He looks at me as if I’ve grown a unicorn horn off of my forehead. “Of course they do.”
**
I go to the meditation studio with Max. It doesn’t really look all that clean. Maybe that’s why people close their eyes when they meditate. I look at the grimy blankets and bolsters and wish I’d brought my own yoga mat. Or some disinfectant.
The teacher guides us all to close our eyes, but it doesn’t stop me from thinking about the dirt.
She starts telling us to take deep breaths. I listen for a few moments and then I ignore her and think about James. Why is he so hot and cold with me? If he thinks I’m so fantastic, then why does he avoid me like the plague?
The leader tells us to release our thoughts, which I do for about 30 seconds. And then I think about how angry I am at Ginny, and how badly I wish I knew what James was thinking.
I breathe in to the count of 10, hold for 10, release for 10. Then I go back to thinking about James.
Breathe.
Stop thinking about him.
Breathe.
He must just work out way more than we know because his abs … everything … is perfect. Where is he working out?
Breathe.
Maybe he wouldn’t even be good in bed.
Breathe.
Please. You know he’s good in bed. And would it matter if he wasn’t? No. I mean it wouldn’t be ideal, necessarily, but I like him for more than that.
Breathe.
I can’t fucking believe Ginny.
Breathe.
God. I am so bad at this. Is that a bug on my leg?
**
This is pretty much how I spend the next hour. It doesn’t feel all that restorative. Ginny is pulling up from work as we get home. She glares at us and walks inside without a word.
Yep, not all that restorative.
**
Ginny and I avoid each other for the next few days. By Thursday we have brokered some kind of tentative ceasefire. We speak in passing, sit out on the deck at the same time. But it’s not the same thing as being friends. And it’s certainly nothing like being best friends. I look at her warily now. She looks at me warily too, which I find infuriating. Not once during our entire lives have I ever stolen someone’s boyfriend or even attempted it. But Allison suggests it and it’s as good as true in her mind.
James is not himself either. He seems legitimately troubled by something, and tired. He’s been running a lot at night, and he’s different with me — more alert and restrained than normal. I look toward the bar and find him watching me, something pained in his face before he turns away.
The next time I see that dark, brooding look on his face, curiosity wins out.
“Are you okay?” I ask him abruptly.
He looks surprised. “Yeah. Why?”
“You look tired. And troubled. Ginny thinks it’s because you miss Allison.”
He barks a short laugh. “Yeah. Ginny is wrong.”
“So you’re finally a free man. Shouldn’t you be overjoyed?” I ask. The second I say it, a horrible possibility unfolds in my mind. He’s free to date. Date like Max does. He’s free to not come home or to slide some girl still wearing last night’s clothes past the kitchen the next morning.
That dark look on his face only deepens. “It’s complicated.”
I’d like to ask him to clarify, but I don’t. Selfishly, I don’t want to help him untangle this knot of worries. It might lead him further away from me.
Chapter 19
Things are almost back to normal between me and Ginny by the time her birthday rolls around. I get off my lunch shift early and walk into the kitchen to find James baking cupcakes for tonight’s party.
“Now this is a sight I thought I’d never see.”
“Guys bake. Haven’t you ever watched ‘Cupcake Wars’?” he asks, his mouth quirking up to the right a bit.
“Sure,” I laugh. “But you’re James. You know, all alpha male and stomach muscles and testosterone.”
Ooops. That may have gone too far.
He grins. “I feel like I’m being typecast.” He hands me a beater covered in frosting. “Try it.”
He watches me run my tongue along the outside of the beater.
“Oh my God,” I moan. I expected the standard confectioner’s sugar/butter combo, but it turns out that James makes amazing frosting. “It’s so good.” There’s a flicker in his eyes that, for the briefest moment, goes bright and feral.
“Damn, Elle,” grins Max. “Thanks for that. I always wondered what you’d sound like during … ”
“Shut it,” James growls.
