Star-Crossed (6 page)

Lying on my back, I looked around my bedroom. The walls, the bedspread, the sheets, the furniture was painted in the pale, sugar-spun pink that bled with an almost joking femininity. Even the crystals of the chandelier that hung were rose-colored.

I closed my eyes, thinking about the past and thinking about the present. Thinking about how I had never felt a damn thing; no trace of lust or desire or any spark of heat in my veins. Nothing worth writing love notes or stealing concealed kisses in shadowy corners. Nothing worth making love, or fucking, or having sex.

Until the masquerade.

I thought about Mr. Tennant, and what he was doing, and if he was thinking about me, too. I was quite positive that his eyes had followed me out the classroom door, but I could have imagined it.

Standing, I took a deep breath and decided to take action. I threw on a pale dressed; layered lace the color Provençal Rosé, that hovered just above my knees. I coupled it with a pair of white flats, and to make it seem casual, my favorite Houndstooth jacket.

In the garden, the pool glowed with an eerie, electric blue. The rose bushes were covered in leathery, black leaves. The grass was just a path of shadows; a stretch of black turf with no hint of green in the shrouded night.

I looked up at the sky, shimmering in a way that made me want to believe something greater really did exist. Something beyond the physical symbols, the evening prayers. I wanted to believe, like most girls do, that every single star held an unanswered wish, and that it was only a matter of selecting the right one amidst the glittering sands of an even grander celestial body.

Clutching the gates, I briefly envisioned Will standing before me; the two of us shielded from the iron bars. Our fingers touched; our eyes touched, too. We didn't say anything, but we didn't need to.

I shoved through the gates and ran until I saw lights; hailing down a cab, my chest burned and my face felt warm, feverish. I touched the glass and wondered, tracing my name on the window, how many others had done the same.

“Stop here,” I instructed, handing him a folded twenty. “I'm set to walk. I need to stretch my legs.”

We hadn't gone far, but that was enough. He thanked me for the money and I left with my coat and a pair of sunglasses. Pretentious, perhaps. But it felt appropriate.

Walking with a slow and steady pace, I felt my heart quicken as I neared Will's apartment building; when I reached the park, it nearly stopped.

I almost wished that I had brought a shopping bag or something. Anything to make it seem like I hadn't just wandered to his front steps in hopes of seeing him.

Tyler was right. The structure was crumbling; the cement steps leading to a cracked sidewalk. But the strangest part of it all was that the exterior damage didn't give the building a downtrodden sort of look; rather, it was almost charming. It was a subtle decay; something that still managed to give a genuine allure. Like maybe, if I wasn't a millionaire's daughter, I would have lived there, too. I would have opened the windows and watched the children play in the park, laughing with the kind of jovial ring that I never knew.

When I saw him, I removed my glasses and paused before going a step further. And when I finally decided to, I revealed myself under a perfectly-placed ray of streetlight, feeling like half maniac and movie starlet.

Will raised his eyes, and when he saw me, there it was: the wavering warmth spreading from head to toe. A silent, unspoken belief that the girl in front of him wearing a lace dress and pretty shoes, a pretty coat, was incapable of such a thing as searching him down like a cautionary predator.

In that moment, though - it felt organic.

Mr. Tennant smiled, his eyes on the glasses in my hand, his hair wind-swept and figure vaguely hunched over. He had his headphones on, and was re-lacing a pair of sneakers. He had been running.

“Kaitlyn Laurent,” his voice was a breathless beacon. “Well, isn't this a surprise?”

He moved aside, making a spot for me on the steps. I sat next to him, we watched the empty park for awhile, and by some fantastic stroke of luck - a cold drizzle began to fall.

I stretched my fingers, barely brushing across the tips of his; I felt Mr. Tennant look down.

“Would you like to come inside?” he asked quietly. “I'll call you a cab.”

Pulling me up, he opened the door to the apartment, and I basked for a brief moment in the warm glow of light that spilled over the blue cement and gray, empty streets.

Clutching my coat, I followed him inside.

SIX

His apartment was larger than I would have expected from the outside. It had dark panel-wood flooring, and the walls were painted a deep burgundy. The furniture was old, worn; from the over-stuffed recliner to the midnight-blue settee that made me think, vaguely, of a stage prop. He didn't have a television, but rather a large projector screen that took up nearly the entire living room wall. His kitchen was galley-style, with a black-and-white checkered patterned floor. It barely fit the two of us as I watched him pour boiling water into mugs with classic lines from
The Great Gatsby
and
The Catcher in the Rye
.

“I painted them myself,” he explained, smiling.

Will seemed to have a love for little tsotchky items. Coffee mugs containing the same brand of ball-point pen were everywhere, strewn about on glass-topped tables with notebooks and stacks upon stacks of well-loved novels. I picked up a weathered copy of Bram Stoker's
Dracula
and flipped through the pages, relishing that old book smell. Frames upon frames of random photographs were everywhere; many of Will with various people that looked, to some degree, like they could be family. Some were of a woman, with light brown hair and eyes of the same color. She had freckles on her nose and a smile that told me, without even needing to ask, that she had once been intimately tied to Will. An old friend, a past lover.

