Broken Juliet by Leisa Rayven Page B

nods.
    He knows.
    “Would you like something to drink?”
    “God, yes.”
    “I have a red you’re going to love.”
    He disappears into the kitchen and I continue to explore, looking for something. I don’t know what. Something about me, maybe. About us. Something real and familiar.
    On the wall opposite the windows, I see them. At first I’m not sure what I’m looking at, but then I realize what they are—masks. Two of them. From a distance, they seem like the standard comedy and tragedy faces so many actors have in their homes, but a second look causes me to catch my breath. Not comedy and tragedy. Strength and vulnerability. The same masks we used at drama school. The ones we both had trouble with.
    “I convinced Erika to give them to me.” I turn to find him a few feet away, a glass of wine in each hand. “I bought her a whole new set in Italy.”
    He passes me a glass, and I take a sip. “Why did you want them? I mean, you failed that class. Erika kicked your ass for weeks.”
    “Yeah, but only because she expected more from me. It took me a long time to expect more from myself. To see that being vulnerable takes a shitload more strength than being closed off and sullen.” He takes a step closer, and I take another mouthful of wine while trying not to look at him. “Every time I look at those masks, it reminds me. Every time I look at you, it reminds me, too, but you weren’t around for a long time, so the masks were a good placeholder.”
    I keep my eyes on the masks, but I can feel him staring at me. As I tip the glass back, I realize my wine is almost gone. I need to slow down, or I’m going to get drunk and do things I may regret.
    I feel warm fingers on my wrist, and he’s right behind me, warm breath on my neck as he says, “I want you to have something.”
    He takes my hand and guides me over to a large bookcase with doors. His palm is sweaty, and I wonder what has him so anxious.
    He puts our glasses on the side table, and when he takes my hands, I swear I feel him tremble.
    “Cassie, for so long I kept you guessing as to what I was thinking and feeling. I never want you to have to guess again. So from now on, anything you want to know, I’ll tell you. Anything.”
    He pulls open the doors and gestures to the rows of books inside. “You want to know my motivations for all the shit I put you through in drama school? It’s all there. Every fucked-up thought process and bad decision. Every time I broke both our hearts in an effort to avoid pain. Read them if you want. Burn them. Whatever works for you.”
    I look closely at the spines of the books. Dates. Years. Rows and rows of journals, starting from when he was in high school. Some years have a single volume, others have several. The year we met has five. No surprise there.
    I pick up the last one from that year and open it to a random page.
    November 18th
    Tonight, she went down on me for the first time. And … Jesus Christ … I’m still shaking. I can’t get the image of her out of my head. So eager to please me. So trusting.
    So beautiful.
    I can’t handle it.
    One day soon, she’s going to realize I’m no good for her and leave. Destroy me.
    Every single brain cell is telling me to get out while I can. To run so far and fast she’ll never find me. Forget that someone as fucking perfect as she is even exists.
    But some part of me believes I can do this. That I’m capable of ripping open my chest and just handing over my heart like it’s not going to kill me.
    That part is obviously deranged.
    I look up, shocked by the depth of emotion in his writing. He’s watching me. Gauging my reaction. He doesn’t flinch from my incredulity.
    “I take responsibility for everything I did,” he says, “because even though I can’t change it, I do regret it. I thought seeing these may … I don’t know. Help in some way.”
    I’m not so sure.
    I go back to the journal.
    December 4th
    2:48 a.m. — She won’t fucking answer. She