by Lauren Rowe
Chapter Thirty
Tyler parks Hanalei’s car on a remote overlook in the Hollywood Hills where we can take in the glittering lights of the City of Angels yawning before us. By chance, the song on the car radio is “Alive” by P.O.D.
“The perfect song for this perfect moment,” Tyler says softly.
And that’s all the conversation we’re going to have, apparently. In a flash, we mutually attack each other like animals. Two minutes later, we’re in the back seat, making love furiously.
“You sing that song way better than her,” Tyler whispers into my ear as his body thrusts in and out of mine.
It’s the same comment he made the second after Elphaba had finished singing “Defying Gravity” tonight. And the same thing he said again after the lights came up in the theater. And the same thing he said a third time when we’d first settled into Hanalei’s car in the theater parking lot.
And every single time, it’s been a ridiculous thing to say. Elphaba was flawless perfection on that stage tonight. Every bit as good as the one I saw on Broadway as a child. But I don’t contradict Tyler this time the way I’ve done earlier tonight. His words are turning me on too much to do anything but sigh and revel in the enthralling sound of his voice. Indeed, each sexy word of praise and adulation he whispers into my ear in this moment is drawing me closer and closer to a delicious climax. And, God knows, I wouldn’t dream of doing anything to derail that.
“Tyler,” I whisper, on the bitter edge of release. “Tonight was amazing.”
“You’re destined for greatness, baby,” he whispers, his voice strained, his body moving magically on top of me. “The sky’s the limit for you, sweetheart.”
I come. Hard. And right after I do, Tyler follows. Clearly, he’d been hanging on solely for my benefit.
After our bodies have quieted down, we pull our disheveled clothes back together and sit cuddled together in the backseat, gazing at the glittering view.
“I didn’t say all that stuff about Elphaba just to say it,” Tyler says after a while. “That actress was amazing tonight—she gave me chills. But you’re better than her, Zooey. That’s an objective fact.”
“Oh, Tyler.” I sigh happily and lace my fingers in his. “Thank you.”
“Sing me a little something,” he coos. He leans forward and turns off the car radio. “I want to hear your magnificent voice while I look at this magnificent view.”
To my surprise, his request doesn’t cause me the slightest bit of anxiety. On the contrary, I want to sing for him. And so, I do. I sing him my favorite song in the world, Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah.” And when I’m done, Tyler puts his finger underneath my chin and kisses my lips with what can only be described as reverence.
“Where did you get that voice of yours?” he asks. “Are your parents amazing singers, too?”
My stomach clenches. “My dad has a pleasant voice. He sings on-key, unlike someone else I know.” I nudge Tyler’s arm and he chuckles.
“So your mom is the one who gave you your voice, then?”
My heart lurches into my mouth. I clear my throat. “Yeah, definitely. From what I’ve seen on videos, my mother had an absolutely glorious voice.”
Tyler stiffens next to me.
Time stops.
I take a deep breath. “My mom died in a car accident when I was two.”
Tyler looks down at his lap. His shoulders droop. He puts his arm around my shoulders and pulls me into him. “I’m really sorry to hear that, Zooey.”
I pause to allow Tyler to say more. If my hunch about Tyler losing his mom to breast cancer is correct, now would be an obvious time for him to tell me about it. But, nope, Tyler doesn’t say a word. So I continue. “It’s been hard to grow up without a mother, but I sometimes think it would have been even harder if I’d been older at the time of her death—if I’d been aware of losing her.” I await Tyler’s reply again. But, still, he says nothing. Huh. Maybe I’ve jumped to the wrong conclusion about his mom? “Tyler, can I ask you something?” I ask cautiously. “Why did you say your father and sister text you on game days, but you didn’t mention your mom?”
Tyler looks out the far window. He exhales. “Because my mom died when I was eleven.”
My heart pangs. “Breast cancer?” I ask softly.
“Yeah.”
I wait for what seems like a long time. “I’m sorry, Tyler,” I finally say.
“I think about her every day,” Tyler says.
