Star-Crossed (21 page)

I closed my eyes, and reminded myself to breathe.

I couldn't help but acknowledge the wall of clocks when I stepped into his apartment, alone, using the second key that he had given me. The clock in the center seemed to have grown since I had last visited; it appeared larger, the arms longer, the glass reflecting that sharp discomfort in my expression. The ticking was aggravating, almost taunting.

I pulled myself away, and for a few minutes tried to pretend that Mr. Tennant's apartment was my apartment, too. We shared the settee, tea in the cupboard, the espresso grounds littered in an otherwise clean sink.

On the small table, I took another look at the photographs. I picked up the larger, bronze-colored frame containing a weathered photo of Will and the girl who had no name.

I sat down on the edge of the coffee table, the photograph still in my hands. I scrutinized the features; soft, feminine, albeit a slightly sharp nose and lips that seemed a little too thin. Of course, she was very pretty; but jealousy makes us petty. I was quick to point out the things about her that might be even remotely unattractive, as I'm sure many of the girls at Trinity Prep remarked on my short frame and perpetual, unintentional scowl towards anything and anyone. At least, when I wasn't in the presence of either Tyler or Will.

When Will opened the door, his smile lit up the room before he even had a chance to reach for the light switch. He dropped his bag, threw his sweater on the table, and sighed heavily. It almost felt like we were an actual couple; I was watching the first moments of my boyfriend returning from work.

“Why are you holding that picture?” he asked.

I immediately set it aside; my heart mimicking the sound of coins tossed into a wishing well.
Ker-plunk
. I had been caught red-handed with something that didn't belong to me.

“I was just wondering about it,” I confessed. “You never tell me about your life before you came here. I'm starting to wonder.”

He walked over slowly, dropped to his knees, and took my face in his hands. I draped my arms around his neck, and let him have a few seconds to release the pent-up frustration that we had both let build from first seeing each other in the theater that morning

“Let me have you first,” he said. A soft beg; a gentle tug of his teeth against my earlobe. “And then I'll tell you anything you want.”

It was hard to argue; I had missed him too much. Long days, drawn-out afternoons, impossible nights spent alone.

I kissed him, hard. I was so consumed in every little breath and pulse-point that I couldn't break myself away. I unbuttoned his shirt, yanking it down his arms; he pulled me out of my skirt. My stockings caught against my ankles, my tie strangling. We knocked against walls, laughing, clumsy, in love.

I opened the bathroom door, and on the faux-wood flooring, I stripped him down to the skin until we were both naked and shivering.

He fucked me in the shower, hot water blanching our skin; my back pressed up against glass wet with condensation. I slid, he caught me. I slid again, he caught me again; his fingers digging into the supple skin behind my thighs. Aggressive, primal, raving mad with need.

Will's teeth bit down, very gently, on the nape of my neck. He was inside of me all at once; every inch, moving in a slow, serpent motion without ever sliding out. I had to hold myself back from coming too soon, my hands clutching his wet hair. Bits of black licorice strands had fallen across his beautiful face, dripping water over his lips; his moans louder than I had ever heard them before.

It was delicious.

“Mr. Tennant,” I whispered, lips against wet hair. “Will.”

He bit down harder. It was going to bruise, but I didn't stop him.

“Say it again,” he said, the words cutting against my throat. Hoarse, harsh, ragged. “Say my name. I love hearing you say it.”

I said it again, and again, until he started moving harder; each thrust pressing me against a wall of solid heat.

When he came, my face was in his hands; his forehead against mine, our lips barely brushing. I followed while he was still inside me; he moved gently, tenderly.

As he slid out, I felt the hot remnants spill down my legs, quickly washed away with the water until the last remaining proof of our act had disappeared down the drain.

We were panting; trying to catch air in a space that was impossible; our bodies were lost in the steam.

“Does it still hurt?” he asked, tracing a finger down my chin.

I shook my head.

“I'm already hurt,” I said. “But if you mean the sex, no. It's the only time I really feel alive. When you're inside of me.”

It was the first time he had come inside of me without a condom; I ran a finger over the skin beneath my arm where the contraceptive was hidden. Beneath the skin was, essentially, a micro-chip; I didn't even need to think about it.

We kissed for a while beneath the shower jets that felt more like blades than anything else. My arms curved around his torso; his arms resting on my shoulders; his height forcing me to stand on my toes. We kissed with our tongues gliding slowly; our teeth catching lips. We were drowsy, drunk - oblivious to anything but each other.

After we were dressed, I asked for a drink. He made me a latte, forming a heart from the frothed milk.

“You're so much more interesting than the rest of us,” I said. “It's like even though we've grown up on the same planet, you're this unique exhibit that everyone wants to understand. It's almost as if you have this extra-terrestrial air about you.”

“It's called being British,” he joked. We both laughed.

The photograph was still resting on the coffee table, watching us. I almost felt compelled to turn it over; to return it back its original spot. Instead, cozied up against Will's chest, I finally asked him.

“That girl in the picture, your Juliet,” I said. “Was she someone special to you?”

Will skimmed his fingers through my hair, his palms stopping on my shoulders.

“In the past, she was,” he confessed. “That was a very long time ago. Practically a decade.”

“What happened?” I asked. “Between you and her.”

His shoulders rose and fell, a small bite on his bottom lip. There was no doubt these were words he didn't want to exchange. I wondered, truthfully, if it was even okay to be asking them at all.

“We met when I was nineteen,” he answered. “On the set of
Romeo and Juliet
. We came from a similar upbringing; rich, distant parents. She had one sibling outside of the country, attending university.”

