by Leisa Rayven
“Liberty said she’s been depressed,” Ruby says. “Got hooked on drugs a while ago. Her roommate thought she’d gotten clean but apparently not.”
Without a word, Ethan pulls his hand out of mine and strides off.
When I catch up with him, his jaw looks so tight it could crack walnuts.
“Ethan—”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
I scramble to keep up with him. “You can’t blame yourself for this. Seriously. She has a drug problem.”
“Which she developed after I fucked her up.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do, because she sure as hell didn’t have one while we were together.”
“It’s college. A lot of people do a lot of stupid stuff. At least they found her in time. She’s going to be okay.”
He stops and turns to me, his expression fiery. “You really wander through life looking through rose-colored glasses, don’t you? Didn’t you see her back there? She’s barely alive! I know your life has been peaches and fucking cream, but not everyone is like you. Some of us live in the real world where shit happens that you can’t take back, and no matter how much you wish things could change, they just fucking don’t. Wake up!”
When he storms off, I tell myself he just needs time, and we’ll go back to normal. But I have no idea what normal is for us. I hate that we’re becoming more and more undefined every day, and I’m powerless to stop it.
He doesn’t call me that night, and when he shows up for his final mask assessment the next morning, he looks like he hasn’t slept.
“Mr. Holt,” Erika says, as Ethan struggles through the first test. “How are you supposed to express the truth of this mask when there are so many barriers between it and the real you? Let go, Ethan!”
I can see him really trying to get to the place of vulnerability that has eluded him for weeks, but he fails, again and again.
He grunts in frustration and snatches off his mask before throwing it across the room. “I can’t fucking do it, all right? Fail me!”
Erika looks around at the rest of the class. “You’re all dismissed. I’ll see you tomorrow. Mr. Holt, you stay.”
There are cautious looks as everyone grabs their belongings. I loiter outside the door. Yesterday with Olivia and now this? I have no idea how to help him. Or even if he can be helped.
I press my back into the hallway wall and eavesdrop.
“Mr. Holt, your behavior in this class has been unacceptable. Explain yourself.”
“Okay, how’s this? Masks are fucking stupid. I want to be an actor, not a two-bit mime. How the hell is this going to be relevant to me outside of this classroom?”
“An actor’s job is to share himself with his audience. These masks challenge you to open up fully. That’s how it’s relevant.”
“I’ve tried to share and be open! Every fucking lesson. What more do you want?”
“I want you to just be. Show me the guy underneath all of the crap.”
“Don’t you fucking get it yet? You think that somewhere in here is some magically well-adjusted individual, and all I have to do is find him? He doesn’t exist! Believe me, I’ve looked! All I am is endless layers of shit. I thought that would have been obvious by now.” I hear him exhale. “So go ahead. Fail me. I don’t fucking care anymore.”
His voice cracks on the last word, and I so badly want to put my arms around him.
He struggles so hard with his self-esteem, but knowing what he’s gone through, I understand why he finds being open so tough. He was a foster kid who wasn’t adopted until he was three, and when he found out about the adoption at the age of sixteen, he didn’t know who he was anymore. His rocky relationship with his dad didn’t help. Charles turned paternal disapproval into an art form.
If all that wasn’t bad enough, in his senior year of high school, Ethan discovered his high school sweetheart had been screwing his best friend for the better part of twelve months. I can’t even imagine coping with all of that.
Clearly, judging from what’s happening right now, neither can Ethan.
I chance a peek into the room. He’s sitting in a chair, head in his hands, staring at the floor. Erika is opposite him. She leans forward as if trying to reach him with her words.
“Ethan, listen. I think we both know this isn’t just about an acting exercise. You think you’re the only one who’s scared to let others see who you truly are? Everyone wears metaphorical masks during their lives. We all have different faces we show to our work colleagues, or friends, or family. Sometimes we wear so many masks, we forget who we are, but you have to find the courage to reveal your true self. That’s all I want from you.”
He shakes his head. “What if my true self is shit? Just defective and toxic and unlovable. Why would I ever let someone see that?”
“Because in the end, that’s the only version of you that’s real. It’s the only one you can truly give to others. Everything else is just pretend.”
“You’re right,” he says, his voice husky with emotion. He sounds hopeless. “I’ve been pretending. To so many people for too fucking long.”
She puts a hand on his shoulder, but he flinches.
“Ethan . . .”
“I’m not doing this anymore. I’ll take the F. Can I go?”
“If there’s nothing else you want to talk about—”
“There isn’t.”
I move away from the door just as he strides out. He doesn’t stop when he sees me.
“Ethan?”
He ignores me.
“Hey, slow down. Where are you going?”
I grab his arm, and he spins around to face me. “Don’t, Cassie. Just fucking don’t. You need more than I can give. I’ve always known it, and now you know it, too. Let’s both stop trying to deny it.”
“What are you—”
“I tried. I really did. But I’m done. We’re done.”
He pulls his arm free and walks away, and I’m too stunned to do anything but watch him go.
