Broken Juliet(32)

I shrug. “Sorry. I have some very important sitting around to do. Can’t waste my whole night partying.”

He holds out his hand. “I’m Nick, by the way. Third-year visual arts.”

I put my hand in his, and when we shake, I’m surprised to find it gives me a small thrill.

“Cassie. First-year actor.”

“Very nice to meet you, Cassie.”

“Likewise, Nick.”

He doesn’t let go of my hand, and I don’t remove it. There’s something about the way he’s looking at me that makes me feel less empty. I know we’re both a little drunk, but it’s nice to know someone finds me desirable.

“KISS HIM!” Ruby yells down the hallway.

I pull my hand free and cover my face.

Nick looks at Ruby, clearly bemused. “Uh … is that a friend of yours?”

“Not anymore.”

He laughs. “Does she often scream at you to kiss people you’ve just met?”

“Yeah. More often than I’d like.”

He steps closer. “Well, she seems nice. I’d hate for her to be disappointed.”

Before I register what’s happening, he leans down and presses his lips against my cheek. My skin tingles in a not-unpleasant kind of way, and I instinctively grab his shirt. He pulls back and smiles.

“I hope that was okay.”

“Yeah,” I say, a little dizzy. “That was okay.”

I wait for the guilt to hit me, but when it does, it’s far less potent than I expect.

Maybe I am getting over Holt after all.

Or maybe it’s just the tequila.

Whatever the reason, when my cab pulls up and blares its horn, I say good-night to Nick feeling a lot more confident about my romantic future than before I arrived.

Being sort of attracted to someone means I’m on my way to being completely indifferent to Ethan, right?




I’m in the costume cage down in the basement level of the drama block. It’s cramped and dusty, and innumerable costumes from hundreds of productions have been squeezed onto row after row of floor-to-ceiling racks. Students are allowed to borrow them by permission of the facilities coordinator, but finding exactly what you want is always tough. I’ve been looking for something for my monologue from Twelfth Night for almost an hour, and the stale air is making me feel light-headed.

When all the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, I know I’m not alone. Sure enough, I turn around to find Ethan watching me.

“I didn’t know you were in here,” he says, seeming annoyed.

My heart rate speeds up “Yeah, well, I am.”

Stop it. You’re indifferent, remember? He has no effect on you anymore.

He exhales and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Are you nearly done?”

His tone irritates me. “I have no idea. Why?”

“I need a costume. I guess I’ll wait til you’re gone.”

I sigh, and turn to the rack. “Just find your damn costume, Ethan. I have more important things to do than avoid you right now.”

I flick through costumes, studiously ignoring him.

He says, “Fine. Whatever,” and disappears from my aisle. I hear him a few yards away, scraping hangers just as aggressively as I am.

After another twenty minutes of searching, I find a dress I think will suit Viola, and I head into the small curtained-off dressing area to try it on. When I pull the curtain back, Ethan’s there, shirtless, bent over the button-fly of what look like leather breeches.

He looks at me and grits his teeth as he pulls at his crotch. “I can’t get these f*cking things done up. It’s like trying to thread a goddamn needle with a banana.”

I’d laugh if I wasn’t so devastated by seeing him half naked and practically touching himself.

“Ah, f*ck it,” he says as he abandons his efforts so he can slip on the matching jacket. The style is part biker, part Elizabethan doublet. The effect is all sexy.

He steps out of the dressing room and gestures for me to go in. “Go for it. I can wrestle with this stupid f*cking costume out here.”

I step inside and pull the curtain across. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t peek through to watch his chest flex as he struggled to button the jacket.

You’re totally and completely indifferent, goddammit!

“What monologue are you doing, anyway?” I say as I drag my attention away from him and pull off my T-shirt and bra.

He grunts in frustration. “Hamlet. I swear to God, these buttons don’t fit through these holes. Do I need an engineering degree to get into this goddamn costume?”

I take a moment to register that we’re having a relatively normal conversation. It’s strange but also kind of cool. Maybe we really will be able to become friends one day.

I pull the dress over my head and try to reach the zipper. “Hamlet’s a bit of an obvious choice for you, isn’t it? Moody. Troubled. Self-destructive.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not really in the headspace right now to play light and fluffy.”

“Are you ever?”

He pauses. “What’s your point?”

I twist my arms up behind me and tug, but the zipper isn’t cooperating. “Fracking crap.”

“Let me guess, you can’t get your costume zipped up.”