Broken Juliet (11 page)

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.