by Leisa Rayven
He wraps his arm around me and pulls me into his side. “I don’t know how long I lay at the bottom of that hill. Most of the night, at least. I slipped in and out of consciousness, and as time passed, I realized no one was going to find me down there. Unless I did something, I was going to die. I had to get back to the road.”
“But your injuries—”
“Yeah, I found out later that I had a dislocated shoulder, a fractured wrist, three broken ribs and a punctured lung, as well as concussion and multiple lacerations.”
“Oh, my God! How did you even move?”
“Willpower. Stubbornness. The thing is, I knew that climbing up that hill was going to be the most painful thing I’ve ever done, but it was necessary. I had to survive, because if I didn’t, I could never get you to forgive me, and that was not fucking acceptable.”
He touches my face again, soft and reverent. “So, I climbed. Every step made me scream in agony, but I kept moving, one foot in front of the other. By the time I reached the top, I was sure I’d died and gone to hell. The pain was blinding. I managed to crawl over the guardrail before collapsing on the road.”
“How did you get out of there?”
“A delivery driver found me a couple of hours later and called an ambulance. When I woke up, I was in a French hospital, tubes everywhere, dosed up on morphine. Elissa and the company manager were there. They told me I’d been out for a couple of days. Elissa was fucking furious. She’d been lecturing me for months about my drinking and self-destructive habits. When she was done yelling, she started sobbing. I’d never seen my sister cry like that before.”
“Of course she was upset. She could have lost you. We all could have.”
“But the ironic thing is, the way I was living . . . it was like I was already dead. It took the accident to bring me back to life. While I was recovering in hospital, it occurred to me that for most of my adult life, I’ve had this thing for self-sabotage. When I broke up with you the second time, it was me slamming into the barrier of my goddamn issues. I knew if I didn’t fix them and figure out a way to get you back, my life was pointless. So, as soon as I got out of hospital, I tracked down a therapist who specialized in abandonment issues and climbed the fucking painful hill of recovery. Three years later, here I am. Scarred, but grateful.”
I want to be grateful too, but I’m too busy fixating on the mental image of him lying in a hospital bed, crumpled and broken.
“Why didn’t you tell me? You could have asked Elissa to contact me.”
He shakes his head. “I couldn’t. I mean, I’d almost killed myself because I was pining for you. How fucking lame is that? Plus, I vowed the next time you laid eyes on me, I’d be the man you deserved, not some scared little boy.”
I look up at him. “And now, here you are.”
He brushes his thumb over my lips. “Here I am.” He leans down and kisses me, warm and open and soft. When he stops, I’m boneless.
“You were always my incentive to get better, both physically and mentally. You were my reward.”
He wraps around me before burying his face in my neck. “Thank you.”
I try to keep it together as he tightens his arms around me. We stay like that for a long time, intertwined and breathing each other’s air. Eventually we break apart and he takes my hands. “I want you to come to my place for dinner tonight. I’ll cook. I have something I want to show you.”
I smile and shake my head. “Ethan . . . I think we really need to take things slowly for a while. Besides, I’m pretty sure what you want to show me, I’ve seen before.”
“Not that,” he says as he lifts up onto one elbow. “Although if you play your cards right, I could be persuaded to show you that, too.”
I push him, and he laughs as he falls back onto the bed. Part of me hates how right he looks on it. He grabs my hand then rolls on top of me. He’s so happy and comfortable, I barely recognize him.
When he leans down to kiss me, I put my hand on his chest to stop him. He immediately rolls off like he’s expecting it. Then he wraps his arms around me and draws me back into him.
I turn so my chin is on his chest. He sighs and stares at me, unashamedly lustful. “So yeah. I’m going through this phase right now where I don’t seem to know the meaning of the word ‘slow’. I promise that from now on, I’m going to try harder to not hit on my girlfriend every five minutes.”
A few years ago, I couldn’t convince him to call me his girlfriend without coercion and testicular clamps, and now he’s throwing around the term like he’s Mr. Commitment?
“That’s how you think of me?”
“No. Well, what I feel for you is a few hundred light years away from just being my girlfriend, but I’m trying really hard not to freak you out here, so I’ve been keeping my epic feelings on the downlow.”
“Well, except for that whole thing where you typed ‘I love you’ over a thousand times, right?”
His smile falls. “Yeah. Except for that.”
He runs his fingers through his hair as his frustration peeks through. “I know it’s too soon, but I want to be your boyfriend. No, wait . . . ‘boyfriend’ sounds so fucking lame. I’m nearly twenty-seven years old. I want to be your man. Your lover. Your . . . damn it, I don’t know. Your Ethan. Whatever the fuck you want to call me, that’s what I want to be. My endgame is to simply know that I’m yours, and you’re mine, and that neither one of us is scared or ashamed of that. I want to take you out and put my arm around you and know that every other man in the room is jealous as hell that I’m the one who gets to take you home and paint your skin with my mouth.”
