Broken Juliet(24)

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 f*cking 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 f*cked-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.”