“What kind of things?” he asked.
“She never remembers her appointments or when the trash pick-up is or to turn off the stove,” I told him, my anxiety bubbling up with every word.
I heard the tension in his voice when he replied. “She’s an adult,” he argued. “You’re too young to be worried about things like that.”
I said nothing, because him being right didn’t change the way things worked at home. He changed tack.
“My grandmother is super religious,” he said. “Have you met her?”
“The one who makes the gross cookies?” I asked.
He laughed. “Yeah, her. She gave me this medal,” he said, pulling it over his head. “It’s St. Christopher. It’s supposed to keep you and those you love safe when you’re away from home.” He put it around my neck. “You can wear it while you’re here. It’ll protect you and your mom.”
“But what will keep you safe, then?” I asked, with real concern.
He grinned at me, a grin far too cocky and self-assured for a kid his age. “I don’t need a medal. I can take care of myself.”
I still have that necklace to this day. I imagined showing it to our children, but now I see what a ridiculous, childish pipe dream that was. He’s getting ready to graduate and marry someone else. And I’m a stupid 19-year-old girl who just made an ass of herself unwittingly for the whole country to watch.
It strikes me only now that 99% of the appeal of living at the beach with Ginny was proximity to her brother. No matter what Bruce said, I should be back in DC or NYC trying to salvage my life. I think about all the summers I gave up to my career goals, all that single-minded focus and devotion. Am I really going to let it all be swept away without a fight? And do I really want to spend an entire summer with James? I’m currently experiencing a small, stabbing pain in my chest over a boy I haven’t seen in years. So what happens when I live with him?
To my relief, James no longer stands by the keg when we re-enter the party. I get my beer and Ginny introduces me to the people around us, most of whom seem to be college friends of the guys, or people who work with them. A girl named Kristy works with Ginny and James at the bar. “You’re gonna apply?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say. “Maybe. If I stay.”
“What do you mean by that?” asks Ginny. “Of course you’re staying!”
I struggle to craft an excuse, and when I do it’s a poor one. “Well, the bar probably doesn’t even need people at this point. We’re already weeks into summer.” The truth is that I technically don’t need a job at all. The unspoken agreement I’ve had with my parents is a sizable allowance and an Amex they pay off in exchange for me keeping my head down and doing what I’m supposed to do. And aside from the fact that they disliked Ryan, my ex, I’ve done just that. Although they do seem to be holding the Edward thing against me a bit, so I guess I can tack that onto the list too.
Kristy laughs. “Our manager is kind of a perv. He’ll make room for someone who looks like you.”
Internally I despair. I’ve already had my fill of bosses with ulterior motives. “He’s not going to, uh, expect anything, is he?”
“Nah,” she says. “But the uniform is ridiculously skimpy, so just brace yourself for a fair amount of eye-fucking.”
“I can’t believe James is okay with that,” I tell Ginny. He was always very protective of her. Of both of us, actually. I can’t imagine him putting up with any guy, especially a boss, checking her out.
Kristy laughs. “Ginny is the only one he doesn’t do that to. James must have scared the shit out of him.”
“Same way he did to every guy within the city limits,” sighs Ginny.
“You have a boyfriend,” I remind her. Ginny’s boyfriend of three years is in Spain for the summer, but they’ve been inseparable since the day they met back in high school. They’ve already named their children and discussed who will take leave when they have them.
“It’s just ridiculous,” she gripes. “I mean, he acts like they’re in their 40s and I’m 10.”
“You have a boyfriend,” I say again. ”And it’s kind of sweet, in a way.”
“Says the girl who can sleep with anyone she wants,” says Ginny.
Not anyone, apparently. But I keep this to myself.
I’m sitting on the couch when Max, the roommate I met earlier, plops down beside me. He’s attractive but in a very different way from James — lean and rangy, with dark hair that continually falls into his eyes. And a sly smile that I’m guessing gets him a lot of action.
