Bloom

by Elizabeth O'Roark

  Chapter 27

  Edward calls me three times over the next two days. I ignore them until he texts that he has a job for me. He’s found my one weakness. Well, I think, looking over at James — he’s found one of my weaknesses.

  I no longer trust that there is anywhere in this house that I won’t be overheard, so I walk toward the boardwalk before I dial his number. “I’m glad you’re finally calling, Eleanor,” he says. His voice is soothing. He doesn’t sound angry or offended, which is a relief. “I didn’t mean to upset you with the flowers, or with what I wrote.”

  He’s so apologetic I feel a little guilty. “You didn’t upset me,” I say. “I just … ”

  “I know,” he says. “It’s okay. You and I are in very different places in our lives. I get it.”

  Relief whistles through my lungs. “You said you might have a job?”

  “Yes,” he says. “How do you feel about morning television?”

  It’s as good as — maybe even better than — working his show. “That would be amazing,” I breathe.

  “Yes, it’s definitely a good starting point,” he agrees. “This producer is an old friend of mine, and I think she can find something for you. Come up to the Hamptons this weekend and I’ll introduce you.”

  All that relief and excitement whistles right back out of me like a deflating balloon. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Edward,” I say.

  “The press has moved on, Eleanor,” he sighs. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “But I told you I don’t want anything, um,” I search for a word to describe what he wants and settle for a euphemism. “Romantic.”

  “I know,” he says, beginning to sound irritated. “But if I’m going to lobby to get you this we need to make it happen in the right way.”

  “Can’t we do that over the phone? Or in the city?”

  “You don’t sound like you really want this,” he says, a threatening edge to his voice.

  “Of course I do,” I argue, and then I resort to a lie. “But I think my boyfriend would be really bothered by that.”

  “What boyfriend?” he asks with sudden irritation. “That singer? I thought you broke up.” I’ve never told him anything about Ryan. How does he know? Come to think of it, how did he even know my address to send the flowers? I’ve gone from feeling awkward and unsettled to totally creeped out.

  “Edward,” I say firmly. “I can’t come up there.”

  “You’re making a bad decision,” he warns. Except it feels like more than a warning. It feels like a threat. That’s when I hang up.

  I walk back toward the house slowly, wishing I had one person I could tell about this call. Ginny was that person once and she’s not anymore. And the person I want most to tell, oddly enough, is the one who’d go ballistic: James.

  He looks at me curiously when I get inside, as if he knows I’m hiding something. He hasn’t shaved today. It’s so good on him that my eyes catch on it, on him, as if I’d actually run my palm over his jaw.

  I look at him and I’m glad Edward didn’t get me a job. I’m glad I’m stuck here to pine for him fruitlessly. And this is perhaps the greatest evidence of all that I really need to leave.

  Chapter 28

  My mother is so happy when she calls me that I don’t have the heart to answer her honestly when she asks how I am. I tell her things are great, managing not to mention that James rejected me and that my best friend inexplicably acts like I’ve stabbed her in the back. That I suck at my crappy new job, and that Edward Ferris is leaving me such creepy messages that I can no longer bring myself to listen to them.

  She’d probably barely hear me anyway. Today, for instance, she’s too busy talking about how “rad” Tommy’s new album is (I somehow manage not to mention that no one has used that word since the last time he was famous.) I passively watch Max and James through the glass door as they get ready to golf, part of some grand scheme Max has concocted to pull James out of his funk. Why he’s even in a funk is beyond me. If I’d been to the one to ditch a shrew like Allison I’d be levitating with joy.

  “So I have something to tell you,” she says. “I wanted you to hear it from me and not the papers.”

  Yes, that would be a novel way to learn bad news, Mom.

  “Tommy and I are engaged.”

  I feel curiously removed, unsurprised, as if I’ve been waiting for this moment. It’s always been as if I’m the parent and she’s the headstrong teenager, making one bad, impulsive decision after the next. I guess I should just be relieved it’s not cocaine addiction or pregnancy. James shoots me a questioning glance on his way to the shed.

