Broken Juliet(20)

I shake my head to clear it.

When I step into my room, my stomach coils.

My bed.

It’s stripped back to the bare mattress.

The morning he broke up with me, I’d ripped the sheets off and taken them to the laundry room. Then I’d turned the machine to “hot” and doused everything in far too much detergent.

I remake the bed with fresh sheets. I breathe deeply as I tuck and smooth, and palm over the areas where we made love like I can wipe them clean of memories.

When I’m done, it’s perfect. Pristine.

I look at it for long minutes as phantom lips suckle my neck. Ghost hands trail across my thighs.

Screw this.

I shower. Wash my hair. Finish with water so cold it shocks me into distraction.

When Ruby gets home, we fall into a pattern of easy familiarity. We reheat frozen dinners, drink wine, watch TV, laugh.

We don’t talk about him.

When eleven p.m. rolls around, we yawn and say good-night.

Ruby goes into her room.

I sleep on the couch.




The classroom is noisy, filled with chatter about who did what during the break. I’ve missed my friends, and I can’t deny their hugs are welcome.

Aiyah and Miranda are holding hands. Like Ethan and I, they got together last year. Unlike Ethan and I, their love survived the holiday. Jack is telling jokes, and I smile as Connor and Lucas crack up. Heck, I’ve even missed Zoe and Phoebe and their shrill conversations.

They all seem happy to see me, too.

None of them know about the breakup. How could they?

I guess they’ll figure it out soon enough, but I’m not going to be the one to tell them.

The second Ethan enters, I know it. A bone-deep vibration shudders up my spine and sets every hair on edge.

People say his name. Ask how he is. He answers, his voice low and quiet.

I don’t want to look at him, but my body turns of its own accord, and there he is, towering over most of the people around him, even as his shoulders sag.

Excitement tries to fire in my veins, but I suppress it.

Unwanted fantasies about kissing him crawl through my brain. It all seems so unlikely now that I almost laugh out loud.

He glances over at me, and that’s when all the air goes out of the room. His mouth sets into a hard line, and he looks away several times before returning. It’s like he wants to look anywhere but at me, but is incapable.

I know how he feels.

This what I’ve been preparing for.

I breathe steadily and make myself over. Smooth down the rumbling waves of emotion. Make myself a rock.

I stare at him without apology and let him see my indifference. Dare him to challenge it.

For a moment, he frowns, like he expected something else. Hurt, maybe. Or longing.

If he expected to find me a blubbering, emotional mess, he must be sorely disappointed.

His expression is one of indescribable sadness, before his familiar barriers slide into place and it’s almost as if nothing happened between us.

We’re two perfect characterizations, flawless in our denial.

No one can tell how bitterly unleashed I am on the inside. Not even him.

Especially not him.

A line from As You Like It comes to me: All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players. Standing here, staring at Ethan, that concept has never been more true. The Grove is now our stage, and these are our new roles.

Separate.

Loveless.

Unaffected.

I take a deep breath.

Curtain up.





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.”