“So you’re Andrew Grayson’s daughter, huh?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say reluctantly. James and Ginny weren’t supposed to tell anyone who I was, but if he and James have been friends for a long time I guess maybe he already knew. I’m not convinced it’s going to work anyway. My name isn’t out and the photo of me and Edward only showed my back, but how long will that last?
“And your mom was that model, right?”
I nod. Also reluctantly, though for different reasons. No one would even know who my mother was, since she quit modeling when she got pregnant with me, aside for one thing: the bathing suit calendar. One photo in particular, my mother in a white bikini with her arms over her head, every element of her anatomy visible. The poster has apparently been pinned on thousands of bedroom walls. I still see it occasionally. And not a week goes by that I don’t hear the following from a guy I’ve just met:
1. That my mother is the first person he ever jerked off to (most guys imply this subtly, but not subtly enough).
And
2. That I look just like her.
Often I hear both things simultaneously, which is a particularly creepy combination.
“I had her poster on my wall in high school,” Max says. I have a strong feeling that he’s about to tell me more about this, but he’s cut off by James, who stands in front of us with a brow raised at Max before turning to me.
“Do you have stuff to carry in?” he asks.
“Oh,” I say, jumping up from the couch. “I totally forgot. But I can get it.”
“I’ll get it,” he says. He walks outside, stopping to hold the door for me. Chivalry is so engrained in him that the action is immediate, almost unconscious.
I could barely hear myself talk inside, but in front of the house it’s almost as if we’re the only people still awake. I hear the crickets chirping, notice the moon breaking through the pines, feel the soft needles crunch beneath my feet as I walk. I pop my trunk and he goes to the back of the car.
“You didn’t bring much,” he comments.
“I left in kind of a hurry,” I say.
“It was that bad?” he asks.
“My name hadn’t gotten out at that point, but a few people had put the whole thing together. Someone must have told the photographers where I lived.”
“Are you serious?” he asks, coming to a dead stop in front of me with a suitcase in each hand. I can’t help but notice the way his biceps flex. Not for you, Elle. “But you were totally innocent in the whole thing.”
“Yes,” I sigh. “But no one believes that.”
“Why the hell would anyone believe you wanted to sleep with Edward Ferris?” he asks.
“I guess because he’s famous. Or the whole intern-sleeps-her-way-to-the-top thing.”
“But you already had that kind of access, because of your father. Even people who don’t know you should be able to figure that out.”
I raise a shoulder. “It makes a better story this way, though, doesn’t it?”
“I’m sorry,” he says, earnestly. “The whole situation just sucks.”
“On the bright side,” I laugh, “I guess I'm about to finally get the little sister I always wanted.”
“Is your dad marrying that girl?” he asks. “What’s her name?”
“Holly,” I say bitterly. “I have no idea. Probably.”
“She’s young, right?”
“24,” I say. “Younger than you.”
/>
“Inconceivable,” he says with a small grin.
I laugh. I kind of can’t believe he remembered. I quote the movie’s rejoinder back to him, and his answering smile is almost shy.
“Did he have anything to say for himself?”
“Yes,” I say. “He told me ‘the heart wants what the heart wants’.”
“And what did you say to that?”
“I said, ‘My heart wants you to keep it in your pants’. He wasn’t amused.”
James’s laugh is surprised. It echoes off the cement steps of the front landing, into the dark night. “I’m really sorry,” he says. “I can’t believe he had so little self-control.”
Chapter 6
The next day, Ginny is working so Kristy takes me into The Pink Pelican, an open-air bar/restaurant about a mile from our house that does a decent lunch business and a massive Friday/Saturday drinking business.
She introduces me to Brian, who is every bit as gross and pervy as she warned me he’d be. “We definitely have room for you,” he grins. “Let me have you fill out some paperwork.”
“If he gives you an option,” whispers Kristy, “ask for a shirt at least one size up from what you’d normally wear. I think he buys them at a children’s clothing store.”