I don’t know what to say. Getting used to this new version of him is going to take time. He’s so sure of himself.
He leans forward, and brushes a stray lock of hair away from my face. “Now, do you have any other questions about how I feel? Or would you like me to describe exactly which parts of your body I’m going to paint with my mouth?”
A crawling heat spreads across my shoulders and creeps up my neck. He’s not allowed to be this sexy when I’m trying to take things slow.
“Ah no,” I say, as I fixate on his mouth. “That was an excellent explanation. I’m good.”
He nods. “Good. Because really, that second part was a trick question. When I get my mouth on you, there won’t be any parts untasted. I want all of you.” He makes a long, slow appraisal of my body. “Every . . . delicious . . . inch.” He continues to stare, and I feel myself leaning forward. He clenches his jaw as I get closer, and just when I think he’s going to try to kiss me again, he shakes his head and stands.
“Okay, I seriously have to get out of here, because if I stay I’m going to make you uncomfortable with all my filthy, relentless lust.” He exhales and rakes his fingers through his hair again. “So, tonight. Dinner at my place? I’ll cook whatever you want.”
“Sure. What time do you want me?”
He takes a deep breath. “I want you all the time.”
I shake my head and smile.
“Sorry, but you did ask. If you don’t want innuendo, rephrase the question.”
“Fine. What time would you like me to arrive tonight?”
“Six thirty. I want to discuss something with you before dinner.”
“About?”
“You’ll see.” I’m immediately cautious. He gives me a half-smile. “Don’t panic. I think it’s going to be a good thing. Trust me.”
I’m trying. I’m really, really trying.
“Do you want me to bring anything?”
He gazes at me for a few seconds. “Just you.”
*
Time is a fickle whore. Whenever you want it to pass slowly, it speeds up, and whenever you’re full of nervous impatience, it crawls like a sloth on sedatives.
The entire contents of my closet lie on my bed. Everything has been tried o
n at least twice. My hair is sleek and straight. Makeup light but careful.
I remind myself that this is not a date. It’s just dinner.
Then why am I wearing underwear that costs more than the national debt of some small African countries?
I shouldn’t be going to this much trouble. I shouldn’t be this nervous. And I really shouldn’t get so flustered when I imagine the look on his face when he sees this sex-kitten underwear.
Shit. If he sees this underwear, not when.
I sit on the bed and drop my head in my hands.
Maybe I should cancel. I’m not ready for this.
I take some deep breaths and look at the clock. Tristan, my Zen-master roommate and life coach, will be home soon. He’ll know what to do. What I should wear.
My phone buzzes with a message from him.
I text him back.
He replies with a smiley face and what looks like a giant schlong emoticon.
Where the hell did he even get that?
Damn him.
To be fair, he doesn’t know I’m going to Ethan’s place for dinner. If he did, he’d probably cover me in barbed wire, strap on a chastity belt, and then insist on tagging along to protect my vagina chakra, if there was such a thing.
I sigh and take off my pretty underwear and replace them with my most boring white cotton thong and bra. Then I put on comfortable jeans and a plain T-shirt, pull my hair back into a ponytail, and take my makeup back to just mascara and lip gloss.
Done.
No pressure. Just dinner.
And Ethan.
Nothing more.
*
I’ve barely knocked when the door opens, and he’s there.
Oh God, he is so there. Freshly shaven, navy shirt, dark jeans, no shoes. I think I gape. I can’t be sure.
He’s staring at me too, dragging his gaze slowly over my body before settling on my face.
“Hi.” He looks nervous. For some reason, that makes me feel a little better.
“Hi.”
He doesn’t move. “You look . . . I just . . .” He blinks. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”
How does he not understand statements like that make me want to murder my resolution to take it slow with him and bury it where no one will ever find it?
“Uh thanks. You look good, too.” Really good.
He ignores my compliment as he continues to stare.
“Uh . . . Ethan?”
He suddenly remembers his manners. “Shit, sorry. Come in.”
“Thanks.”
He steps back and lets me enter. Goosebumps crawl over my skin as I pass. The hallway smells like him, and I automatically take a deep breath.
I haven’t seen his New York place yet, so I drink in every detail.
His apartment is compact but stylish. More grownup than his Westchester digs. More refined.
“Elissa decorated it for me,” he says.
I nod. “It’s nice. Do you live by yourself?”
“Yeah. Ever since I got back from Europe. Elissa is living in the East Village like the bohemian she is. I miss having her around, but it was time, you know? Can’t live with my baby sister forever.”
“Uh-huh.”
We lapse into silence as I wander around and check out his knick-knacks and photos. I run my fingers along the spines of his book collection as I try to get to know him again.
I can feel him watching me. Waiting for my approval. It’s kind of strange.
I stop when I spy a familiar title. “Kristin Linklater—Freeing the Natural Voice.”
I turn to him, and he laughs. “Every time someone mentioned the title of this book in class, Jack Avery would fart.” He laughs harder.
“Is that why you keep it on your shelf?”