“Will you tell me about her?” I ask.
Tyler takes a deep breath. He clears his throat. “I don’t normally talk about her. I get too choked up.”
“I understand.”
“But I’ll tell you.” He pauses. Exhales. “She was generally kind of quiet. Unless she was watching football. And then she was the loudest person in any room.” He smiles at some memory, and moonlight glints off his beautiful eyes. “She didn’t tell a lot of jokes, but she laughed at everyone else’s, especially mine, even the lame ones. Especially the lame ones.” He pauses again. “She loved music, even though she couldn’t sing worth a damn, just like me. She used to roll down the windows in her car and sing along to her favorite songs at top volume, not caring if she was in key or not. My sister and I would sit in the backseat and sing along with her and laugh and laugh.” He smiles, even though tears have quite obviously pooled in the bottoms of his eyes. “My favorite thing was to watch her eyes in the rearview mirror when she was singing. They were the most beautiful blue eyes. Sometimes, she’d catch me looking at her and wink at me, and I’d wink back.” His voice quavers. He wipes his eyes. “Lots of times, I could feel her looking at me when I was doing nothing, like maybe sitting at the kitchen table doing homework. I’d look up and she’d just be standing there watching me with this look of pure love on her face.” He sighs. “And I could physically feel her love for me.”
I squeeze his hand. “Was she sick for a long time?”
He nods. “I was eight the first time she got sick. When it came back, I was ten. That second time, it didn’t even occur to me she wouldn’t beat it again. And then one day she told me she was going to the hospital again—but that she’d never come home.”
“Oh, Tyler.”
“And you know what I did? I yelled at her. I accused her of not fighting hard enough.” His voice cracks. “She knew she was going to die that day, and I made her feel like she was being a terrible mom for leaving us. For leaving me.” He turns his face away from mine and looks out the far window. He exhales a trembling breath. “When she died, I was so angry. I sat there and felt this inexplicable rage. I felt like God had just taken the most gigantic shit right on my head. I didn’t think about my dad’s pain. Or my sister’s. Or even about my mom’s. All I thought about was me and what I’d just lost. That nobody would ever wink at me in a rearview mirror again. Or laugh at my lame jokes. Or make me feel loved like that, ever again.”
I stroke his forearm, at a loss about what to do. “I’m so sorry.”
Tyler takes a deep, shuddering breath and gets himself under control. “To this day, I hate myself for what I put my mom through in the end. She was in horrible pain, and I didn’t ease her pain. I added to it.” He turns to look at me. He blinks and the tears pooled in his eyes course down his cheeks. “I’ll never forgive myself for the things I said. And worse, the things I didn’t say.”
I put my palm on his beautiful face. Wipe his tears. “You didn’t need to say a thing to her, Tyler. She knew.”
He looks down. “That’s what my sister always says.”
“She’s right.”
He doesn’t reply.
“No wonder you and your sister are so close.”
“I don’t know what I would have done without my sister. She’s always been the one who’s taken care of me. Certainly not my dad.”
“Why not your dad? He was grieving?”
“He couldn’t function for about a year after Mom died.” He pauses. “And then he found the thing to g
et him out of bed again. I got selected for this junior elites football team in Dallas, and he found his reason for being. And so did I. Every time I played, I knew I was saving my dad’s life. Plus, I could hear my mom cheering me on. It was awesome.”
“Your mom knew football?”
He nods. “Her dad was a college coach. It was in her blood. She’s the one who knew I was born to be a defensive player, not my dad. Dad always thought I should be a quarterback, but Mom said, nope, I was born to hit. One day she told me I should think about being a free safety and I was like, ‘But, Mom, the quarterback is the guy in charge.’ And she goes, ‘Honey, the free safety is the quarterback of the defense. He’s the one secretly in charge. It’s the defense that actually wins football games, despite appearances.’ And then she showed me that famous video of Atwater taking down Okoye, and I never looked back.”
“What video?”
“You know, the one where Steve Atwater puts that legendary hit on Christian Okoye?”