Brian, however, must be onto this trick. “You look like a small,” he says when he returns, handing me a t-shirt. The rest of my uniform, apparently, is to be a pair of cut-off jean shorts and heels. Classy.
This uniform will be a trial for me in particular. I don’t mind looking like my mother, but I’ve always loathed the kind of cross-contamination that seems to accompany it. I’m not the girl whose picture hangs on a million bedroom walls, but sometimes it seems I’ll have to spend the rest of my life proving it. I’ve never worn a bikini or a skirt more than an inch above my knees in my life. Though with the current media portrayal of me as some kind of teenage Lolita-style seductress, it looks like I should have spared myself the trouble.
Ginny comes home from work early and takes me into her favorite store on Rehoboth Avenue. It’s full of the kind of clothes I don’t wear — like the cut-off denim shorts I’m here to purchase.
“Wow,” says Ginny, pulling a dress off the rack. “How cute is this?”
“It’s cute,” I agree. “You should get it.”
“Not for me,” she says. “For you.”
“Oh,” I demur. “I don’t know. That’s not really my style.”
“You mean because it doesn’t scream ‘I’m a serious anchorwoman’?” she asks.
“I guess, sort of.”
“Well you’re the one who said that’s all done, right?” she cajoles. “So you might as well reap the benefits. At least try it on. I saw the clothes you brought down here. You can’t spend the summer dressed like the CEO of General Mills.”
I end up buying it. I suspect I’ll never wear it, but there’s something strangely freeing in the possibility.
James is just coming back from a run as we walk up to the house.
His shirt is off, revealing a long, lean torso covered in a fine sheen of sweat. His hair is standing up a little in front, he’s just the tiniest bit flushed, the lines of his jaw and cheekbones slightly sharpened. He doesn’t look like a normal guy after a hard run. He looks like a fitness model posing as a guy who’s just done a hard run.
“Gross,” Ginny says, wrinkling her nose. “Poor Elle hasn’t been in the house long enough to be subjected to that.”
He laughs a little. “Sorry,” he says to me.
All I can do is smile awkwardly in response. And try not to gape.
**
I put on my uniform at 5:00 that afternoon, and squirm with discomfort as I look in the mirror. I have my mother’s long legs, and between the tiny shorts and the high heels, the effect is just … ridiculous. The shirt is, as predicted, way too tight. It’s all too much. I’m embarrassed to even go downstairs to find Ginny, whom I’m supposed to shadow tonight.
I hear her on the back deck, and reluctantly head that way. I suppose if I’m going to have to suffer the perusal of hundreds of strangers in this get-up, I can suffer the perusal of my roommates. Besides, Ginny’s dressed for work too. This can’t really be the big deal I’m making it.
She’s sitting with James and Max, who both stop talking and stare at me in surprise. This does not dramatically boost my confidence.
“You can’t wear that,” says James flatly.
“The hell she can’t,” counters Max. He looks at me approvingly. “You were made to wear that uniform.”
“I can’t say I’m a fan,” I murmur.
Ginny laughs. “You’ll get used to it.” She turns toward James with irritation. “You know what the uniform looks like. Why are you making her feel bad about it?”
“It just doesn’t fit right,” he argues, his jaw grinding.
“That’s exactly how it’s supposed to fit, asshat,” she says. “Elle just looks better in it than the rest of us.”
“You’re showing too much skin,” he says to me. “Just wear some jeans tonight and a white shirt and I’ll talk to Brian.”
Ginny snorts. “A. That bar has no air conditioning, so jeans will be profoundly uncomfortable after about 30 seconds. B. There’s no freaking chance that Brian is going to let one girl wear jeans while the rest of us wear Daisy Dukes. And C. She has to wear the t-shirt. We all do. You’re going to get her fired on her first day.”
“Ignore your surrogate father over there,” says Max. “I, personally, would give you a very generous tip.”
**
James drives us over, though his shift begins an hour after ours. He marches directly to Brian’s office, and Ginny snickers as he goes.
“I’m sorry, but misery loves company. Although this is overboard even for him.”
