Free Broken Juliet by Leisa Rayven

Apartment of Cassandra Taylor
    My head is on his chest, my arm draped over his waist. I’m gripping his shirt like it can keep me here in this place. Where everything that happened between us hovers on the edge of my consciousness like white noise. Not forgotten but dimmer.
    After our hallway confrontation, he brought me in here. Laid me down. Reassured me we’ll be all right.
    Now he has his arms around me and is stroking my arm.
    I can’t quite believe he’s in my bed, the scene of so many angst-driven fantasies about him. We’re both fully clothed and completely silent, yet this is the most intimate I’ve been with a man since … well, since him.
    He takes my hand and places it on his chest, then presses it down against the pulse of blood and silent promises. I can feel him willing me to trust him.
    I want to, but it’s like my heart’s too small for him now. When he left, it collapsed like a balloon, empty and deflated, and over time it atrophied into that shape. And now he wants me to make room for him again, but I don’t know how.
    “Ethan?”
    “Hmmm?”
    “When did you know you were capable of … changing?” He strokes my hand for a few seconds, but doesn’t answer. “I mean, you tried to change when you were with me, right? To become more open?”
    “Yes. Jesus. I tried so hard. And failed spectacularly.”
    “So, how did you go from the guy who left me twice to the guy you are now?”
    He looks down at me. “I did mention I’ve been in therapy for three years, right? And I’m not talking just one session a week. In my darker days it was two … three sessions a week. My therapist had the patience of a saint.”
    “Yeah, but you could have gotten therapy when we were together, couldn’t you?”
    “Technically, yes. But the thought of it scared the crap out of me, and we both know that back then, I was ruled by fear.”
    “Then how did you decide you weren’t scared anymore?”
    He takes a deep breath and lets it out. “I was hoping I wouldn’t have to tell you this story, but I guess you deserve to know.”
    “What story?” I break out in goose bumps, certain I’m not going to like what I hear.
    He grabs my hand and pushes it under his shirt. On the left side of his rib cage, my fingers graze a clump of scar tissue. I’d noticed it when we ran our love scenes, but I was always too distracted by his kisses to find out more.
    I lift his shirt and lean over to get a better look. “What is that?”
    He strokes my forearm as I continue to graze the rough skin. “That’s where a tube was shoved into my lung to drain out the blood that was drowning me.”
    I look up at him and frown.
    “And there’s this…” He takes my hand and lifts it to his head. At the back, there’s another patch of raised skin. “That was where my head smashed into a tree. Fourteen stitches.”
    Bile rises in my throat. “Ethan, what the hell…?”
    He takes my hand and plays with my fingers. “After I left you in senior year, I hit my low point in France. The show was a hit, and I was getting great reviews, but I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I felt so goddamn guilty about failing you. Again. I already told you I was drinking a lot. Getting into fights.”
    I nod.
    “Well, after our season, we had a week off before we moved on to Italy. The rest of the cast was going to do a tour of the wineries, but I couldn’t cope with being a miserable bastard around them, so I hired a motorbike and just … left. Traveled aimlessly around southern France, thinking I had the world monopoly on self-loathing. Driving drunk, driving too fast, taking crazy risks. I was a fucking mess. I don’t think I had a death wish, but deep down…” He looks at me. “I guess I wanted to hurt myself more than I’d hurt you.”
    “Ethan…”
    He shakes his head. “Pathetic, right? Well, one night, after hitting a French pub, I decided to make a play for the Italian border. It had been raining. Too much alcohol, too