His expression turns predatory, and he takes a step closer. I step back.
“Do you seriously believe we could pretend we don’t want more?” He advances. I retreat. “Just imagine it. ‘Hey, Cassie. Wanna have lunch?’” He’s struggling to keep his expression casual. “How about we study together? Let’s run lines.”
My back hits the wall. He’s so close, we’re almost touching.
“Aw, you’re feeling bad? Let’s hug. That’s what friends do, right?”
His body heat is scorching. My skin is crawling with electricity.
He puts one hand on the wall beside my head and leans down. His voice is quiet and dark. “Once we get our arms around each other, we won’t want to let go. It will be an avalanche of ‘kiss me,’ ‘touch me,’ ‘put your hand down my pants.’ ‘Take off your clothes, so I can be inside you.’”
“Stop.” I can’t breathe.
“That’s the problem. We wouldn’t stop. We’d keep going and all of a sudden we’d be neck-deep in a relationship in which my issues would fucking strangle us all over again. Would that be less torturous than what we’re going through now? Because I don’t know about you, but I’d rather have none of you than little pieces that just keep me wanting more.”
I take a breath and look him in the eye. “So then why the fuss about swapping with Connor?”
His expression softens, and he steps back. “Because the only thing that would kill me more than touching you right now would be watching someone else do it.”
“You gave up your right to decide that. This time the decision’s mine, and since I can’t have you, I choose Connor.”
I don’t realize how I’ve worded it until it’s out of my mouth, and by then, it’s too late.
He looks like I’ve punched him. “Of course you do. Fine. I’ll go and tell Erika.”
He grabs his bag and heads to the door. When he reaches it, he turns back to me.
“Just out of interest, if I have to do a love scene with Zoe in my new group, would you care?”
Now it’s my turn to feel like I’ve been punched but I don’t let him see.
“Ethan, I’ve just spent the past eight weeks teaching myself not to care every single time I see you. I’m getting pretty good at it by now.”
He nods and gives me a bitter smile. “Good for you.”
The campus gym.
I’ve been at this school for over eight months, and this is the first time I’ve stepped inside. It’s big. Just like everything else at this school.
The main floor is filled with cardio equipment and weight machines, and on the second level, there’s a free-weights area and various specialized rooms for things like yoga, Pilates, and boxing. There’s even a racquetball court.
It seems Eva Bonetti, whose name is plastered over the door, was a generous patron of the arts.
Ruby said I should try out the boxing room. Relieve some stress, she’d said. Stop being a mopey bitch, she’d said. Pretend the punching bag is Holt’s stupidly handsome face, she’d said.
I figure it can’t hurt. So here I am, brand-new boxing gloves in hand, resolve firmly in place. Determined to purge some of the emotional pressure that’s been building inside me for the past few months.
It’s Friday night, so the place is practically empty. Of course, most college students have more exciting things to do on the weekend than punch out their frustrations. I’m not one of them.
As I approach the boxing room, I hear grunts coming from inside.
Dammit. I hadn’t considered someone else would be using it.
I reach the door and peer in through the glass panel.
My breath catches.
It’s him.
Broad shoulders in a wifebeater, his arms pumping as he pummels the bag. Jabs and uppercuts blend into thumping roundhouses. His riotous hair drips with sweat.
Every time he hits the bag, he grunts, his face intense and angry. Time and again the gloves thump and smack. I can nearly feel the force of it through the door.
A cold shiver runs up my spine.
He looks desperate. Like he’s fighting for his life. Hitting and hitting and hitting, and seemingly getting no satisfaction from it. It should make me happy to see him suffering so much, but it doesn’t. It makes my throat tighten with emotions I don’t want to feel.
He continues punishing the bag, arms flying, body pivoting to give him more power. Then he kicks it, knees it. Uses so much force, I feel the vibration through the floor. He gets faster and faster, and his noises become more frustrated, until at last he stops and grips the bag as he gasps for breath. His face morphs into an expression of total defeat.
“Fuck it,” he groans as he presses his forehead into the Everlast logo. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”
I’m desperate to know what’s going through his mind. I long to tell him he’s making it too hard. That it could be so easy and right between us if he’d just give in.
But I know he wouldn’t believe me.
It’s too late for that anyway. The damage has been done.
At this point, we’re beyond repair.
When he rips off his gloves and throws them at the wall, I sling my gym bag over my shoulder and walk away. Every part of me complains. Begs me to go back.