Broken Juliet (23 page)

I hug them good-bye and tell them I’ll see them at Christmas, and then I wonder where we’ll even be spending it this year. Will we all get together? Or will I have to shuttle between them?

The rest of my trip passes in a blur. I get on a plane. Doze. Get off. Sit glassy-eyed waiting for my connection. Get on another plane.

I feel displaced.

Lonely.

I spoke to Ruby last night. Explained what had happened. I tried to sound blas
é
, but she could hear something in my voice. She offered to cut her weekend short and pick me up from the airport, but I couldn’t do that to her. She’s happy with her new guy and deserves to savor the last few days of freedom before classes start. The last thing she needs is to have to console the latest victim of America’s epidemic divorce rate.

When the plane lands, I wait until everyone else has passed before grabbing my backpack and making the long walk to the exit. The flight attendants are annoyingly perky as they bid me good-bye and tell me they hope I’ll fly again with them soon. All around me in the airport, people are hugging and kissing, greeting loved ones. I pause to watch them, partly because they’re blocking my way, but mostly because just observing them makes me feel like some of their happy might rub off on me.

At any rate, I’m not in any hurry to take a cab back to my empty apartment.

When the family in front of me finally moves, my breath catches as I see a familiar figure standing on the other side of the arrivals area. Tall. Unruly hair. Dark clothes. Pensive face. Tense and nervous, like he’s unsure if I’ll be mad about him being here.

I’m not. In fact, I’m so happy, I could cry.

He must recognize my sappy expression, because he pulls his hands out of his pockets and walks toward me.

He looks good. So very good.

He moves sinuously, but there’s a repressed urgency in his gait. Like he’s forcing himself to not run over and swing me around in front of all of these people.

There’s so much I want to do to him. So much I want to say.

When he stops in front of me, he takes my backpack and places it on the ground. Then he wraps his arms around me and gently pulls me against him. I hug his neck, and when he says, “I’m sorry about your parents. That fucking sucks,” I press my forehead into his shoulder to stop myself from crying

The people around us slowly dissipate, and I just stand there and let him comfort me. As much as I’ve craved sympathy today, until this moment I didn’t realize how much I needed it to be from him.

The rest of the world melts away as he holds me and strokes my hair, and when he whispers, “I’ve missed you,” and I whisper it back, the glass-jawed delusion that we’re just fuck-buddies goes down for the count.

By the time we get back to my apartment, it’s late and I’m exhausted. Ethan opens the door and carries my suitcase to my bedroom. Then he turns around and hugs me. He’s so warm and feels so good, I sag against him, almost drifting off. Only the thick layer of travel grime that covers me from head to toe prevents me from fully relaxing.

“I need to shower.”

“Okay. You want me to make you something to eat?”

“We have no food.”

“I could go out and get something.”

He needs to stop with the sweetness. I’m in enough trouble here as it is.

“No, thanks.” I push him to sit on my bed. “Just … stay. I won’t be long.”

I grab my robe and head into the bathroom. When the warm water hits my skin, it feels so good I moan. I lather everything twice, then get out and brush my teeth.

When I get back to the bedroom, he’s exactly where I left him. He watches as I approach, and the way he stares tells me how much he wants me. The familiar rush of power is back, but it’s accompanied by something else. A deeper need. Something I haven’t let myself feel for a long time. It makes my skin prickle and my heart flutter, because I know this is one of those moments that is going to define something.

Me.

Us.

The thought makes me freeze in my tracks. We’ve been here before, and in the past, I was always the one who put myself out there. Pushed us to be more.

Not this time.

If he wants it, he’s going to have to ask for it. If he doesn’t, I have to walk away before my heart gets even more scarred.

I wait. He barely hesitates before standing and walking to me. He takes my hands and pulls me to him. Cups my face. Kisses me. Gently. So gently. Warm lips and soft tongue. Within seconds, an aching heat is twisting in my veins, but I don’t let it take over. He needs to steer us this time. If I hang back, I can decide if I’m willing to go where he leads.