I smile at Max. “That was nothing. I’m much louder during sex.”
Max laughs, but James turns away quickly. And that makes Max laugh even more.
James has made reservations at a small Italian restaurant I’ve never heard of for Ginny’s birthday. Apparently lots of other people have heard about it though, because he and Max had to call in a few favors to get a table.
They go ahead of us to set up while Ginny and I get dressed. It’s still awkward around her. She looks at me as if I’m keeping some vile secret that only she knows.
She sighs as she looks through her closet. “If I were six inches taller I’d be wearing your clothes every day.”
“You look adorable,” I tell her.
“But I can’t compete with you,” she says. “I mean, look at that dress. And those shoes.”
I’m wearing strappy gold heels and one of the new dresses I bought for my summer in the city: a white dress that appears completely backless, held together by two clear straps that are practically invisible. A dress my mother talked me into buying. At the time I was horrified. Now I’m grateful.
“You aren’t competing with me,” I tsk. “And besides, you look amazing. If you’re not happy with what you have on, you could always wear one of my shirts with one of your skirts.”
Numerous outfit changes ensue, and she is finally pleased with mere seconds to spare. We arrive at the restaurant and are ushered onto the back brick patio. Ginny goes off to greet her guests, and I go find Max and James. My first sight of James makes me sigh with want. In khaki pants and a collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up, he is the single best-looking man I’ve ever seen in my life. The sea blue of his shirt stands out against his tan, against his hair glinting gold from time outside, makes his eyes appear even warmer. He and Max are laughing, and I’m in the middle of thinking how much I love the way laughter makes his eyes crinkle at the corners when he sees me and his face falls flat.
He looks positively grim by the time I reach them.
“Wow,” says Max. “That dress is … holy shit. I think you’re actually even hotter than your mom.”
“How is that dress even staying up?” James scowls.
Max elbows him. “Stop being a dick, dude. Tell her she looks nice.”
James frowns at that. “You look, uh, grown-up.”
I roll my eyes. That’s really not the same thing as ‘nice’. “That’s because I am grown-up.”
“Your driver’s license begs to differ,” he counters.
“Whatever,” I say. “Is everything all set?”
“Everything aside from the fact that you’re missing half a dress,” grumbles James as he heads to the table.
He takes charge of the seating, placing Ginny at the head of the table, flanked by Kristy and Max. Somehow I end up seated next to him, which makes tonight feel like the first stroke of luck I’ve had in weeks. Even if he’s going to spend the whole time bitching about my dress.
“I have a jacket in my car,” he suggests.
“Enough about the damn dress,” I tell him sternly. “Seriously.”
“Fine,” he sighs, grabbing the wine list. “Then I’ll gripe about something else. I know nothing about Italian wines.”
I slide it toward me. “If you want red I’d go with the super-Tuscan — Vitticio is good. If you want white, go with the Alto Adige pinot.”
“How do you know that?” he asks. “You’re not even old enough to drink.”
“Not old enough to drink here,” I amend.
“You order,” he says. “I can’t even pronounce it.”
I would question the wisdom of allowing a 19-year-old to order, but the last thing he needs is another reminder of my age.
“Where are you from?” the waiter asks me. He asks in Italian, I suppose because I have a passable accent when I order the wine. I assure him that I’m not from Italy, but the mere fact that I’ve answered in his native tongue is enough to get him talking. When he finally leaves the table, everyone is staring at me.
“What the fuck was that?” asks Max. “You speak Italian?”
I shrug. “Some, I guess.”
“That wasn’t some,” he says. “You’re fluent. How the hell did you end up fluent in Italian?”
“I spent a lot of time there as a kid,” I say. “My father used to cover the Vatican.”
“You’re conveniently forgetting how you summered on that dude’s yacht every year too,” says Ginny.
I shrug. “And my mom has a friend we used to visit.”
