Bad Romeo (Starcrossed #1)(33)
Author: Leisa Rayven

He needed a place to stay, so when my roommate turned out to be a compulsive shoe-napper and fled in the middle of the night with my entire footwear collection, I didn’t think twice about asking him to move in.

We’ve been best friends ever since, and over the past three years, he’s seen me in every stage of my “I Hate Holt” evolution. He’s helped me overcome many of my destructive tendencies, but today is a definite setback.

“Cassie, what do you want?”

It seems like a deceptively easy question, but I know better. Tristan doesn’t ask easy questions.

“I don’t want him to make me feel these things anymore.”

“I didn’t ask what you didn’t want, I asked what you want. If you could have anything, regardless of present, past, and future, what would it be?”

I think hard. The answer is simple. And impossible.

“I want to be happy again.”

“And what’s going to make you happy?”

Ethan.

No.

Yes. Ethan holding me and kissing me.

Don’t. You can’t. He won’t.

Ethan. Running his hands over my body as he undresses me.

God, no.

Ethan groaning my name as he moves inside me and declares his undying love.

Oh, Jesus.

I stand and stride into the kitchen. My hands tremble as I grab the nearest bottle of wine, tear off the cap, and pour a huge glass. Tristan leans against the doorframe. I feel his disapproval as I drink too much, too fast.

“Cassie—”

“Don’t wanna hear it.”

“I’m going to take you out.”

“No.”

“Yes. You need to chill and stop obsessing over the gorgeous Mr. Holt.”

“Please don’t refer to him as ‘gorgeous.’ Or ‘Mr. Holt.’ In fact, don’t mention him at all. That’d be great.”

“Let me take you to the Zoo. It’s straight night. You can ogle to your heart’s content.”

I drain the rest of the glass. “Tristan, what I need tonight is to drink myself into a semiconscious stupor at home, alone. If I go out, you know that I’ll end up fucking a stranger who’ll make me forget all about the asshole-who-shall-not-be-named for a few short hours. Then you’ll give me a lecture in the morning about meaningless one-night stands and how I use them to desensitize myself to the pain of my past rejections by His Royal Assholeness, and how eventually I’m going to have to treat the cause of the gaping hole in my heart and not just the symptoms.”

He exhales and blinks. “Well, you’ve just packed more self-awareness into that mini rant than you’ve shown in the entire time I’ve known you. I was beginning to think you didn’t listen when I talked.”

“I do listen. And maybe I’m learning.” I refill my glass.

“Thank the ever-loving Sun God,” he says, and walks over to hug me. “Now, when are you going to talk to him?”

I sigh and shake my head. “I don’t know. When I can manage it without falling apart?”

“That would be never.”

“Tristan…”

“Cass, stop procrastinating. The sooner you do it, the sooner you can start planning how to purge all the bad energy between you two.”

“I don’t even know if that’s what he wants.”

He rolls his eyes. “Even I know that’s what he wants, and I’ve never met the man. I’ve read his e-mails, remember? When are you going to stop hiding and let him talk? If you can find a way to forgive him, then maybe … just maybe … you can figure out how to be happy again. With or without him in your life.”

He’s right. As usual.

“You know I hate you, right?”

“No, you don’t.”

I take a giant swig of wine. “Just let me get through the next few days, then … I’ll talk to him.”

He hugs me again. “Good. I love you.”

“Love you, too. Have a good time at the club.”

“You know I will. See you tomorrow.”

I kiss him on the cheek before taking the wine into my bedroom and closing the door.

After I put on some music, I open my laptop and spend a few minutes checking e-mails. There’s one from Ruby that makes me laugh, as well as several from very helpful companies telling me how to improve my penis size. I delete the junk and switch to my desktop.

There it is.

The little icon that forever taunts me. It’s labeled Asshole’s E-mails. I sip my wine and stare at it, with my finger hovering over the mouse button.

I’ve read them all before. Dozens of times. Always with eyes clouded by bitterness and pain.

I wonder what I’d see if I tried to get past all that. Would they portray a different Holt than the one I’d spent so many hours cursing?

“Fucking fucking fuck.”

I open the file.

The familiar words fill the screen, and I take a deep breath.

The first one is dated three months after he left me.

…

From: EthanHolt <[email protected]>

To: CassandraTaylor <[email protected]>

Subject: <none>

Date: Fri, July 16 at 9:16pm

Cassie,

I’ve been sitting here looking at my screen for two hours trying to get up the courage to e-mail you, and now that I’m typing, I have no fucking idea what I’m going to say.

Should I apologize to you? Of course.

Should I beg for your forgiveness? Absolutely.

Will you give it to me? I doubt it.

But even though I hurt you, I still think I did the right thing by leaving. I needed to go while one of us still had a chance to be whole.

Now I’m smiling, because I can imagine you rolling your eyes and calling me an asshole. You’d be right. I warned you on the first day we met, remember? I was so damned frightened of you, I said we shouldn’t be friends, but you made us friends anyway.

You wound up being the best friend I’ve ever had.

I miss our friendship.

I miss you.

I guess that’s all I wanted to say.

Ethan.

…

The next one is a month later.

From: EthanHolt <[email protected]>

To: CassandraTaylor <[email protected]>

Subject: <none>

Date: Fri, Aug 13, at 7:46pm

Cassie,

I’ve decided to keep writing to you, even if you never reply, because I’m going to pretend you read these and think of me. You know how good I am at pretending.