SEVEN
STRONGER
Present Day
New York City, New York
The Apartment of Cassandra Taylor
Ethan’s talked a lot. About fear and how to conquer it. About learning from past mistakes. About how we’re both better people together than we ever were apart. He’s saying everything I needed him to say years ago.
I’ve listened to it all but haven’t said much in return. I’d expect him to be frustrated with me by now, but he’s not. He’s warm and more supportive than I’ve ever known him to be.
“I’m not looking for any guarantees here, Cassie,” he says. “Just a chance. An opportunity to try.”
Try to forget what happened in the past and just love him again? That would be nice.
But trying isn’t always enough.
I clear my throat and find my words. “Even if I agree to try, what makes you think I’m not going to act exactly like you did back then and ruin us?”
For the first time today, I see a hint of irritation. “Because you’re better than I am. You always have been. Infinitely wiser and stronger.”
If I wasn’t feeling so anxious, I’d laugh. “Ethan, the one thing I’m not is strong. If I was, I’d have gotten over you by now and moved on with my life. Not standing here seriously considering giving you another chance.”
“Bullshit. You’re facing your fears instead of running from them. If only I’d had your strength in the past, this story would have had a happy ending years ago.”
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. As much as I want to leave the past in the past, this conversation brings it all rushing back in stomach-churning detail. My chest tightens to the point of pain. I recognize the signs of a panic attack. I’ve had one or two before, all A.E.—After Ethan. Usually Trista
n talks me down. Today, I know it’s my fight or flight instinct kicking in.
Ethan strokes my arms when he realizes what’s happening. Of course he recognizes the symptoms.
His anxiety attacks were what destroyed us.
EIGHT
ONE NIGHT
Six Years Earlier
Westchester, New York
The Grove
The sun sets, and I don’t move. Ruby messages me to say she’s bumped into an old flame and won’t be home tonight, and I don’t move.
I have a vague notion I’m in shock, but I don’t know if I should be. I still don’t know what happened.
Ethan. Ethan happened but . . .
Did he just break up with me?
If he’d broken up with me, I’d know, right? He was upset, sure, but he was angry with Erika, not me.
No. He was angry with himself.
So why do I feel so wrong?
I stand and stretch, but it doesn’t help the ache in my bones. I need to do something. Help him.
I should tell him that whatever he’s feeling, we’ll work through it together. That’s what couples do, right? Providing we are still a couple.
I grab my backpack with shaky hands and dig around until I find my phone. A small voice warns me to stop. Says that if I talk to him, he’ll clear up my confusion, and at this point I’ll take vague hope over grim knowledge.
But I have to fix this.
I bring up his number and hesitate.
Please let him be blowing off steam. Let us get through this.
I pace the room as I wait for the call to connect. When it rings, I stop short.
I can hear Ethan’s ringtone, AC/DC’s “Back in Black”, coming from outside my door.
I yank the door open, and there he is, phone in hand, shoulders bunched and tense, leaning against the wall opposite my door. His knuckles are scraped and bloody. He talks as if to himself. “Even when I’m trying to stay away, I can’t. What the fuck is wrong with me?”
“Ethan? What happened to your hand?”
When he looks at me, his eyes are red and swollen. “Punched a wall.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m a pathetic fuck. You should know that by now.”
I’ve never seen him so emotionally raw. My skin prickles. This isn’t good.
“Hey, it’s okay. Come inside.” I take his hand to coax him through the door. “Let me clean that up for you.”
He reluctantly follows me inside to the bathroom. I rinse his hand under warm water and cover the scrapes in antiseptic cream. He watches me carefully, fingers trembling. His tension fills the small room.
I want to calm him, but I don’t know how. When I try to touch his face, he moves back, just out of reach.
“Don’t.” He strides into the living room and tugs at his hair. “I should’ve gone home. From the start I knew I’d be the worst thing to ever happen to you, but I was weak. You make me so fucking weak.”
Panic crawls up into my throat as I watch him pace. He’s unraveling. Pulling apart faster than I can put him back together.
I put a hand on his chest to stop him. He looks at it like it’s a brand, burning into his skin. I drop my trembling hand and try to keep my voice even. “Ethan, listen, whatever you’re feeling right now we can deal with together. Please, just . . .” I take a breath and try to calm myself. “Tell me how to fix this.” Then I have a horrible thought. “Can we fix it?”
He leans against the wall, brows furrowed, head back. “I don’t know.” His panic vibrates in the air, making all my hairs stand on end.
“How can I help you? Please—”
“Dammit, Cassie, I don’t fucking know, all right? Since the moment I met you, I’ve been so turned around, I don’t know which way is up. All I know is that I want to be with you, but . . .”
I walk over to him and take his face in my hands. My desperation matches his. “No. No ‘but’s. You are with me. Look. You’re right here.”
“I shouldn’t be.” He squeezes his eyes shut.
“You should. You’re with me, and I’m yours, and I . . . I love you.”