“You’ve spent your entire life around adults, haven’t you?” James asks, though it sounds more like a statement.
“I guess?” I say. “More than most people have, I suppose.”
“You seem so old for your age sometimes,” he says quietly. “I guess that explains it.” He frowns, as if this bothers him.
The wine is decanted and I expect him to make some snide crack about my age when the waiter pours it into my glass, but he does not. I sip and it rests in my stomach, heavy and warm, not unlike the way it feels to sit next to James during this dinner. Every time I hear his low laugh, every time he murmurs a comment just for me, there’s a trill of delight that rockets through my stomach.
By the time we’ve ordered, James seems to have almost forgotten there is anyone at the table with us. He leans over, telling me a story about college that makes me laugh even while his breath against my ear makes me shiver. The illusion is shattered when the owner comes over, introducing himself as Domenico and sliding a chair directly between me and James. He seems extraordinarily young to have his own restaurant.
Domenico addresses me in Italian, angling his chair my way so that James is cut out entirely. “My waiter is in back telling us all of your flawless accent,” he says to me, “so I had to hear it for myself.”
“I think he was being kind,” I smile. “I just spent a little time there as a kid.”
“We don’t get a lot of Italian speakers here,” he says. “And certainly not beautiful ones.” The smile he flashes makes me want to edge my chair further away.
We speak for a few minutes about the coast and my mother’s friend Flavio, who he’s heard of, and then he asks if I want to see their garden after the meal. I agree with some trepidation, sensing he has something else he wants to show me there besides organically grown herbs.
“What was that about?” asks James when he leaves.
I shrug. “I guess they don’t get a lot of people in Rehoboth who speak Italian.”
“Yeah,” he says derisively. “I’m sure it’s your language skills that interest him.”
I ignore that. “You did a nice job with this,” I smile. “Ginny looks like she’s having fun.” Down at the other end of the table, Ginny is in her element, talking to Max more than anyone else.
His face softens. “I guess she’s had enough alcohol to subdue her argumentative side,” he laughs.
“I didn’t know there was enough alcohol to subdue her argumentative side,” I reply.
Domenico sends over several bottles of wine we didn’t order. I’m slightly less grateful than everyone else at the table, given that I’m guessing he’ll be asking me to pay in other ways later in his rooftop garden.
But the wine is enough to subdue everyone’s argumentative side, I guess. Even mine and James’s. As the meal progresses it’s just the two of us again, ignoring everything around us. It seems as if he is leaning closer to me as the night goes on. His thigh pressing more heavily against mine, his hand brushing my fingers … or perhaps I’ve just had enough wine that I can think of nothing anymore but his proximity.
We sing “Happy Birthday” and then Ginny opens her gifts. James has had enough to drink that he barely reacts when Ginny opens the 10-inch vibrator and anal beads from Max.
“Seriously dude?” he laughs. “In front of me?”
“Ginny is on the cusp of blooming, sexually,” Max argues. “It’s a cause for celebration, not shame.”
Domenico returns as we are paying the bill, a bill that is significantly less than it should be, and asks if I’m ready for my tour.
“Where are you going?” asks James suspiciously as I stand.
“He wants to show me their garden,” I reply.
His eyes narrow. “Good,” he says, rising. “I love gardens.”
Domenico’s grimace makes it clear that this was not what he had in mind. In the end all of us go up to the rooftop and he gives a reluctant tour.
“You seem young to own a restaurant,” I suggest.
He flashes that smile again. “Ah, you’ve caught me. It’s really my father’s. But he returns to Italy next year and then it’s mine.” He looks over at James. “He’s your boyfriend?” he asks in Italian. When we switch languages James comes to my side, his hand resting lightly at the small of my back.
“Yes,” I lie.
“He’s very possessive,” he smirks. “Perhaps he senses you’re ready to move on to a real man?”
I smile. “I don’t think that’s it.”
