Broken Juliet(35)

“No. But whenever I’m with him, all I can see is him, and that terrifies me. And when we’re apart, I think that maybe we’re better that way, and that also terrifies me.”

He rubs my arm. “Fear is natural in this situation, but the key is to not let it call the shots. Scared people either shut down and avoid the thing they fear, or get angry at it and lash out. The bad news for you and Ethan is that you’ve tried both of those options and neither has been successful. The ultimate tragedy is that ever since you met, you’ve been completely nutso in love with each other and wasted too much time being stubborn asses about denying it.”

I close my eyes, not liking how this conversation is tightening my chest. Tris sighs.

“If it’s any consolation,” he says quietly, “the one thing these journals prove is that he always loved you.”

I laugh. “Even when he was breaking my heart?”

“Yep. Even then. I mean, listen to this one from six years ago. ‘New Year’s Eve. I can barely function with so many thoughts of her running through my head. I feel like a crazy man. I keep thinking, “What if she could have fixed me?” If anyone could have, it would have been her. I’m dreading next year. It’s going to be a f*cked-up charade of pretending I don’t want her. I’m exhausted just thinking about it. I could barely hold myself back when she texted me on Christmas day, and that was just a freaking message on my phone. How the hell am I going to resist her when she’s right in front of me? All sad eyes and trembling mouth and broken heart.

Part of me kind of hopes when I see her again, she’ll break down and beg me to be with her. If she did that, there’d be no way I could deny her. Please let her beg me. No, wait, don’t. Fuck. I hate this. I want to peel off my skin. Happy f*cking New Year.’”

Hearing about his past turmoil isn’t helping my own, but somehow, knowing he was as miserable as I was is strangely satisfying.

Tristan turns the page. “And here are his New Year’s resolutions: ‘Stop thinking about Cassie. Stop dreaming about Cassie. Stop fantasizing about Cassie when I masturbate. Be kinder to my mom and sister. Try not to imagine smashing my father in the face every time he says something annoying. Run more. Drink less. Be a better person. For Cassie.’”

He puts the book down and looks at me. “You have to admit, despite his issues, the boy was totally crazy about you.”

“It doesn’t excuse what he did.”

“I don’t think he wants you to excuse him. I think he wants you to understand that he was confused.”

“And stupid.”

“Well, yeah, obviously stupid. I mean, you turn me on and I’m a bona-fide cock lover. I have no idea why that hot-blooded straight boy thought he could be anything but totally obsessed with you.”

He keeps flicking through the pages. I lie there and listen to his steady heartbeat as I try to sort through my feelings about Ethan.

“Tris?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you think it’s possible that soul mates who love each other aren’t actually supposed to be together?”

He pauses, and then puts the book down. “I think a better question would be, do you think it’s possible?”

I don’t answer him, because if I admit that it’s crossed my mind, the small spark of hope inside me will sputter and die.





FOURTEEN


PASSION


Five Years Earlier

Westchester County, New York

The Diary of Cassandra Taylor


Dear Diary,

Humans are strange creatures. We lie every day, in a thousand different ways. The most common lie is, ‘I have read the terms and conditions.’ The second most common lie is, ‘I’m fine.’

Some people believe that actors are just professional liars, paid to manufacture personalities that aren’t our own. We create characters from our imaginations, interpret someone else’s words, dress in someone else’s clothes, become a different person for hours, days, months. We’re good at fooling people. We’re less adept at fooling ourselves.

The best actors keep all the parts of themselves in little boxes and bring them out in an unending parade of various combinations.

I used to be pretty good at doing that, on stage and in life, but ever since Ethan and I broke up, my compartments have been confused. In the filing cabinet where I keep my feelings for him, the drawer labeled ‘lover’ is now firmly locked. So is ‘boyfriend.’ The ‘friend’ drawer rattles and tries to squeeze open, but it’s so squashed beneath ‘hurt’ and ‘resentment,’ it’s practically buried.

I don’t talk about him anymore. Not to Ruby. Not to Mom. Not even to Elissa, who I confided in the longest because she always sought me out. Talking about him maintained tiny cracks in my resolve, and always made me bristle and want.

It’s better now.

I’ve locked my passion away. Put it in a strongbox and covered it in concrete.

Ethan and I go to class, do our work, avoid each other when possible and snark at each other when we can’t. We have no patience for these platonic versions of ourselves. Even now, more than a year after our breakup, our hearts and bodies fight against the distance and suppression, but we’ve gotten good at ignoring them.

We’re second-years now, and so far, we haven’t been cast in anything together. I think Erika has given up trying to mediate.