He snaps open his eyes to stare at me, and I realize this is the first time I’ve told him that. It’s strange that this is new information to him. I’ve felt it for a long time, but I guess I’ve been too proud, or too scared, or too stubborn to say it. But I have to tell him now because I’m losing him.
I watch for his reaction. Do I expect him to say it back? After all these months of compulsive passion, of course that’s what I expect.
But he doesn’t say it. Instead, he drops his head like I’ve somehow opened Pandora’s box and doomed us both. “Fuck. Cassie . . . don’t.”
“It’s true,” I say, as the ache in my chest flares. “I love you, Ethan. You’re . . . amazing. And I know you’re scared. The last time you opened yourself up like this, you got badly hurt. But you know I’d never do that. I love you. And I hope that under all your fear, you can find a way to . . . well, I hope that you love me, too. Right?”
Please, Ethan. Tell me I’m right.
He shakes his head. “I can’t . . .”
I hold my tears back. He needs me to be strong, and I need him to be okay. We can do this. “You can’t . . . love me?”
I brace myself so his answer can’t hurt me.
“Cassie, it doesn’t matter how I feel about you. I can’t be what you need.”
“You can. You are.”
“How can you say that?” he says, frustration making his voice hard. “I keep proving you wrong, time and again. You deserve someone else.”
“I don’t want anyone else. But if you do . . .”
He shakes his head. “You know that’s bullshit.”
“I don’t understand. So, you want me, but don’t love me?” My voice cracks, and I hate how pathetic I sound.
His expression melts from anxiety into pity. He sees how desperate I am for him to tell me I’m wrong.
“You think I don’t love you?” he says as he steps away from the wall and draws up to his full height. “You think I like feeling like this? As if pushing you away isn’t ripping out parts of me? Fuck, Cassie, I know the right thing to do is to leave you alone. But when I think about doing that it . . .” He grips his chest. “It fucking hurts. And I’m so sick of hurting. I thought you could make it better, but you only made it worse.” Everything he’s feeling is on his face. He can barely look me in the eyes, and it makes mine sting with tears. “You want me to say it? Yes, I fucking love you. But you have no idea how many times I’ve wished I didn’t.”
He curls his hands into fists, and he looks frayed at the edges, like he’s going to split apart any second if he doesn’t touch me. I feel the same way.
“Loving you,” he says, “is the stupidest, most selfish thing I’ve ever done, but I can’t stop. God knows, I’ve tried.”
Before I have time to answer, he’s moving. Within three strides, he has his arms around me, crushing me against him as he claims my mouth. The initial shock of it is quickly replaced by a white-hot fever. It melts my muscles and settles in my bones.
He groans and kisses me again, and again, becoming more passionate with each passing second. I can barely keep up.
He’s never kissed me like this before. It’s like he’s speaking directly to my body. Asking permission, and apologizing, and wishing for things that can never be. He pushes me back against the wall, and even though the kiss is full of the same hungry lust that’s always been there, it’s also something else.
It whispers under my skin and heats the air in my lungs. I feel it tangling in all my nerve endings as he presses his weight against me and moans into my lips.
“Tell me how to stop loving you, Cassie. Please. I have no fucking clue.”
He kisses me deeper. More intensely. It’
s seduction and yearning. Raw and unashamed.
It’s everything.
Our mouths and hands become frantic. He says he wants to keep us apart, but our bodies have other ideas.
His movements are rough, impatient. When he tugs at my shirt, I lift my arms to let him pull it off. My jeans are next, and I have to lean against the wall as he yanks them down. When he kisses his way back up, my legs liquefy.
Heat is coursing from him into me and back again. Everywhere he touches me burns. All the places he’s yet to touch ache. His mouth is everywhere, like he’s trying to consume me.
I know how he feels. I’m just as hungry for him.
I fumble with the buttons on his shirt, desperate to get to the skin beneath. I get most of them undone, but the last one won’t give way. I grunt as I rip the fabric and push the shirt off his shoulders. When both of my hands finally land on his chest and press against the thrumming pulse beneath, I sigh.
This is more than lust. It’s even more than love. It’s imperative. Mindless, bloody-minded need. I can’t kiss him deep enough, or hold him close enough.
“God, Ethan . . .”
He’s not gentle, and that’s okay with me. I’m not used to him like this. So raw and uncontrolled. Nothing is held back. And it’s so thrilling to get so much of him, emotion catches in my throat.
He tugs at my bra, and pulls the straps down so he can get to my breasts. All I am is breath as he kisses and nibbles, and when he pushes one hand into my panties, I’m one long, unending inhale.
I grip him so hard, it’s like I’m trying to get inside his skin. As I unbuckle his belt and pull it free, he’s still teasing me with his fingers and mouth; keeping me pinned to the wall to stop me flying away. I yank his jeans open, and it’s only when I slide my hand into his boxers that he falters in his intensity. All of sudden, he’s still, and his whole body shudders as I palm the weight of him and squeeze.
Oh, how he feels. How he looks as I touch him, muscles flexing with grateful shudders and restrained urgency.