I look at him blankly. “I don’t think I’ve seen that one.”
“What?” He’s absolutely appalled. “Jesus Christ, Zooey, did you grow up under a rock?”
I laugh. “Yeah, with Babar.”
Tyler pulls out his phone and quickly finds the video he’s talking about—the Atwater-Okoye hit of 1990. “It’s only the greatest hit by a free safety in the history of the game,” he says. “Maybe even the greatest hit, period. Check it out.”
I look at Tyler’s phone and watch a guy in a Bronco uniform—the mystery player on Tyler’s wall, I immediately realize!—putting a monster hit on a running back for the Chiefs that instantly lays him out cold. “Ooph,” I say, grimacing. “That had to have left a mark on poor Okoye.”
Tyler tosses his phone onto the driver’s seat in front of us. “To this day, I watch that hit before every game. Usually twice.”
I stroke Tyler’s arm. “I believe with all my heart your mom watches that video along with you. And cheers you on through every down of every game.”
Tyler smiles. “I believe that, too. Same with your mom. She’s there with you every time you open your mouth and unleash that angelic voice of yours.”
Oh, God, my heart is bursting with love for Tyler in this moment. “Tyler?” I say quietly.
He looks at me expectantly.
“Thank you for this magical night.” I put my hand on my heart. “I’ll never forget it.”
Tyler pulls gently on a lock of my hair, releases it, and watches it bounce and re-coil. “Zooey, I’ll remember this night—and the way you’re looking at me right now—as long as I live.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Tyler and I are standing at the front of our Modernizing Shakespeare class, our palms pressed together. My stomach is turning somersaults. My pulse is pounding in my ears.
“O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do,” Tyler says, his blue eyes glinting from behind his mask. “They pray; grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.”
“Saints do not move, though grant for prayers’ sake,” I reply, gazing deeply into Tyler’s blue eyes.
“Then move not, while my prayer’s effect I take,” Tyler says. He cups my cheek in his free hand, leans in, and kisses me.
Oh, thank God. Tyler is smooching me precisely the way I insisted he do it. With not so much heat that everyone will know we’re having sex. But with enough heat to convey Romeo’s white-hot attraction to Juliet.
Now, just to be clear, if I were Tyler’s girlfriend, I wouldn’t mind the whole world knowing he’s been screwing me. In fact, I’d take great pleasure in everyone knowing I’m the girl who somehow managed to snag God’s Gift to Womankind for my very own. But under the present circumstances, when I’m figuring it’s fifty-fifty Tyler and I are about to become “friends and nothing more” any minute now, I have zero desire to set myself up to look like Tyler Caldwell’s fuck buddy today and pitiful cast-off tomorrow.
Tyler pulls out of our kiss and looks longingly at me. “Thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purged.”
Wow, Tyler’s slaying his performance. He’s no thespian, granted, but for a football player, he’s damned good. “Then have my lips the sin that they have took,” I reply.
“Sin from thy lips?” Tyler says smoothly. “O trespass sweetly urged! Give me my sin again.” He kisses me again. But this time, he brazenly disregards my explicit instructions about the heat level of our kiss, and he devours me. Oh, my gosh! He’s kissing the hell out of me! He’s kissing me the same way he kisses me for real! Gah! I should pull away. People are beginning to snicker. And titter. And gasp. I can hear them. Indeed, the growing sound of our audience’s extreme titillation is becoming a veritable din.
But I don’t pull away. Nope. I throw my arms around Tyler’s neck and return his kiss with as much passion as I can muster, eliciting whoops and applause and catcalls from our audience. Screw it. If this turns out to be our last kiss, if Tyler is going to crush me after this performance by sticking to our original arrangement, then I want every person in this room—no, every person in the world—to know that, for five glorious weeks, Tyler Caldwell and Zooey Cartwright were passionately in love. That we shared a love story that was every bit as poetic and epic…and, yes, ultimately, as tragic…as the love story of our star-crossed doppelgängers, Romeo and Juliet.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Tyler twirls me around in front of MacGowan Hall, almost wiping out a random student walking by with my swinging legs. “We slayed it in there!” Tyler shouts. He puts me down, laughing. But when he sees my face, his smile vanishes. “What’s wrong?”
