Bad Romeo (Starcrossed #1)(34)
Author: Leisa Rayven

The show’s going well. The cast is good, and I’m glad I’m back playing Mercutio instead of Romeo. Playing the romantic lead was never my strong suit, as you know.

I often get chest pains when I think of you. It’s not fun. I’m too young to have a heart condition, but I’m afraid to get it checked out in case they tell me what I already know: that it’s defective and can’t be fixed.

I sometimes wonder what you’re doing and hope you’re moving on. That’s what you deserve, but there’s a part of me that hopes you’re miserable I’m gone.

I miss you.

Ethan.

…

And the next one. The one I’ve read more than any other. The one I read when I miss him so much I can almost feel his hands on my body.

From: EthanHolt <[email protected]>

To: CassandraTaylor <[email protected]>

Subject: <none>

Date: Wed, Sept 1, at 2:09am

Cassie,

It’s two am, and I’m drunk. Soooooo fuking drunk. I want you so bad. I wannt you naked and panting. I wanna see your face as you come, and … God … I want you.

Of course, I never did figure out how to fuck you, did I? Coulnd’t just detach and treat it liek sex, ’cause it never was. Ever. It was so much more.

I brought a girl home with me tongiht. A pretty girl. Beautiful, even.

Not as beautiufl as you, but then no one is.

She wanted me to fuck her, but I coudn’t. Couln’t barely kiss her because her lips didn’t taste like yours, and she didn’t smell right because she wan’t you.

Now I’m hard as a fucking rock sitting here writing to you and, I know I’ll never be inside you again, and it’s all I can thing about. So when I finish writing trhis, I’ll probably fuck my hand while I fantasize about you, and then hate myself just a little bit more.

I’m pathetic.

I don’t want to obsess over you anymore. It hurts too much.

I miss you too much.

Ethan.

…

And then, there’s this.

From: EthanHolt <[email protected]>

To: CassandraTaylor <[email protected]>

Subject: No excuse

Date: Wed, Sept 1, at 10:16am

Cassie,

I’m so ashamed of the e-mail I sent you last night. I have no excuse. I drank too much, and, well, you know the rest.

Please delete it and forget it happened.

That’s what I’m going to try to do.

Ethan.

…

After that I didn’t hear from him for months. Then this arrived.

From: EthanHolt <[email protected]>

To: CassandraTaylor <[email protected]>

Subject: <none>

Date: Thu, Jan 13, at 12:52pm

Cassie,

Happy New Year.

It’s been a while.

How are you?

Of course I don’t expect you to answer that. You never answer me. That’s understandable.

I’ve been getting help. Talking to someone about why I continuously fuck things up. I’m trying to get better. I know I should’ve done this a long time ago, but better late than never, right?

My therapist says I need to let go of my fear, so I can let people in. I don’t fucking know anymore.

I think maybe I’m not meant to be happy. If I couldn’t be happy with you, I have no hope.

I want to make things better between us. Maybe get back to being friends. But I have no idea how to do that. And even if I did, I doubt you’d want to. Would you?

I’d like to be your friend again, Cassie.

I miss you.

Ethan.

…

There are more, but I can’t read them. The wine is gone, and my eyes are stinging.

I compose an e-mail.

…

From: CassandraTaylor <[email protected]>

To: EthanHolt <[email protected]>

Subject: End of the week

Date: Fri, Sept 4, at 9:46pm

Ethan,

For the sake of the show, I guess we should make time to talk. How about tomorrow night, after rehearsal?

Cassie.

…

I click send before I chicken out.

My dreams hate me. They always take me back to a time when all I was trying to do was forget. Or remember. I never could work out which.

The man kisses my neck as he increases his pace. Long, deep strokes. I make all the right noises, but I’m not even close.

“Cassie, look at me.”

I can’t. That’s not how this works. Looking at him shatters the illusion, and as flimsy as it is, the illusion is all I have.

“Cassie, please.”

I push him onto his back and take control. Ride him with desperation. Try to make it more than it is.

He groans and grabs my hips, and I know it’s almost over. He trails his hands over me, reverent and loving. I don’t deserve it. How does he not know this by now?

“Cassie, please look at me.”

His voice is all wrong. I move faster, making it so he can’t speak. When he grunts and goes still, I don’t get satisfaction. Just relief.

I pretend to come and collapse onto his chest, and even though he wraps his arms around me, the distance between us widens.

I listen to his heart. So strong. Fast and steady. Unafraid of loving. The sound is foreign to me.

I climb off and collect my clothes. He follows my every step with his eyes.

“You can’t stay?”

“No.”

He exhales. He’s tired of that answer. So am I.

“Just tell me one thing,” he says and sits up.

“What?”

“Are you ever going to think about just me when we make love?”

I pause, then pull on my T-shirt. I hate that I’m so obvious.

“Cassie, he left you.”

“I know.”

“Let him go.”

“I’m trying.”

“He’s on the other side of the world, and I’m here. I love you. I have for a long time. But that’s never going to make a difference, is it? No matter how much I want it to.”

He gets up and pulls on his boxers. Sharp, frustrated movements.

I don’t blame him. He deserves more.

I sit on the bed, defeated. This started out of spite, but now I want it to work. I’d give anything to not be this dysfunctional.

But I am. Trying to pretend otherwise isn’t working. And the relief I feel at hurting someone instead of being hurt makes me hate myself.