by Leisa Rayven
She leans forward and gives me a smile.
“You had a huge impact on Ethan. No doubt, in the story of his life, you’ve left your mark everywhere. It’s unfortunate that a lot of other people did as well. Ethan made a choice to delete their contributions and only keep the things that made him stronger. He reprinted himself, if you like. The only person who was capable of doing that was Ethan. Just like the only person who can rewrite your story and how it ends is you. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
I nod, because she’s making perfect sense, and the realization that all the therapy in world isn’t going to help me unless I take the responsibility to help myself is both terrifying and exhilarating.
She pats me on the arm. “Well, our time is up. I’ll see you in a few days. In the meantime, try not to be too hard on yourself, and please wish Ethan all the best for me.”
“I will. Thanks.”
When I step out into the waiting room, Ethan’s there. He closes the book he’s reading and stands.
After the roller coaster of emotions I’ve just experienced, I’m amazed at how happy I am to see him.
The way he looks at me makes me warm all over.
“Good session?”
I smile and go to him. “Pretty good. Whatcha reading?”
He holds it up for me to see.
“The Art of Happiness?”
“It’s written by the Dalai Lama.”
“So just a light read, then?”
He shakes his head. “Not light, but definitely worth it. It says that, like anything worthwhile, happiness takes work. I didn’t really need a book to tell me that, but it doesn’t hurt to be reminded of it every now and then. Now, come here and make me happy.”
He wraps his arms around me and hugs me like he never wants to let go.
I don’t want to let go, either.
The thing is, if people were books, Ethan would be a bestseller. A sexy, intelligent page-turner you’d find hard to put down, even after it reduced you to a sobbing mess.
TWENTY-ONE
OPENING NIGHT
Three Years Earlier
Westchester, New York
The Grove
Senior Showcase
We wrap around one another like we’re all that’s holding each other to the earth. Adrenaline pumps through me, and even though snuggling with Ethan helps channel my nerves, I can’t get rid of them completely. Neither can he. This performance is too important.
A few nerves will do us good. Raise our energy. Keep us on point.
When the call comes to take our places, I pull back and look into his eyes. He strokes my face and looks back with love, but there are also flickers of something else. Doubt? Fear?
Both?
We head down to the stage, and the show begins. Our scene is first. Romeo and Juliet. Performing with him is so easy. We tap into our connection effortlessly.
The scene is flawless, and after we take our bows, he leads me offstage and kisses me in triumph before running off to get changed.
The rest of the night passes in a blur. We do scenes and monologues, take our applause, and get changed into our next costumes. We see each other briefly backstage, but we’re focused on what we’re doing as we slip out of one character and step into another. Show our range. Impress the audience. It’s not just people filling those seats tonight; it’s representation and contracts, too. It’s our future.
Ethan and I rise to the challenge. Despite our nerves, we both perform incredibly well.
The last scene of the night is Portrait with me and Connor. I’m confident and in the moment. Connor and I are on fire. The energy onstage crackles with realism.
It’s not until I take my bow that I see Ethan, stony-faced, in the wings. My smile drops.
He hasn’t witnessed this scene before. I’d made sure of that.
After our fight a few days ago, I’d begged him not to watch it tonight.
Obviously he’s done listening to me.
I barely look at him as I exit the stage.
*
Present Day
New York City, New York
Graumann Theater
Opening Night
Every opening night is a mixture of excitement and fear, but this one . . . well, it’s even worse. I have to do my eyeliner three times because my hand is shaking so much, and when the production intern, Cody, knocks on the door, I just about jump out of my skin.
“You okay, Miss Taylor?” he asks.
“Yeah, fine.”
“You’re ready early.”
“Yeah, well, I have a lot of panicking to do. I need to allow enough time to fit it all in.”
“You don’t need to panic. You’re amazing. The show’s fantastic.”
“Yes, but every Broadway reviewer worth their salt is here tonight. The asshole from The New York Times is out there, for God’s sake, and he makes a habit out of not liking things just to piss people off.”
“Well, that’s just wrong.”
“Tell me about it. He’s already done a piece about how skeptical he is about this play. He doesn’t like the script, and I’m pretty sure he doesn’t like Ethan and me.”
“Has he met you? Seen you perform?”
“No, Cody. He’s a reviewer. He doesn’t have to see something to decide he doesn’t like it.” I pull a brush through my hair. “How’s Ethan doing?”
“Well, he vomited.”
“How many times?”
“Three. Now he’s lying down. Do you need me to get you anything?”
I give a bitter laugh. “Valium, a bottle of bourbon, and about ten pounds of self-confidence.”
“I’m predicting that if I get you the bourbon, the self-confidence will take care of itself.”
I turn to him. “Holt’s been telling you stories about me being drunk again, hasn’t he?”
“Just a few. I’m impressed.”
