Broken Juliet (22 page)

Wicked
on Broadway. Ashamed to say I enjoyed it. Be right back, handing in my man card. Hope your summer is less lame.>

And just like that, I’m high. Embarrassingly so. I do a little dance and skip up the stairs to the house.

Mom and Dad stop bickering long enough to welcome me home, and I head straight up to my room.

A minute later, I receive a reply.

Funny Girl
soundtrack & do my best Babs impersonation. Forever ashamed.>

I laugh before catching myself.
Dammit. Not good.

I miss having sex with him, that’s all. Not the way he brushes my hand when he passes in the hallway. Not the affectionate glances he gives me when he knows no one else is watching. Not the way he regularly drags me into stairwells, or bathrooms, or shadowy corners of the costume storeroom just so he can kiss me.

It’s just the sex I miss.

I close my eyes and try to calm my racing pulse as I resist the urge to text him again.

Admitting you have a problem is the first step.

I admit nothing.

I don’t miss him.

I don’t.

“For crying out loud, Cassie, I’m going to start calling you Charcoal.”

Exasperation is leaking into Ruby’s tone, and even over the phone, I can imagine her eye roll.

“What? Why?”

“Because you’re playing with so much fire, you’re going to be incinerated.”

We’ve been on the phone for more than an hour. She’s told me all about a guy she met over the summer, and after she assailed me with far too many details of their sexual exploits, she started grilling me about Holt. To say she disapproves of our arrangement would be a massive understatement.

After Ethan and I started hooking up, I tried to keep it a secret from her, but everything went south a few weeks later when she came home unexpectedly to find us naked in the living room. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Ruby so angry. She stood there and ripped into both of us. Didn’t even let us get dressed, just stood there yelling while Holt and I did our best to cover ourselves with throw pillows.

After that, she didn’t talk to me for two days. She was mad about me getting back with Ethan, of course, but I think she was even madder that I lied about it. Ever since then, I’ve vowed never to keep stuff from her, which kind of sucks, because when she asks me if I’m having feelings for him again, I have to tell her the truth.

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

She makes a disapproving sound.

“What am I supposed to do, Ruby? Cut off all contact?”

“I’m not saying that. I’m just saying to be careful. If you can’t handle being straight up fuck-buddies, then maybe you should cool it for a while. I mean, he hasn’t magically lost all his baggage, has he?”

“No, but he’s the one who started texting me. I’m not making any moves here. I’m just reacting to his.”

“That’s going to be exactly zero consolation if he gets scared again and bails.”

“I know. But he seems … different. Bolder. Happier. I don’t know.”

“Yeah, well, I suppose I can’t complain too much. You have been a lot less mopey since you started banging him. Although, you owe me money for all the condoms you’ve stolen.”

“I’ll pay you back. Plus, I’m on the pill now.”

“Really? So you two can bang bareback? Great. Can’t wait to walk in on that.”

“I’ve apologized for that a million times.”

“Doesn’t erase the mental images.”

“We weren’t even having sex.”

“You were about to. By the way, did I ever congratulate you on Holt’s cock? I meant to. Very nice. One of the nicest I’ve seen, in fact.”

Despite my newfound sexual confidence, I still manage to blush. “Well, with the sheer volume of cocks you’ve seen, that’s a huge compliment.”

“It sure is. Huuuge.”

We both laugh. I miss her so freaking much.

Unfortunately, I still miss Ethan more.

It’s Friday night, and the diner is packed. I’m getting slammed from every side, and although I like to think I can handle it, I’m getting more frazzled by the minute.

“Order up!”

I swipe hair away from my forehead and hurry to collect the plates from the pass. Back and forth. Smile and drop.

“There you go. Enjoy.”

The dinner rush seems to go on forever, and by the time I get a break at eight forty-five p.m., I’m exhausted and starving. I grab a burger and head out the back door to eat it. My phone buzzes with a message.

I laugh and shake my head as I text back.

Friends
came up w/that quote years ago. Guess you’ll have to stay in trenches w/the rest of us plebs. Sucks to be you.>

Goddammit.

How the hell do I reply to that?

And I’m back to laughing.

<**(Pretend I’ve invented fist pump emoticon & insert here)** See you in 4 wks. I’ll be the one w/the massive boner.>
He signs it with a smiley face with the tag,

I laugh again. All of a sudden I’ve forgotten about the sweat running down my spine, the ache in my feet, and the smear of grill grease on the front of my shirt. Thanks to him, I’m smiling like an idiot, and when I go back inside, one of the other waitresses asks if I just got lucky in the parking lot.

My parents are yelling again. Bickering like children over inconsequential crap. Nothing. Everything. I’d go out, but as usual this summer, it’s raining. I put in my headphones and turn up my music.

I’m listening to Radiohead. Ethan always puts it on when I’m at his place. When I listen to it, I can almost pretend he’s in the room with me as he wraps his arms around me and pulls me against his chest.

My phone rings, and when I see his name, my mouth goes completely dry.

God.

He’s calling me.

He hasn’t called before. He usually texts.

I shouldn’t be this excited.

I let it ring. Don’t want to seem too eager.

Two … three times it rings. I pick up on the fourth and feign nonchalance.

“Hello?”

“Hey.”

“Uh … hey. Who is this?”
Good one, Cassie. Keep him on his toes.

“It’s Ethan. Your caller ID would have told you that. Or do you just have me under
World’s Greatest Lay
?”

Hearing his voice does strange things to me. But I’d never let him know that, so I clear my throat and try to sound bored.

“Oh, hey.”

“Hey.”

This is awkward. People who aren’t us do this.

“Why are you calling?”

“Uh … Well … I don’t know, I was just…” The final word sounds like “jusht.”

