“You probably should have said ‘Yes’ to that last one,” he says, lips against my throat.
When he lowers me to my feet, I can barely stand. “Probably.”
He picks up the journals and my bag and opens the door, then escorts me downstairs to the waiting taxi.
When I’m inside, he leans in and kisses me gently on the lips. “Thank you for coming.”
I smile. “I didn’t quite—”
“To dinner.” He smiles and kisses me again.
“Oh, that. Thanks for having me.”
“Uh, I didn’t quite—”
“We could do this all night.”
“Is that an offer? Because I could send the taxi driver away and take you back upstairs.”
I smile. “Good night, Ethan.”
He kisses me one more time, lingering this time. I almost forget why I have to leave.
“’Night. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
He closes the door, and the taxi pulls away.
When I get into my apartment and collapse on the bed, I can still feel all the places he touched me. I turn off the light and strip as I let my hands wander, needing to finish what he started, or I won’t be able to sleep.
I don’t mean to close my eyes and picture him, but I do. Of all the many characters and faces I’ve seen over the years, the expression that’s clearest in my memory is the one when he’s touching me. How his mouth drops open in wonder as he brings me pleasure.
It’s that face that lingers behind my eyelids. I pretend my hands are his, and when I cry out in my dark room, I have to stop myself from saying his name.
I’m on the verge of dozing off when my phone buzzes with a message.
<Are you touching yourself right now & thinking about me?>
I laugh. He always did know me too well.
<No.>
<Me neither. Definitely not doing it for the 2nd time.>
<TMI>
<Really? I can give you more details if u like.>
<Going now.>
<Going or coming? Put your phone on vibrate & I’ll text the hell outta you.>
My laughter sounds way too loud in my silent room, and I realize it’s the first time that’s happened in a very long time.
<Good night, Ethan.>
<G’night, Cassie.>
I’m about to put my phone down when another text arrives.
<Really want to tell you I love you, but I’m not going to. How hard am I rocking this ‘taking it slow’ thing, huh? (Please don’t take out a restraining order.)>
He signs it with a smiley face, and I snort with laughter. After waiting to make sure we’re really done this time, I snuggle down into my bed. His journals sit on my nightstand, gray in the half-light.
I know they’re probably going to bring up more questions than answers, but I think that inside their pages, I might find some sort of closure. If we’re even going to have a chance of being together, I know I have to find a way to forgive him.
The problem is, I’ve had more practice hating him than loving him.
TWELVE
HOPEFUL INDIFFERENCE
Six Years Earlier
Westchester County, New York
The Grove
Two weeks.
Two weeks without talking to him. Two weeks in which every glance has been furtive and fleeting. I can’t say his effect on me is lessening, but I’m certainly getting better at ignoring it.
It’s only when I’m forced to look at him that my control wavers. When he stands in front of the class to perform, the cell-deep magnetism that draws me to him kicks into overdrive and tries to unstitch my resolve.
It’s in those long, surreal moments, when all I can think of is how much I still want him, that the cast iron around my heart threatens to bend.
But then I dial up my bitterness, and just like that, anger is my insulation. It allows the rush of lust to drain away like murky bathwater.
His performances are consistently good, but I roll my eyes when he continues to hold back, keeping those last few fragile pieces of himself safely hidden away, stifled from either shining or shattering.
When he finishes, I clap with everyone else, but I’m applauding his self-delusion more than his performance.
Bravo for faking it yet again, Ethan.
You’re a perfect counterfeit copy of someone I thought I loved.
We’re singing, loudly. Twirling and dancing after having smoked some of Lucas’s home-grown pot. Class doesn’t start for another half hour, and I’m glad because it’s been so long since I laughed, I don’t want it to end.
I don’t know how I know the words to Can’t Take My Eyes Off of You, but I do. We all do.
We’re obnoxious and off-key, but some of the weight I’ve carried in my chest since the breakup is finally lifting. Miranda twirls me toward Jack. He picks me up and passes me to Lucas. Aiyah hugs us both and strokes my hair. Lucas yells a heads-up to Connor, then throws me into his arms. Connor laughs as he overbalances, and then we’re on the floor. Everyone’s laughing. Connor has his arms around me, and as I laugh with him, his smile drops slowly, like paint dripping off a canvas.
He stares at me, and before I know it, I’m not laughing anymore, either. His face is too close. His expression is asking for too much as he sings to me about being too good to be true.
For long seconds, I think he’s going to kiss me, but instead he flops onto his back and pulls me close against his chest. People dance and sing around us, like we’re the centerpiece in some bizarre pagan ritual, and even though it feels wrong to be in such an intimate position, I stay there, testing out my reaction. He’s warm and smells nice, and I like the way he gently strokes my arm.