His kisses become hungrier, but still deliberate. It’s like he knows any misstep will make me run, and he’s determined not to let that happen. He leaves one hand on my face as he tugs at the belt on my robe and slowly unthreads it. Fingertips brush across my chest as he pushes it open. I feel too naked, but I stand there and fight the fear as he claims every inch of terrified, goose-pimpled skin in a way that’s so much more than sexual.

He pushes the robe off my shoulders, and it slumps to floor. More of me exposed.

He takes his time. Mouth follows fingers. Lighting fires, then dousing them in kerosene. Branding himself all over me. I’m so dizzy with it, I have to grip his shoulders to stay upright. He takes the hint and picks me up before he lays me on the bed and continues what he’s doing without missing a beat. He kisses across my chest, then down my stomach as his hands keep my breasts warm.

Hot breath sparks across everything it touches, and he moves lower. Pushes at my knees. Opens me up to him and moans as he puts his mouth on me. Muffled whispers tell me how much he’s been fantasizing about this. I arch into him as he shows me what he’s been dreaming about. All the ways he knows he can speak to my body.

Before long, I’m panting, trying to keep myself together even as he’s determined to make me fall apart. I squeeze my eyes shut and gasp. I’ve been dreaming about this, too, but the reality is so much more powerful. I grip his hair. Clench and release. Faster and harder, in time with his rhythm.

This is different than how we usually are. I want to keep my eyes closed and pretend nothing has to change, but he doesn’t let me. I’m arching so hard I’m nearly levitating, when he stops.

I try to grab him. To make him finish.

The bed dips as he stands.

I open my eyes as panic tightens my chest.

But he’s just removing his shoes. He drops them heavily before tugging off his socks.

He clears his throat. I think it’s nerves, but no. He wants my attention on his face, not on his feet. When I’m looking at him, he undresses slowly, first by pulling off his shirt. When it hits the floor, he pauses. Now he’s nervous. He’s never done this before. Become voluntarily bare.

I watch in awe.

He keeps looking at me, as if he’s trying to prove himself.

He unbuttons his jeans and pushes them down, then shakes his head like he can’t believe he’s stripping for me. He’s down to just his boxer-briefs. They hug every long inch.

I realize just how little I’ve looked at him during our sexual encounters. Watching him like this seems almost wrong. Like I shouldn’t because he’s not mine. Every feature is so familiar, but it’s like a work of art I’ve admired from afar, knowing it will never hang on my wall.

And yet, this little display is telling me he wants me to own him.

He pushes down his underwear, and then, it’s just him. Gloriously naked him. He’s self-conscious, but he lets me stare. Does he see the way all my arteries dilate, sending crawling heat all over my body?

How totally ill-equipped I am to deal with how much I want him?

Every part of him.

The silence stretches around us. He’s standing there naked, silently asking permission to be more, and I don’t have the courage to answer him.

My heart rate escalates, and I lie back on the bed. Within seconds, he’s there, warm and comforting. He kisses my face. Pulls my hand away from my eyes.

“It’s late,” he says. “You’re tired. Tell me if you want me to go.”

I don’t want him to go.

“It’s not that late,” I say.

“Is it too late?”

I open my eyes. He’s looking down at me, vulnerable and intense, and he’s not asking about numbers on a clock.

My mind races as I try to figure out what to say.

I don’t want to be this confused, but our relationship is like a Chinese rope puzzle, and every strand that pulls us closer together also pulls us apart. Will there ever be a time when we have the forward without the back?

He kisses me, and only his sharp inhale tells me he’s anything but completely calm.

“Tell me it’s not too late,” he whispers into my lips, as if he can will me to say the words. “I need it to not be too late for us.”

He kisses my neck, and I close my eyes as I try to think.

This is the moment. The one where I get to choose. From here, my future branches into two distinct timelines. In one, I pull him on top of me and let him show me the difference between fucking and making love. In the other, I push him away and resign myself to forever wondering, “what if?”

I’m not the gambling type. I’ve never understood how some people can get addicted to games in which the probability of losing is so high. They’re not stupid people. They know the odds aren’t in their favor, yet they risk more than they can possibly afford to lose.