Will paused briefly. I waited for him to speak.

“I loved her,” he admitted. “We were both madly in love. There's something so good about the first time – about finding someone that wants you as badly as you want them.”

“What ended up happening?” I asked.

He sighed, running a finger over the rim of his tea mug.

“I proposed to her,” he said. “Maybe hastily – just three months in - but she said yes. My parents were happy, even. She came from a good home, respectable parents. It was a great match. We had the entire wedding planned, down the linens, even.”

He laughed; but there was no smile in the way the notes fell.

“I'll admit that maybe it was just the fact that we became so caught up in playing these two doomed lovers, I didn't realize that I was already in over my head. I was absolutely infatuated with her. But a part of me thinks, deep down, that sometimes situations are just star-crossed; no matter what you might want, you can't save them,” he said. He then drew a long pause. “She came to me, not long before the wedding, and told me she was pregnant. And then she left. Just like that.”

Hands covered his face; he looked ill. As if he might literally vomit.

I felt sick, nauseated. Every bone in my body felt bent and on the verge of snapping.

“And you keep her photograph?” I asked, sinking further into the couch. “You keep the photograph of your ex-fiancée, who was also pregnant with a child? Your child?”

“Kaitlyn-” he said. “You need to listen to me, alright?”

“Why?” I asked. “Why would you keep it?”

“Because I don't immediately discard the memories of people I once cared about,” he answered plainly; his tone was sharp, defensive. It bit against my nerves like a cold frost. “Now if you would listen -”

I felt my body start to shiver, and I couldn't stop it. I couldn't stop the trembling, just as I couldn't halt the impending feeling that I was about to faint. My nerves, my anxiety, was unflinching.

I had once claimed to not have a heart – to not feel things as those around me did. Now it was all coming out at once; as if someone had sliced open my chest and extended my literal heart for the world to watch beating.

“But what good is a memory when everything is eventually blurred by time and new experiences?” I asked, the words blurting out like paint sprayed across an already ruined canvas. “Eventually, even with the little bouts of pretty nostalgia, a picture is just a picture. You've replaced that girl with someone else.”

Will's head dropped, speechless. There was a look of both rage and sadness in his eyes.

“Is that how it is?” I asked him. “Are you going to keep my photograph when all of the lust and fancy filigree of our forbidden relationship has ended?”

He turned to me, and I blinked back tears. Something in my heart came to a sudden halt, like a video on pause. Like a human collapsing after being struck by lightening. Something stopped.

His hand fell on my shoulder, his body turned to face me completely. Fingers traced down my cheek, but his eyes didn't move from mine.

I felt cold. I felt, in total honesty, like a child. In over my head, unable to swim. Yet I was so happy to be drowning.

“I would never forget you,” he said, pausing with each word. “It wasn't my baby, Kaitlyn. It wasn't mine. It was someone elses.”

“Are you certain?” I asked. “How could you know?”

There was a brief silence, save for the ticking clock.
One, two, three
.

“I told you,” he said quietly. “I was a well-intentioned man before I met you.”

Will glanced down at the floor, and I tried to understand.

“What does that even mean?” I asked.

He looked at me, eyes wide. Not in fear, or anxiety, but in confession.

He was my first time. My first lover.

But I was his, too.

William Tennant, before that irreversible night, was a virgin.

“You're kidding,” I nearly gasped. “How? How is that even possible?”

Smiling bleakly, he stood and walked over to a small bookshelf, retrieving an old photo album. Photographs of him, as an infant, in his baptism gown. Aged pictures of him sitting on a church pew, smiling, wearing a tie and a tiny pair of slacks. More recent photos of his teen years; church gatherings, matching T-shirts depicting scriptural quotes.

“I had beliefs,” he answered. “They've clouded some since I was younger, and really, that's why I left the UK. Parts of the place were just haunted for me. But I still waited; believing, although I definitely felt stupid and foolish about it at times, that I'd find someone who would make me feel like I could finally take that leap.”

He touched my hand. I was overwhelmed.

I started to cry.

“I'm still learning to love,” he said. “I'm stumbling. But I think that's a lot of what this is; loving, learning. We keep stumbling until we find that one person who is willing to hold our hand and walk with us until we're strong enough to take the last step on our own.”

I took his hand, and our fingers joined. Melding, melting; warm and perfectly formed together.

“I could give you all the pretty words in the world, Kaitlyn,” he said. “But you need to know that when I first saw you, standing there in that mask, and you told me that you weren't lost – I immediately realized that I wasn't, either.”

Smiling, I pulled him on top of me, and kissed him. We were in each other's arms; twilight casting evening colors on the walls.

“Are we star-crossed?” I asked quietly, a whisper.

“Yes,” he said. “But I would fight against the stars for you.”

A pause, a thudding heartbeat.

We held hands. I didn't want to let go, ever. I touched the chain - the ring that was now his - resting against his rising chest.

I'm yours forever now
, I thought. The beautiful clichés spilled like Mica through the filters of my brain, praying to strike gold.

The clock continued ticking; I said goodbye to my teacher with a kiss; I skipped down the steps feeling light as cotton. A wisp in the wind.

The park was still empty; the streetlights, all lit up and cascading a faint glow over the dark streets, seemed to illuminate every pebble and stray leaf. The night was silent; buzzing only with the reverberations of my heart.

I'm not sure how long it took me to hear it - the subtle
thud
. A bag against the steps. Shoes scraping over stone.

A street-lamp flickered, my breath hitched.