While he pulls out his phone and dials for a car, I pick up a selection of journals. I purposely avoid the ones from our senior year. I can’t even look at them without breaking into a sweat. It’s a safe bet I’m going to need a lot more to drink before I tackle them.
He walks me to the door, and with every step, the desire to leave him lessens. He leans forward and grabs the handle as his chest presses against my shoulder. For long seconds, he stays there, not opening the door. Just pressing against me and breathing.
“Cassie, I’m going to ask you some questions now, and I really need you to answer ‘no’ to them. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
He inhales, and I feel the tip of his nose graze the side of my neck. I close my eyes and shiver as I press back into him.
“Will you stay with me tonight? In my bed?”
He can’t—How can he…?
“Ethan—”
“All you need to say is ‘No.’ That’s it.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “No.”
“Will you let me peel off your clothes and put my mouth on you? All over you? Taste all the parts I’ve been dreaming of since we’ve been apart?”
Jesus.
Breathe.
“No.”
“Do you want me?”
“No.”
Lies.
“Do you love me?”
“No.”
All of it.
“Will you stop me if I pin you against the wall and kiss you like my life depends on it? Which it kind of does.”
My heart kicks into overdrive. We both stop breathing.
Finally, a truth.
“No.”
In a second he’s pressed me back against the wall. Our mouths are open and desperate. Then his hands are on my ass as he lifts me. I wrap my legs around his grinding hips and gasp as I drop the books and my bag so I can anchor my hands in his hair. I open myself up to one tiny corner of my need for him and let that part grip his shoulders and biceps as he works himself against me.
“Fuck. Cassie…”
There’s too much of him, all straining, all hard. The deep parts of me ache for him the most. Not just my body. It’s more than that. Some parts spark. Others melt. A flux of chemistry and catastrophe, the same compulsive need that keeps bringing us back together.
A car horn blares. He freezes and pants against my neck while his muscles slowly uncoil beneath my hands.
“You probably should have said ‘Yes’ to that last one,” he says, lips against my throat.
When he lowers me to my feet, I can barely stand. “Probably.”
He picks up the journals and my bag and opens the door, then escorts me downstairs to the waiting taxi.
When I’m inside, he leans in and kisses me gently on the lips. “Thank you for coming.”
I smile. “I didn’t quite—”
“To dinner.” He smiles and kisses me again.
“Oh, that. Thanks for having me.”
“Uh, I didn’t quite—”
“We could do this all night.”
“Is that an offer? Because I could send the taxi driver away and take you back upstairs.”
I smile. “Good night, Ethan.”
He kisses me one more time, lingering this time. I almost forget why I have to leave.
“’Night. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
He closes the door, and the taxi pulls away.
When I get into my apartment and collapse on the bed, I can still feel all the places he touched me. I turn off the light and strip as I let my hands wander, needing to finish what he started, or I won’t be able to sleep.
I don’t mean to close my eyes and picture him, but I do. Of all the many characters and faces I’ve seen over the years, the expression that’s clearest in my memory is the one when he’s touching me. How his mouth drops open in wonder as he brings me pleasure.
It’s that face that lingers behind my eyelids. I pretend my hands are his, and when I cry out in my dark room, I have to stop myself from saying his name.
I’m on the verge of dozing off when my phone buzzes with a message.
<Are you touching yourself right now & thinking about me?> I laugh. He always did know me too well.
<No.>
<Me neither. Definitely not doing it for the 2nd time.> <TMI>
<Really? I can give you more details if u like.> <Going now.>
<Going or coming? Put your phone on vibrate & I’ll text the hell outta you.> My laughter sounds way too loud in my silent room, and I realize it’s the first time that’s happened in a very long time.
<Good night, Ethan.>
<G’night, Cassie.>
I’m about to put my phone down when another text arrives.
<Really want to tell you I love you, but I’m not going to. How hard am I rocking this ‘taking it slow’ thing, huh? (Please don’t take out a restraining order.)> He signs it with a smiley face, and I snort with laughter. After waiting to make sure we’re really done this time, I snuggle down into my bed. His journals sit on my nightstand, gray in the half-light.
I know they’re probably going to bring up more questions than answers, but I think that inside their pages, I might find some sort of closure. If we’re even going to have a chance of being together, I know I have to find a way to forgive him.
The problem is, I’ve had more practice hating him than loving him.
TWELVE
HOPEFUL INDIFFERENCE
Six Years Earlier
Westchester County, New York
The Grove
Two weeks.