“Ethan, are you drunk?”

“Not totally.”

“Drunk is like pregnant. You either are or you aren’t.”

“Then I’m not.”

“Drunk or pregnant?”

“Both. Although, I don’t know. I’ve missed my period. Pregnancy could be a possibility.”

I smile without meaning to. “Is that right?”

“Yeah. What are the other symptoms of pregnancy? I’m worried now.”

When I close my eyes, I can almost picture him lying on his bed, tugging at his dark, unruly hair. In my vision, he’s shirtless, and the hand that isn’t torturing his hair is grazing over the grooves between his abs.

I realize that in reality, at least one hand needs to be holding his phone, but the fantasy is hotter, so I roll with it.

“Cassie?”

“Hmmm?”

“I’m having a pregnancy scare here. You’re supposed to be reassuring me.” His words run together a little. It’s kind of adorable.

“Okay, sorry. Well, I didn’t really listen in freshman health class, but I think the first sign of pregnancy is fatigue. Are you tired?”

“Yes. Very.”

“Irritable?”

“Fuck, yeah. Super irritable.” I can almost hear him frown.

“Nothing new there.”

“Shut up.”

“Case in point.”

“What else?” he asks.

“Sore breasts?”

“Hmmm. Hang on.”

I hear rustling. “What are you doing?”

“Taking off my shirt, so I can check my breasts. Wait … mmm … yes. They are a little sore.”

More fantasy images. This time of him running his hand over his naked chest.

It does nothing for my deteriorating composure. “Your … pecs are sore?”

“Yeah.”

He clears his throat. “Maybe you should come home and kiss them better.”

I freeze. Did he call for phone sex? We don’t do that. Or at least, we haven’t yet done that. I mean, he sometimes whispers stuff in class to make me blush, but he doesn’t call me to flirt.

“Cassie? Are you okay?”

Maybe.

It’s unclear.

My chest is tinged with pain.

“I shouldn’t have called.”

“Why did you?”

He pauses. “I was lying here, thinking about you, and … I just wanted to talk to you, I guess.”

“Oh.”

Ask him why. Ask him, and see if he has the balls to tell you.

Of course, I don’t. What we have is working. We both get off, and no one gets hurt. It’s completely free from “I called because I miss you,” and “I miss you because I love you.”

What we share is an emotional desert with an oasis of sex, and we’re both happy with that.

“So…” he says, in an effort to push through the awkward, “what have you been doing?”

“Uh … I got a job.”

“Yeah?”

“At the diner. It sucks, but I need the money. What about you?”

“I’ve been pulling some shifts at the construction company I worked at before I got into The Grove. Long hours, but the money’s decent.”

“Uh-huh.”

We lapse into silence. I have the strongest urge to tell him I miss him, but I can’t.

“Well, I’d better go.”

He feels it, too. This is too personal. We can’t just magically become talk-on-the-phone friends. Texting is different. We can pretend to be detached. Anything more, and we’re heading back into areas that are murky and dangerous.

“Yeah, okay. Thanks for calling.”

He laughs. “Yeah. No problem. Worked out well. I’ll text next time.”

“Okay. Sure. Bye.”

“’Night, Cassie.”

I hang up and sigh. It’s better this way.

Simpler.

Safer.

After the hideously awkward phone call, I expect not to hear from Ethan for a few days, but that doesn’t happen. He goes from texting a couple of times a week to every day. Sometimes, several times a day. Little things. Things that make me smile. That make me miss him way too much. Not sex with him. Just him. I always reply. Our text conversations are getting stupidly long. It probably would be easier if we spoke, but as with everything in our relationship, we don’t do easy.

As the end of the summer draws to a close, I’m counting down the days until I get back to Westchester. I miss everything about it: my apartment, college, my classmates, Ruby, even Ruby’s atrocious cooking.

Everything.

Especially him.

Yet again, I’d gone to bed to the sounds of my parents arguing again, so the next morning when I stumble downstairs to find them sitting calmly together at the kitchen table, I know something’s up.

“Cassie, honey. Sit down.”

Dad’s cradling a cup of coffee. Mom’s eyes are red. There’s a feeling of finality in the room that makes the air feel too thick. Nervousness prickles my spine and makes my throat tight.

“What’s going on?”

Before they say it, I know.

“Honey, your dad and I have something to tell you. We … well, we’re…”

Mom stops. Dad puts his hand over hers and stares down at the table.

“You’re breaking up.”

Mom puts her hand to her mouth and nods. I nod, too. Dad finally looks up at me.

“This has nothing to do with you, kiddo. Your mom and me … we’re not good together. We love each other, but we can’t live together anymore.”

I nod and clench my jaw. I’m not going to cry. I look at the center of the table. Concentrate on it while they tell me how it’s going to work.

Dad’s going to stay in the house. Mom’s going to move in with her sister. During the summer, I’ll switch between them. They ask if I’m okay. I tell them I am.

Mom tries to make me eat breakfast. I take one bite of my toast and feel like I want to throw up. I excuse myself to go shower.

When the spray runs over my face, I pretend I’m not crying.

I sigh and berate myself for moping. It’s stupid to feel like this. I’m twenty years old, for God’s sake. Twenty-one in just over a month. I shouldn’t feel devastated that my parents are separating, especially since I’ve known for years that they’d be better apart.

And yet, I am.

Thinking of coming home and not having them under the same roof makes me unreasonably sad. Imagining Mom moving out of the home where I was born and starting a new life without my dad makes me sad. Dad having to fend for himself for the first time since he was my age makes me sad.

As they drive me to the airport, I continue to act like I’m okay with it, but I’m really not. Maybe in a few months I will be, but not now.