We head back down the stairs, but James stops me at the bottom as the others walk on ahead. He turns me toward him, and to my surprise, he’s angry.
“Are you going to keep flirting with him all night?” he hisses.
“I’m not flirting,” I retort.
“I know flirting when I see it, whether it’s in English or Italian.” All his earlier softness is gone, and his eyes are dangerous in the moonlight. It excites me and angers me in the same moment. “He’s way too old for you.”
I roll my eyes. “He’s only 30,” I say, turning to go. “And why would it possibly matter to you?”
His hand circles my forearm, pulling me back to him. Our eyes meet and I see that everything that was in his face just moments before has shifted, is replaced by something that isn’t angry or distant at all. Like a blurry photo made clear, the things I’ve seen in his face so often have sharpened.
And — oh my God — I think I was misreading him before.
There’s no time to process this. There is only the thrill of his hand threading through my hair, tilting my chin upward. The bright need in his eyes, the whisper of his exhale over my skin before his mouth brushes mine, setting nerve endings sparking like tiny shivers over my surface, while his lips, warm and soft and searching, open to me. His tongue teases, commanding me to take him in, and when I respond, brushing his tongue with the lightest flick of my own, his body coils tight. I feel the sound that he makes, low in his throat, a hum that makes my whole body feel overheated and ripe. He grabs my hips and pulls me against him and suddenly I am part of his moving pieces — the quick rise and fall of his chest, his arms caging me in.
“Elle,” he murmurs, the sound of it almost pained, with his breath against my ear, his lips pressing to the corner of my jaw, to the soft skin beneath, pulling a shaky inhale from me, a low whimper as his hands slide over my bare back and below my waist. His mouth finds mine again, the kiss harder this time, urgent, backing me to the wall. The old brick grates against my skin, pain that seems to heighten the pleasure of everything else I feel, his impatient mouth and the heat of his chest and his hands cupping my ass. I arch forward, pressing myself to the part of him that is hard and ready, and his answer is a groan that seems to vibrate through his chest.
A voice shatters the bubble we are in like an explosion. Ginny is approachin
g, calling our names, and we jump away from each other and stand there, gasping and shocked.
James looks at me in horror. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Fuck. That was a mistake. I shouldn’t have … ”
“Where’d you guys go?” asks Ginny. “We thought we’d lost you.”
James is staring at me as if I’ve used magic to swap myself in for the girl he thought he was with. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. And then he walks away without another word.
“Why is he being weird?” asks Ginny. “Were you guys arguing?”
“No,” I reply. I shake my head. “A little, I guess.”
My legs are unsteady as I follow Ginny back to the lobby of the restaurant, where everyone waits. Everyone, that is, except James. He’s already gone.
Chapter 20
Did that really happen?
It’s the first thing I think when I wake. With as much as I had to drink I remember all of it, the moment where he pulled me against him. His fingers running through my hair. The whisper of his breath and his soft mouth and the way he said my name, as if it had sat on his lips for a long time waiting to be set free. I remember it all in its exquisite, excruciating detail. Including the part where he looked at me in horror and apologized.
That’s the part that makes me feel like I’ve been stabbed.
I go downstairs with my stomach turning — how much of that is my hangover and how much is flat-out dread I’m not sure. Max, James and Dan are sitting at the kitchen table.
“Hurting a little bit this morning, Grayson?” Max laughs. James pulls the paper toward him and stares at it fixedly as I walk by.
I sigh. “Maybe a little.”
“Want me to get you a shot of something?”
My stomach bubbles unpleasantly at the mere suggestion. “I don’t ever want to see another glass of wine for the rest of my life,” I murmur, heading toward the coffee.
“I’d better get going,” says Dan, hastening from the room. Scurry, Daniel! Scurry! I’m not sure if it makes me want to laugh or cry that he’s so scared of me.
“Me too,” says James.
“I thought you said you didn’t have to be at work until 2:00?” asks Max.
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