I take a deep breath. Swallow hard. “I’m just sad our projects are over, that’s all. All three of them.”
Tyler stares at me for a long beat. “You can’t be serious.”
I feel my lower lip trembling, but I can’t control it. I don’t reply.
“You seriously think I think we’re over, just because we’ve turned in our two midterm projects?”
“I have no idea what you think,” I reply honestly. “All I know is what you told me when you gave me the syllabus. And that you haven’t said anything to contradict it since then.”
Tyler exhales. “Come on, Zooey. We can’t call it quits now. We still haven’t checked off ‘Fun with Food’ or ‘Role-play.’”
He smiles, but I remain stone-faced. If Tyler’s not done with me yet simply because we haven’t checked off every naughty item on his freaking syllabus, then we’re most definitely not on the same page.
Tyler rakes his hand through his hair and exhales again. “Shit. Okay, I guess this conversation is long overdue.” He looks up at the sky for a moment and then trains his blazing blue eyes on my face. “I love you, Zooey. Okay? I love you. But the thing is, I’ve come to realize that doesn’t matter.”
I can’t believe my ears. He loves me? Oh, my God! How can he possibly say that doesn’t matter? It’s everything! “I love you, too,” I blurt, but it feels like a desperate plea coming out of my mouth, not something joyous. Why do I feel like he’s about to punch me in the teeth?
Tyler’s features soften. He takes my limp hands in his. “I know you love me, Zooey,” he says softly. “You’ve let me know how you feel about me a thousand ways for weeks. Thank you for that. But, sweetheart, we both know love isn’t going to be enough for us.”
I shake my head like he’s talking gibberish. “What are you talking about? I don’t understand what you’re saying to me.”
“I’m saying we’re Romeo and Juliet.”
“How is that a bad thing? Romeo and Juliet is the greatest love story ever told.”
“Babe, they both die in the end. They were star-crossed lovers. Doomed.”
“Okay, then, fine. We’re Jim and Pam! I don’t care what you call us. We love each other.”
Tyler smiles sympathetically. “No, baby. We’re not Jim and Pam. I wish we were. But we’re not. We’re doomed, sweetheart. It’s undeniable.”
I open and close my
mouth, utterly flabbergasted. Tears flood my eyes. “Tyler.”
He shakes his head. “To be honest, knowing our doomed fate has, at times, made me want to pull away from you, just to save myself from the inevitable pain this is going to cause me. But I just can’t do it. For some reason, my heart doesn’t seem to care it’s going to get smashed at the end of this. It just wants you for as long as it can have you.”
I’m a deer in headlights. This is making absolutely no sense. “I don’t understand. Why are you saying all this? No one knows the future. Nothing is set in stone.”
“I know the future.”
“You don’t. No one does.”
“Come on, Zooey. Think about it. Six months from now, I’m gonna get drafted top ten and immediately head off to live in whatever city takes me—and under the league’s collective bargaining agreement for top picks, I’m going to be signed to a four-year deal. True, I don’t know which team will select me, but the chances it’ll be an LA team are almost nil. And what will you be doing for those same four years? Going to school here for at least three of them, except when you’re off for summers. But during summers, I’ll be away at training camp, getting my ass kicked. Explain to me when we’ll have a chance to see each other for the next three to four years?”
I press my lips together.
“Plus, consider this. All those years you’ll be here at school, doing your thing, you’re going to be meeting lots of guys. And they’re all gonna want you the same way I did when I first laid eyes on you. The same way Hanalei did. The same way Jake did. The way everyone does when they see you.”
Jake? Hanalei? What?
“And maybe you’re going to want some of those guys in return, baby. Why not? You’ll be nineteen, twenty years old and understandably wanting to have some fun. God knows I’ve had my fun in college. Lots of it. Why shouldn’t you get to do that?”