“Let me just say this: that time in Martha’s Vineyard? Everyone was half-naked. Not just me.”
“He did explain that. Okay. I’d better go raid a liquor store. Be back soon with your bourbon.”
I hold out my hand. “Wait, you can’t buy booze. You’re, like, twelve.”
“I’m twenty-two, Miss Taylor.”
“Really? You’re legal? Hmmm. I might have to rethink not sexually harassing you, then.”
“Please don’t. Mr. Holt is a large man. He’d crush me like a bug.”
“He doesn’t get jealous anymore.” Cody gives me a look. “Okay, he does, but he’s not an asshole about it.”
“Did you tell him Mr. Bain sent you that massive bouquet of roses?”
“Are you insane? He’d tear the place apart.”
“Really?”
“I don’t think so. Still, maybe lose the card, okay?”
He takes the card and shoves it in his pocket. “It’s gone.”
“You’re awesome, Cody.”
He laughs. “Have a great show, Miss Taylor.”
“Thanks. See you when it’s over.”
When he’s gone I slip into my Act One costume and begin my focusing exercises. I do three sets of Tai-chi before giving up. My focus is screwed. I need . . .
There’s a knock at the door. Perfect timing.
“Come in.”
Ethan enters. He looks like crap. He’s also in costume, but even through his makeup I can see he’s a little green.
He walks over and collapses on my couch.
“You okay?”
“Yep.”
“Really?”
“Nope. Did you hear the asshole from the Times is coming tonight?” He clutches his stomach. “Fuck. Also, my parents are here.”
“They’re going to love it. Mine are coming next week. I wanted to make sure I had some ti
me to spend with them away from the craziness of opening night.”
“They send you flowers?”
“Yes. One giant bunch each, because you know, divorced people can’t possibly talk on the phone and organize a joint present.”
“Of course not.”
“Tristan sent me a gift-boxed vibrator with a card that read, ‘If the reviewers don’t like your show, give them this and tell them to go fuck themselves.’”
He laughs then groans. “That’s the best thing I’ve heard all day. I see Connor sent you roses.”
My heart falters. “Uh . . . you did?”
“Yeah, he was dropping them off at the stage door when I arrived.”
“Uh-huh. So . . . you talked to him?”
“Yeah. He wished us both luck.”
“You seem very calm about it.”
“I am.” I give him a skeptical look, and he waves me off. “Connor was a blip on our radar. Despite my fantasizing about beating the shit out of him regularly, he’s a nice guy. The only thing he ever did wrong was take a liking to the girl of my dreams. Can’t really blame him for that. You are fucking spectacular.”
“So you’re okay with him sending me flowers?”
“Yep. He can send you all the flowers he wants. At the end of the night, I’m the one taking you home.”
“Well, you walk me home.”
“Semantics. I take you back to your apartment, then we say goodnight at the door and share a marathon hug that ensures I’ll be hard for hours afterward.”
I laugh. “Hours? Really?” He glares, and I drop my smile. “I’m sorry. You must be frustrated.”
“Nope. I’m fine. Because I know that one night, you’re going to invite me in, and on that night, I’m going to make sweet love to you for hours on end, and Connor will be nowhere to be found. At least, I hope he won’t. If he was, that would be creepy.”
I laugh, and when I go over to him, he pulls on my hand until I’m straddling him. I balk for about three seconds before admitting to myself that I need this. Of all the things to be worried about tonight, he’s not one of them.
He moves beneath me and makes a noise.
“Am I hurting you?” I ask.
“No. What you’re doing is the opposite of hurting. God, you feel good.”
I snuggle into his neck, and he wraps his arms around me. Within two minutes, our breathing is synchronized, and my nerves have calmed.
There’s a brief knock on the door, and I murmur, “Come in.”
I crack my eyes open to see Marco standing in the doorway, staring at us.
“What on earth are you two doing?”
In unison, Ethan and I say, “Focusing.”
Marco blinks and shakes his head. “Erika certainly taught you some interesting techniques at that school. Still, whatever works. I was going to wish you both luck for tonight, but I don’t really need to because I know you’ll be magnificent.”
Ethan says, “Thanks. We know,” and tightens his arms around me. If I wasn’t so relaxed, I’d giggle.
“Well, all right then. Have a wonderful show, and I’ll see you afterward.”
“Bye, Marco.”
When he closes the door, we both sigh.
“I pity those reviewers,” Ethan says.
“Why?”
“Because by the time we’re finished with them, they’re going to run out of superlatives for how fucking awesome we are.”
I smile against his neck. “So true.”
*
Three Years Earlier
Westchester, New York
The Grove
Night of the Senior Showcase
The after-party is manic. Everyone is decompressing so hard, all sense of being civilized has flown out the window. The air heaves with primal energy. People throw back alcohol amid thick clouds of marijuana smoke, and I see things being done in public that should be kept private.