He shrugs. “What can I say? Avery was a dick, but the boy was funny.”
I scan the rest of the shelf. “You have all of our old textbooks here.”
“They’ve been useful over the years. They were also reminders of our time at drama school.”
“I burned all of mine.” I say it before I register how he’ll feel about it. Judging by his expression, it doesn’t make him happy. I hadn’t meant that to be a reflection on him, but I guess it is. I purged those books just like I purged everything that reminded me of him.
He drops his head. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Everything I needed from those books I learned by heart.”
He nods. He knows.
“Would you like something to drink?”
“God, yes.”
“I have a red you’re going to love.”
He disappears into the kitchen and I continue to explore, looking for something. Something about me, maybe. About us. Something real and familiar.
On the wall opposite the windows, I see them. At first I’m not sure what I’m looking at, but then I realize what they are—two masks. From a distance, they seem like the standard comedy and tragedy faces so many actors have in their homes, but a second look causes me to catch my breath. Strength and vulnerability. The same masks we used at drama school. The ones we both had trouble with.
“I convinced Erika to give them to me.” I turn to find him a few feet away, a glass of wine in each hand. “I bought her a whole new set in Italy.”
He passes me a glass, and I take a sip. “Why did you want them? I mean, you failed that class. Erika kicked your ass for weeks.”
“Yeah, but only because she expected more from me. It took me a long time to expect more from myself. To see that being vulnerable takes a shitload more strength than being closed off and sullen.” He steps closer, and I take another mouthful of wine while trying not to look at him. “Every time I see those masks, it reminds me. Every time I look at you it reminds me too, but you weren’t around for a long time, so the masks were a good placeholder.”
I keep my eyes on the masks, but I can feel him staring at me. As I tip the glass back, I realize my wine is almost gone. I need to slow down, or I’m going to get drunk and do things I may regret.
I feel warm fingers on my wrist, and he’s right behind me, his breath on my neck as he says, “I want you to have something.”
He takes my hand and guides me over to a large bookcase with doors. His palm is sweaty, and I wonder what has him so anxious.
He puts our glasses on the side table, and when he takes my other hand too, I swear I feel him tremble.
“Cassie, for so long I kept you guessing as to what I was thinking and feeling. I never want you to have to guess again. So from now on, anything you want to know, I’ll tell you. Anything.”
He pulls open the doors and gestures to the rows of books inside. “You want to know my motivations for all the shit I put you through in drama school? It’s all there. Every fucked-up thought process and bad decision. Every time I broke both our hearts in an effort to avoid pain. Read them if you want. Burn them. Whatever works for you.”
I look closely. Rows and rows of journals, starting from when he was in high school. Some years have a single volume, others have several. The year we met has five. No surprise there.
I pick up the last one from that year and open it to a random page.
November 18th
Tonight, she went down on me for the first time. And . . . Jesus Christ . . . I’m still shaking. I can’t get the image of her out of my head. So eager to please me. So trusting.
So beautiful.
I can’t handle it.
One day soon, she’s going to realize I’m no good for her and leave. Destroy me.
Every single brain cell is telling me to get out while
I can. To run so far and fast she’ll never find me. Forget that someone so fucking perfect as she is even exists.
But some part of me believes I can do this. That I’m capable of just handing over my heart like it’s not going to kill me.
That part is obviously deranged.
I look up, shocked by the depth of emotion in his writing. He’s watching me. Gauging my reaction. He doesn’t flinch.
“I take responsibility for everything I did,” he says. “Because even though I can’t change it, I do regret it. I thought seeing these may . . . I don’t know. Help in some way.”
I’m not so sure.
I go back to the journal.
December 4th
2.48 am—She won’t fucking answer. She calls to abuse me in the middle of the night, and then WON’T PICK UP HER FUCKING PHONE?!
3.36 am—I can’t stop thinking about her crying. She sounded so lost. And I did that to her. Me.
What a stellar fucking human being I am.
As much as I’m terrified she’s going to ruin me, I’m afraid I’ll do far worse to her.
So now I’m faced with the decision—man up and be the boyfriend she deserves, or get the fuck out while there’s still a chance we’ll both survive.
Yeah, easy choice. It’s like asking someone if they’d rather die by drowning or electrocution.
Whichever way it happens, you’re still dead.
11.18 am—She just left. I can still smell her. Fuck, I love her smell. I want to bathe in it.
She was asleep when I got home from my run. So perfect in my bed.
I had a major freakout for the three seconds I believed she’d read this journal, but I quickly realized if she had she wouldn’t still be here, let alone sleeping. She would have finally seen the level of fuckery she’s burdened with and run for the hills. And I wouldn’t have blamed her.
But no, she’s proven yet again that she’s not like the others. Made me realize she deserves so much more credit than I give her.
I want to be a better man. A better boyfriend.
Don’t fuck this up, Holt. Seriously. If you do, I’ll never forgive you.
She’ll never forgive you.