I hear raised voices coming from Brian’s office, and then James storms out. Brian follows, looking me over with a level of appreciation that I find somewhat unsettling. “I think her uniform fits perfectly,” he says. “She doesn’t look like a whore.”
My face falls. Brian walks away and I barely trust myself to speak. “You told him I looked like a whore?” I ask.
“No,” he says hurriedly, catching the look on my face. “I just said I thought it made you feel like one. It seemed like the uniform was making you uncomfortable.”
I meet his eye. “Well now it is.”
He rubs the nape of his neck, avoiding my eye. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I never meant to make you feel bad. I’ve always objected to that uniform, especially once Ginny had to start wearing it, and you … just look … it fits you differently is all,” he concludes haltingly, growing more flustered and awkward with each breath.
I didn’t know James was capable of awkwardness. I let his words settle over me, creating a small seed of warmth in my stomach. I could be misunderstanding him, but if I’m not, it’s possible that James Campbell has finally, after all this time, decided I’m attractive.
Chapter 7
He’s sitting at the kitchen table when I come downstairs the next morning. His posture is relaxed into what I’ve already to come to think of as “the James sprawl”. Too big and too long for normal-people furniture, his legs spread wide, his arms relaxed. He’s sitting there with Max and another guy who must be the mysterious fifth roommate, Dan. Max is talking smack and James’s mouth is turned up — a smile about to morph into laughter. I remember that look. It affects me even more now than it did then.
And then he sees me and the laughter dies in his throat, the smile fades.
“Good morning,” I say uneasily. His face has gone from happiness to consternation in two seconds and it’s clearly me causing it.
“Good morning,” he says politely, but his eyes are wary. He introduces me to Dan, who stares at me as if I’m a gargoyle before mumbling something incoherent and practically running from the room.
“Geez, guys, what the hell did you tell him about me?” I ask. “People usually get to know
me first and then run from the room.”
Max and James exchange a look. “Dan’s a little shy,” says James.
“Didn’t you say he manages an amusement park?” I ask. “Seems like that’d be a hard job for someone who has to flee the minute a new person walks in.”
“He’s a little shy around girls whose mothers were supermodels,” says Max.
“Ah,” I say uncomfortably. “I guess that would narrow it down a little.”
James stands to leave. He’d never admit it, but I get the feeling I’m driving him from the room too.
**
I shadow Kristy through her double shift that afternoon and evening. I can already tell this is going to be an uphill battle for me. She effortlessly remembers a huge order without writing it down, while I can barely remember to fulfill entirely reasonable requests for things like ketchup and silverware. It really doesn’t bode well.
James is working too, and that’s the problem that consumes me most. Though unfailingly polite, he seems to be avoiding me. That odd wariness of his in the kitchen was no anomaly. He speaks to Kristy when we come to the bar and actively ignores me — not an easy feat when we’re standing right beside each other. He teases the other waitresses, an easy, crooked smile lighting up his face, but he doesn’t say a single word to me unless he has to. It’s almost as if he’s going out of his way to act like I don’t exist.
I wish I could do the same, but the truth is that all I want to do is stare at him. He hasn’t changed all that much since he was 21. He’s still got that same kind of intense focus on things he always had, which he punctuates sporadically by saying something ridiculously funny, with only that slight rise to his lips to indicate he’s telling a joke. He still has that smile too – the one that gives you just the tiniest glimpse inside of him. For just a fraction of a second you see his big heart and his good intentions and the sense that there is so much more to him than meets the eye.
Except he never smiles at me.
After work we end up at home sitting on the deck. There’s apparently a certain amount of adrenaline after waiting tables that needs to subside before you can sleep. Time helps. So does beer. James finally seems to relax around me then. He actually smiles, meets my eye. He teases me about my regrettable childhood fascination with “My Little Pony”, and the fact that I used to dress up like Harry Potter to go to the movie premieres. It takes so little for him to make me happy. Perhaps it’s for the best that he rarely tries.
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