want to stay?”
“No.”
He exhales. “Fuck. I’m calling a car for you before I lose all self-control.”
We both stand, and I stare blatantly when he adjusts himself.
“Can I borrow some of these?” I ask, and gesture to the journals.
“Take as many as you want. From now on, I’m an open book. Even Past Me has no secrets.”
While he pulls out his phone and dials for a car, I pick up a selection of journals. I purposely avoid the ones from our senior year. I can’t even look at them without breaking into a sweat. It’s a safe bet I’m going to need a lot more to drink before I tackle them.
He walks me to the door, and with every step, the desire to leave him lessens. He leans forward and grabs the handle as his chest presses against my shoulder. For long seconds, he stays there, not opening the door. Just pressing against me and breathing.
“Cassie, I’m going to ask you some questions now, and I really need you to answer ‘no’ to them. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
He inhales, and I feel the tip of his nose graze the side of my neck. I close my eyes and shiver as I press back into him.
“Will you stay with me tonight? In my bed?”
He can’t—How can he…?
“Ethan—”
“All you need to say is ‘No.’ That’s it.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “No.”
“Will you let me peel off your clothes and put my mouth on you? All over you? Taste all the parts I’ve been dreaming of since we’ve been apart?”
Jesus.
Breathe.
“No.”
“Do you want me?”
“No.”
Lies.
“Do you love me?”
“No.”
All of it.
“Will you stop me if I pin you against the wall and kiss you like my life depends on it? Which it kind of does.”
My heart kicks into overdrive. We both stop breathing.
Finally, a truth.
“No.”
In a second he’s pressed me back against the wall. Our mouths are open and desperate. Then his hands are on my ass as he lifts me. I wrap my legs around his grinding hips and gasp as I drop the books and my bag so I can anchor my hands in his hair. I open myself up to one tiny corner of my need for him and let that part grip his shoulders and biceps as he works himself against me.
“Fuck. Cassie…”
There’s too much of him, all straining, all hard. The deep parts of me ache for him the most. Not just my body. It’s more than that. Some parts spark. Others melt. A flux of chemistry and catastrophe, the same compulsive need that keeps bringing us back together.
A car horn blares. He freezes and pants against my neck while his muscles slowly uncoil beneath my hands.
“You probably should have said ‘Yes’ to that last one,” he says, lips against my throat.
When he lowers me to my feet, I can barely stand. “Probably.”
He picks up the journals and my bag and opens the door, then escorts me downstairs to the waiting taxi.
When I’m inside, he leans in and kisses me gently on the lips. “Thank you for coming.”
I smile. “I didn’t quite—”
“To dinner.” He smiles and kisses me again.
“Oh, that. Thanks for having me.”
“Uh, I didn’t quite—”
“We could do this all night.”
“Is that an offer? Because I could send the taxi driver away and take you back upstairs.”
I smile. “Good night, Ethan.”
He kisses me one more time, lingering this time. I almost forget why I have to leave.
“’Night. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
He closes the door, and the taxi pulls away.
When I get into my apartment and collapse on the bed, I can still feel all the places he touched me. I turn off the light and strip as I let my hands wander, needing to finish what he started, or I won’t be able to sleep.
I don’t mean to close my eyes and picture him, but I do. Of all the many characters and faces I’ve seen over the years, the expression that’s clearest in my memory is the one when he’s touching me. How his mouth drops open in wonder as he brings me pleasure.
It’s that face that lingers behind my eyelids. I pretend my hands are his, and when I cry out in my dark room, I have to stop myself from saying his name.
I’m on the verge of dozing off when my phone buzzes with a message.
<Are you touching yourself right now & thinking about me?>
I laugh. He always did know me too well.
<No.>
<Me neither. Definitely not doing it for the 2nd time.>
<TMI>
<Really? I can give you more details if u like.>
<Going now.>
<Going or coming? Put your phone on vibrate & I’ll text the hell outta you.>
My laughter sounds way too loud in my silent room, and I realize it’s the first time that’s happened in a very long time.
<Good night, Ethan.>
<G’night, Cassie.>
I’m about to put my phone down when another text arrives.
<Really want to tell you I love you, but I’m not going to. How hard am I rocking this ‘taking it slow’ thing, huh? (Please don’t take out a restraining order.)>
He signs it with a smiley face, and I snort with laughter. After waiting to make sure we’re really done this time, I snuggle down into my bed. His journals sit on my nightstand, gray in the half-light.
I know they’re probably going to bring up more questions than answers, but I think that inside their pages, I might find some sort of closure. If we’re even going to have a chance of being together, I know I have to find a way to forgive him.
The problem is, I’ve had more practice hating him than loving him.