Broken Juliet(43)

I have to smile. “Yep.”

He stares. “So Buzz is your … uh…”

“Vibrator. His full name is Sir Buzzalot. Best orgasms money can buy.”

He closes his eyes. “Yeah, you’d think that would make it better than f*cking another guy, but it really doesn’t. You’ve been making yourself come … with a vibrator. I can’t even … God—”

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t enjoying his discomfort.

“Since we’re being all chatty and whatnot … what about you?”

He rubs his eyes. “I don’t own a vibrator.”

“You know what I mean. Are you sleeping with anyone?”

“No.”

“Dating anyone?”

He makes a noise that’s almost a laugh but not quite. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because if I were capable of dating someone, why the f*ck would I have broken up with you?”

The silence solidifies between us. It feels like we have so much left to say after not speaking for so long, but neither of us knows where to start.

At last, he comes up with something appropriate. “Do you have any alcohol in your apartment?”

“Yeah. Tequila. Or wine.”

“Can I come in? I need a drink. Plus, I don’t really feel like going home. If I have to spend another night in my apartment alone, I’ll—” He shakes his head. “If you don’t want me to, it’s fine.”

I think of all the days he sits by himself to eat lunch. The way he separates himself in most social situations. Even when he started coming to parties again, he’d keep to himself. Was he just there to escape his solitude?

Throughout this whole thing between us, at least I’ve had people to support me. Ruby, Mom, my classmates. Hell, even his sister.

Who’s been there for him?

My pride is mad at me for feeling sorry for him, but I can’t help it.

“I could use something else to drink, too. If you want to come in, you can. I suppose.”

He nods and tries to hide his half smile. “Fine, I will, but please, stop begging. It’s embarrassing.”

“What can I say? I don’t like drinking alone.”

He turns to me, eyes almost black in the shadows of the car. “Me neither.”

The air between us becomes stifling. Crazy thick.

He lets out a breath before saying, “One drink, then I’ll be on my way.”

Flutters tickle my stomach and then move lower. “Okay.”




I’m laughing so hard, I can barely breathe. Ethan’s in the same boat. He’s wheezing like a cartoon character. I don’t even know what we’re laughing about. This is surreal. After more than a year of bitterness and snark, how the hell did we get here?

I topple to the side and collide with his shoulder. He leans back against the couch, and I’m so busy marveling over how stunning he is when he’s happy, my head slides down his arm and lands in his lap. We keep laughing. My head bounces off his stomach. It makes me laugh more. I sound deranged.

He spills some of his drink and licks the liquid off his thumb and forearm before it can drip onto the carpet. I’m transfixed by the motion of his tongue. I want to find out if it tastes like tequila.

He drops his head back and says, “I think we’re drunk.”

“I think you’re right.”

Gradually, our laughter dies down, and I flip onto my back and let my head nestle on top of his thigh. It feels strange to be with him like this. Like these are versions of ourselves from an alternate universe in which things are totally different, and we’re both happy. Touching him with such ease after all this time feels more like déjà vu than something I’ve done before.

I close my eyes and let myself enjoy it. I know this a stolen moment, but it’s exactly what I need right now.

I feel fingers on my forehead as he strokes my hair away from my face, and I open my eyes to see him staring down at me. All laughter has left his face. There’s an intensity in his expression that makes goose bumps flare across my skin. He threads his fingers through my hair, and everything seems to slow down. Like the air is charged with extra gravity.

I inhale with effort.

Within three seconds his fingertips have aroused me more than Nick could in three months.

The box in which I’ve locked my passion explodes open.

Ethan licks his lips. “I’m starting to think this was probably a bad idea. Being alone with you.”

I’m mesmerized by the movement of his mouth when he talks. “Yeah. Probably.”

“It’s easier when there are other people around. They distract me, you know? When it’s just us … it’s—”

“Harder.”

His expression softens. Fingers trail down my cheek.

“You’re so f*cking beautiful,” he whispers, like he’s afraid I’ll hear. “Every day I think that but can never tell you.”

His touch is feather-light, but each stroke sinks into my bones. Sets them ablaze. “Why tell me now?”

“Because I’m too drunk to stop myself. And because neither of us is likely to remember this tomorrow.”

His chest rises and falls in fast shallow breaths. Eyes are hooded. Deep and needy.