Ethan’s on the other side of the room talking to Avery and Lucas but glancing at me intermittently. It’s obvious he’s angry about tonight. No problem. So am I.
“Trouble in paradise?” Ruby asks as she drapes her arm around my shoulders.
I roll my eyes. “Men. Why are they so stupid?”
“To make us look smart? I take it Holt didn’t dig your little scene with Connor.”
“Not at all.”
“Well, to be fair, it was pretty steamy. And let’s be honest, Connor is all kinds of easy on the eyes. If I was Holt, I’d be pretty pissed, too. Just saying.”
I grab her beer and take a swig. “I’m just glad it’s done. Maybe now he can get over it. I’m so tired of having to defend myself over nothing.”
“I hear you. There’s nothing more draining than having to constantly deflect suspicion. I had an ex-boyfriend who accused me of cheating every time he saw me so much as talk to another guy.”
“Really? How did you deal with him?”
“I cut him some slack. After all, I was fucking several other dudes.”
I hand back her beer. “You’re not helping.”
“Oh, honey, lighten up. Go get your man, take him back to our place, and screw his brains out. In the morning he won’t even remember why he was so pissed.”
“You think?”
“Well, it is Holt. He has a talent for holding on to things. Maybe throw in a morning blowjob for good measure.”
I give her a hug. “I love you dearly, but you’re useless at advice.”
“Yeah, I know. See you tomorrow?”
“Yep. I’ll be the one blowing my boyfriend.”
“In your bedroom with the door shut, right?”
“If you’re lucky.”
I take a breath and walk over to Ethan. When I get there, Jack puts his arm around me, clearly inebriated.
“Ah, sweet Cassie Taylor. You were so good tonight. So good.”
“Thanks, Jack. You too.”
“I especially enjoyed getting a peek of side-boob during your scene with Connor. That was hot. Holt, your girlfriend has a spectacular rack. I hope you appreciate that.”
Ethan shakes his head. “Yeah, and now everyone’s seen it. I’m thrilled. Really.”
Right. That’s it.
I grab the front of his shirt and pull.
“Hey!”
“Where are you guys going?” Jack whines.
“I’m taking my boyfriend home to screw his brains out,” I announce. “Maybe then he’ll stop being such an idiot.”
There’s a chorus of catcalls as I drag Ethan out of the party, but I don’t care.
I take his keys from him and push him toward the passenger door. I’ve barely had anything to drink but judging by the way he wobbles as he gets into the car, he’s well over the limit.
As I pull away from the curb, he crosses him arms and mumbles something about being careful with his car. I ignore it.
He turns on the stereo and AC/DC blares from the speakers. I turn it off and slap his hand when he tries to turn it on again. He slumps down into his seat and looks out the window.
“Did you mean what you just said?” he asks.
“Yes. I am indeed going to screw your brains out.”
“No,” he says, “I meant about me being an idiot.”
“Yes. I can see how pissed you are over the scene with Connor, and it’s dumb. We did what the play called for. You know that’s how it works. I feel like you’re blaming me.”
“I’m not, it’s just . . . I keep seeing him touching you. Do you have any idea how that makes me feel?”
“That’s why I didn’t want you to see it. Ethan, we can’t keep doing this dance. You have to try to find a way to get past this.”
He’s quiet for a few seconds then says, “I’ve been reading self-help books.”
�
�What?”
“I have a whole stack of them. I’ve been meditating and trying to change how I react to stuff, but it’s really fucking hard.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Like I want you to know how desperate I am.”
“At least you’re trying.”
“Yeah, and failing,” he says. “It’s frustrating as hell, because I want to change so badly, then something like tonight happens and I’m back to where I started.”
I touch his face. His air of hopelessness is scaring me. “Don’t give up. Please.”
We pull up in front of my apartment and head inside. When I close the door, he pushes me against it and kisses me. There’s a desperation in him that I want to extinguish, but I don’t know how. It mirrors my own. Neither one of us is a bad person. Why can’t we just get to be happy together?
When we make love, it’s rough. Almost angry. And when he falls asleep, I lie there and try to imagine being the one to leave this time. Could I do it? Get out before he destroys me?
It’s a tempting thought.
*
Present Day
New York City, New York
Graumann Theater
Opening Night
The party’s loud and flamboyant, just like most of the people attending. There’s a cavalcade of “Darling!” and “You were FABULOUS!” and “I loved it!”, and through it all, I try to take the compliments and make small talk, when all I want to do is find Ethan and bury myself in his chest.
I spot him across the room, chatting to a throng of women all desperate to get his attention, but all the while, he keeps one eye on me. The way he looks at me keeps permanent color in my cheeks. Even from across the room, he radiates sex. I pity the effect he’s having on the poor women huddled around him.
“So what’s the story with you and Ethan?” the reviewer from Stage Diary asks. “I heard you had a tumultuous love affair at drama school. Are you still together?”