I wondered, for just a moment, what his life was like before now.

There were also, collectively, at least twenty clocks hung on the apartment walls. All of them, every single one, appeared to be made by hand. All gold and polished wood, you could see the metal gears; but none of them moved. The arms were lifeless.

However, I knew one of them was alive. I could hear the sound, the seconds ticking away like that vital organ in my chest.

Squinting my eyes, I saw that it was in the very center, just above my head. I had to crane my neck in order to see it; a mesh of gold and cold gray metal, just slightly larger than the rest.

I felt Will's hand on my shoulder, his face reflected in the glass. We were both staring into frozen time.

“Did you build them?” I asked. “All of these?”

He nodded, looking over each of them as if he too had never seen them before. There was a soft wonder in his expression, an unmistakable pride.

“Yes...but none of them work. Well, except for that one. But if you can possibly tell-” he rolled up a shirtsleeve, exposing his watch. “It moves just slightly faster. The timing is off.”

I moved in closer to compare the two. He was right.

“How can you stand it?” I asked him. “The noise. The constant
tick, tick, tick
.”

Mr. Tennant appeared as if he didn't understand.

“It's not really noise anymore,” he said mildly. “You get used to it, like most anything else.”

We walked into the living room, where two mugs of tea were steeping on the coffee table. Outside, the beginnings of spring rain pelted like bullets against the window; the noise almost loud enough to mute the still-lingering sound of that ticking clock.

I looked at Will, who was looking back at me with a silent fixation, and wondered why I was sitting next to him, in his living room, and not in some cab en route to an over-glorified house. The boldness of it all. The youth of it all.

Which makes sense, really. At eighteen, you're an adult by standing. You can vote, you can go to war, and you can have sex with a man ten years your senior. Will was twenty-eight.

I was only eighteen. An adult, but not really. A child, yet far from it.

And what did this seemingly simple moment make Will? Was he simply a gentleman, inviting his young student in for tea while the rain poured down? A man with no ulterior motives, no filthy thoughts. Or was he, like me, a lurking demon disguised as something with all the proper parts that compose a human? The soft hair, the welcoming smile.

Maybe it didn't matter. Maybe it was just two people, sitting on some theatrical-style settee the color of midnight, sipping tea and watching the steam rise like spirits.

A single lit candle rested on the coffee table, and suddenly compelled I leaned in and dipped a finger into the wax, watching it harden with silent fascination.

“Sometimes I'm rather impulsive,” I admitted. “Like, ending up here and everything. I just had to get out of my house, and here I am. A result of wandering.”

I thought about telling him exactly what had gone through my mind; that I had wanted to see him; that I was hoping he'd be out on those front steps, as if waiting for me. As if having the uncanny feeling that I was looking for him, too. A mutual, undisclosed knowing.

“Why were you wandering?” he asked quietly, setting the mug down. “I imagine your parents must be worried that you've just up and left the house.”

I smiled, shrugging.

“My father is preoccupied with his mellings in black suits. I'd say his biggest concern is whether or not there's enough liquor to fuel their fantasy of playing the retail-industry gods of Manhattan,” I paused. “And my step-mother, well, she's sort of an idiot. I know that sounds terrible and everything, but it's true.”

It suddenly felt warm, too warm, and only then did I realize that I was still wearing my jacket. Sliding out of the fabric like a second skin, I tossed it over the arm-rest and exhaled lightly. Will's steady stare followed down the length of my arms, to my french-tipped fingernails. There was a barely-audible sigh, followed by a soft:

“I'm sorry,” he said. “It's a horrid thing, how the world never really prepares us for parenting, or parents, or...well, bloody anything, really.”

He was right. His eyes were still on my shoulders.

“Yeah,” I muttered. “I suppose that tonight is just one of those nights where I'm feeling slightly angsty.”

Mr. Tennant traced a finger over his mouth, nodding like we were both a couple teenagers, and he entirely understood. We were standing on the same patch of ground.

“It's a proper feeling though, isn't it?” he asked. “I mean, feeling angst when you're young and figuring the world out. When I was growing up, feeling sad was sort of pushed aside as a rubbish emotion. But now that I'm older, I believe that it's quite alright to feel, as you have said, angsty.”

There was a brief pause before he added, quietly.

“I don't have a remedy for you, though. I'm sorry.”

I liked that he didn't brush my feelings off because of my wealth. I liked, as he smiled at me with a smile that told me he was unabashedly sincere, that he treated me as equally as he would some change-shaking punk on the street. So many others would have simply rolled their eyes, assuming that whatever ailment I was suffering from - emotional or physical - could be fixed with a retail therapy binge. The whole:
well, it's better to cry in a mansion than a fucking box
mentality that so many carried around in their back pockets.

It was also, as much as I hated to acknowledge it, partially true. But youth doesn't care about your wealth, or your social status. Everything, every little detail and utterance under stolen breath, can plague you.