Right now, I think I finally get it.

Losing isn’t what drives them. It’s the glimmer of that one spectacular win. The jackpot that’s painted with bright lights and a giant check from The Bank of Happily Ever After.
That’s
the rush that keeps them putting their hands in their pockets. The thrilling, heart-pounding moment the second before the ball drops, or the card turns, or the tumbler falls into place.

“Cassie?”

A thousand to one. Two thousand. Seventy thousand.

The first number is almost irrelevant. It’s the
one
that makes people take the risk. That elusive, magical
one
.

“Please, look at me.”

I do. I look and I see. The well-meaning heart of him. The damaged and skittish ego.

I kiss him, hard. He grunts in surprise before kissing me back.

I kiss and tug at him. Pull him on top of me. Try to step back over the “just fucking” line and see if I feel safer there. I grab at his hips and attempt to pull him to where I want him. He tries to resist, but I’m insistent, and I lift my hips and slide against him until he’s breathing so hard, he sounds stricken.

“Fuck, Cassie, wait…”

He drops his head as I stroke him and wind his body so tight, he has no choice but to ease into me to relieve the burn.

The second he enters me, I realize I’m not remotely prepared for how good he feels. How my body sings as it swells around him.

Somewhere between the last time we fucked and our endless text conversations, I lost the ability to compartmentalize my feelings, and now ‘just fucking’ isn’t even an option anymore. He lets out a long moan as his hips finally rest against mine. Then he stops and breathes shallowly for a few seconds.

Is it just as scary for him? Or does he feel that small thrill of possibility?

I try to move against him, but he holds me down.

“Stop. Wait.”

He takes a deep breath and pulls back, then presses in again. Slow and determined. He’s not fucking me. He wants me to feel it. The way his whole body is trying to tell me his intentions.

“Cassie, open your eyes.”

I do. His face is more naked than his body’s ever been. Every tender thrust shows in the way his mouth moves without making noise. He’s not even trying to hide how he’s feeling.

“I want to be with you. Please. Don’t make me beg, because I’m desperate enough to do it, and I swear to God, it won’t be pretty.”

He moves faster. Lifts my leg to his hip. Slides deeper and watches my reaction. Holds my gaze. Silently begs me not to look away.

“Please say something.”

His voice is tight. Low and rumbling. Punctuated by his movements. What he’s doing. Physically. Emotionally. It’s too much.

“Just say yes,” he says, breathy and panting. “I’m so fucking tired of trying to live without you. Aren’t you tired? Of pretending you don’t want it all? I really think I can do it this time. Us. Please, I want to try.”

His movements are becoming erratic, but he still doesn’t look away. I dig my fingernails into his back, tug on his hair, grab his hip as I arch and crest.

“Cassie, please.” He’s barely hanging on. I’m the same. I can’t say no to him. He might be the worst gamble I’ve ever made, but he also might be my
one
.
The
one. How can I not take a chance on that?

“Yes.”

I hold on long enough to see the exquisite relief in his smile, then I can’t keep my eyes open anymore, and I’m flying so high and fast, I babble against his shoulder. Repeat the word “yes,” over and over again. Hold my breath as my whole world spasms in perfect unison with my orgasm.

I’ve never felt anything like it.

Even at our hottest and most desperate, it’s never been this incredible. I’m still reeling when he buries his head into my neck and groans.

“Cassie—I … God … I love you. I love you.”

I grip him as he shudders. I stroke his hair and hold him as I wait for us both to stop shaking.

So many emotions twist and rage in my veins, sparking and pounding in a rush that seems like it’s never going to end.

When it finally ebbs away, he’s still wrapped around me. Still inside.

I don’t let him go. I’m incapable.

For so long, I’ve tainted my vision against him. Closed my eyes to his beauty and my ears to his charm. But my heart …

I tried to harden it against the things I didn’t want to feel, and yet, here I am, feeling them anyway.

For all its amazing strength, our hearts are made of eggshells, and sometimes all it takes is someone you’d almost given up on declaring their love for it to crack wide open.

TWENTY

NOW AND THEN