Still, I digested the words slowly, watching as Mr. Tennant jumped up and, sucking in a deep breath, walked over to a mess of DVDs that were scattered all over the living room floor. From beneath the depths, he pulled out Zeffirelli’s
Romeo and Juliet
.

“I suppose I should call that cab,” he said. “But I wanted to lend you this.”

I glanced at the projection screen, at his laptop on the floor, surrounded by the cases and discs. Beyond the walls, the rain had softened into a gentle patter; streaks of water, like ink, ran down black window glass.

“Could we watch it on the projector?” I asked. “I've never watched a film on an actual projector screen.”

Will appeared uncertain, crossing his arms. His shadow wavered slightly on the screen, looming over him and double his size.

“Your parents -” he started, shaking his head. “No. I shouldn't let you linger around here, Kaitlyn. It's not appropriate.”

The candle flame was still dancing, rising and falling as the white wax dripped down like sweat from joined bodies.

Boldly, I stood on my toes, looking up at the ceiling light that glared back at me like a blinding warning, and turned off the lights.

It was just the two of us, alone in the dark, with only the faint flickering of candlelight.

“Nobody's looking for me,” I said quietly. And although I couldn't quite see his face, I knew that he was looking. I knew that his eyes hadn't left my frame. “Nobody's hunting me down tonight.”

In the background, the clock ticked away. His breath was shallow, my heart was pounding in my throat. I'm not sure how many sped-up seconds passed before he finally said, barely audible:

“Okay.”

We sat and watched the film, separated by a square of cushion between us. His hands remained on his knees, mine on my legs that were properly crossed. During the post-nuptials scene, I looked over to see his reaction at the quick flash of skin; glad, in truth, that he wasn't looking at me. My face was burning.

I fell in love at the first line, and was muffling sobs at the very end. When the credits rolled, I wiped away the few escaped tears and accepted the tissue that Will handed to me.

From the faint light, he looked almost distressed. His hands combed nervously through swept-back hair as he stood, straightening himself out.

“Just a moment,” he said. “I'll be right back.”

He disappeared into the bathroom, and I waited in the dark for him while watching the drops of rain roll down in streaks of gleaming yellow, the passing cars occasionally sending a ray of white light through the room. It was only after the candle - as if on cue - dwindled and snuffed out, that I stood; acknowledging the ascending smoke as surely some kind of omen.

Nervously, I walked down the hall, glanced at the bathroom door quickly before spinning around. I was met with the reflective faces of three unmoving clocks. It startled me, and I jumped.

When Will emerged, he smiled and apologized and insisted that he was fine. His smile read otherwise; uncomfortable, torn.

I wondered how I appeared to him, standing only inches away in my lace dress, my ballet flats, my makeup so minimal that he could see the natural length of my lashes.

“Is the
oh-so
serious Mr. Tennant so terribly affected by sad endings?” I mused. “I came here because the candle went out. It was only mildly scary, though.”

“Is that why you were standing here?” he smiled. “Looking for protection from the monsters hiding in my apartment?”

I wanted so badly to touch him; that's when I knew. I knew I had to do something, or else I'd lose. Not just the bet, but my first glimpse into the fascinating creature - half-man and half shadowy figure - that stood before me like an unreachable prize placed atop the highest shelf.

Eighteen years. Eighteen years only getting off to fantasies of something I hadn't quite pieced together. Kaleidoscope pictures and dreams of different things and sounds and people, floating but never forming into something real. Eighteen years of skewed images that had never quite solidified; orgasms blossoming from blank canvases and sheer frustration.

The clock kept ticking. I could hear it play like the constant reminder that my life, and every single moment, was only temporary. Every single living thing would someday be turned into ash - and then what?

I wanted him to touch me. Just touch me. I didn't want to sleep with him, not on the settee or in his bed. I just wanted to feel his hands on me. I wanted to feel his mouth against my skin. I wanted to hear him say my name; those two syllables like poison on his lips.

“Yes,” I finally said. “That's exactly what I wanted.”

I paused for a moment before reaching out and touching his wrist. He didn't move; his eyes locked on my hand.

“Are you nervous?” I asked quietly.

He nodded, swallowing.

“Yes,” he whispered.

We looked at each other, something bleeding through our eyes that was both a mix of desire and an unshakeable fear. We were both sick and enthralled; alive and wavering in the space between safety and chaos.

Let it be known that I crossed the line first. William Tennant, before that irreversible second, was an innocent man.

Pressing him against the wall, I stood on my toes, and kissed him.

At first, his hands shot up, like a criminal marked with a red hot target; like he was facing certain death by firing squad. They fell slow as quick-sand, eventually finding my hips where they settled with a shaky hesitancy, hovering just above the fabric.

There was no gripping of limbs, no clashing of teeth against teeth. Mr. Tennant kissed my mouth like it was something to worship, something to savor. Delicate and delicious, his breath shallow as a pool of puddle water. And if I were still a child, still stuck in the age of sticky-sweet candy and hop-scotch, I would have jumped and played in that murky depth forever.

In the dark, it was impossible to see him. All I had were what my remaining senses could grant me: touch and taste and the soft, intoxicating sound of his lips against my own.