  “You’ve only dated him for two months, Mom,” I argue.

  “When you know, you just know,” she sighs happily.

  “You mean the way you just knew with Dad?”

  “I was young when I met your father,” she insists. “I didn’t know who I was then.”

  “It took you nine months to choose what color BMW you wanted, but you can pick a husband in two?”

  “I thought you’d be happy for me,” she says. “Or are you only happy when there’s a wedding in Grand Cayman you get to attend?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Oh,” she says uncomfortably. “Nothing.”

  “No, it’s not nothing, Mom,” I reply. “Who’s getting married in Grand Cayman?”

  But I already know. I ask because I want her to tell me I’m wrong, something she does not do.

  I sit there holding the phone in front of me when our call ends. There’s a sharp pain in my chest. I wish I could cry to blunt its edge, but nothing comes. What the hell is happening to my life? It’s as if the world has spun too hard, hard enough that I’ve been cut loose from every single thing I was tethered to. Some of those cords were thinner than others. Ryan, I’d known less than a year. But Ginny? My parents? I’ve known them the longest. And it seems as they’ve all decided, simultaneously, to set me free.

  James climbs back up the steps with his golf bag.

  “Everything okay?” he asks.

  “Yep,” I nod, but the word is vacant, a shell for all the things I really feel.

  He pulls a chair up beside me and slides the phone out of my hand. “No it’s not. What did your mom say?”

  “You should go,” I reply. “You’re going to miss your tee time.”

  He reaches his arm out and his hand circles my arm. The pad of his thumb, just the tiniest bit rough, runs over the smooth skin of my wrist. “What did she say?”

  “She’s getting married.”

  “Wow,” he blinks. “That’s … fast.”

  “My dad’s getting married too, apparently,” I say flatly. The words don’t seem real. “He didn’t invite me to the wedding.”

  He looks at me blankly. “Jesus, Elle. I don’t even know what to say.”

  “Yeah,” I sigh. “Me neither.”

  “Let’s go do something today,” he suggests. “We could take the ferry to Cape May if you want. Have you ever been?”

  “That’s sweet of you, James,” I say, with a smile that is small but real. “But you’ve already got plans.”

  “Max will understand.”

  I shake my head. “I’m fine. I’m working a double today anyhow.”

  Max pokes his head out. “Dude. Let’s roll.”

  James stands reluctantly. “You sure?”

  I smile. “I’m fine.”

  “Things aren’t always what they appear,” he says quietly. “Don’t start making interpretations about all this yet. Your parents love you. They just happen to be in a shitty place right now.”

  What about you, though, James? I ask silently. Because you’re the one that hurts the most.

  **

  I generally hate working doubles, but today it’s a blessing, preventing me from dwelling on my mother’s impulsivity or the fact that my father seems to feel I’m a mistake he’s moving on from.

  The house is dark when I get home. I a
ssume that Max and James went out, which makes my stomach churn. The distress I felt this morning about my parents can’t begin to compare to what I will feel if James starts acting like Max: bringing girls home or just not coming home at all. I go to the kitchen, trying hard to talk myself off the ledge, just as the front door opens.

  A moment later James stumbles in, his eyes unfocused. The relief I feel provokes a bizarre desire to burst into tears. I didn’t cry about my dad’s failure to invite me to his wedding, but this — James home alone — would be enough to make me weep for hours if I allowed it.

  “Hi,” he says, bleary-eyed but still nervous. He’s as drunk as I’ve ever seen him, yet still remembers to be wary of me.

  “You’re shit-faced,” I say, walking to the refrigerator.

  ”That’s possible,” he agrees.

  “Where’s Max?”

  “I left him,” says James, running a hand over his face. “I was worried about you. You were so sad earlier.”

  I’m touched by this and I don’t want to be. “That’s sweet, James, but I’m fine.”

  He walks forward and bangs his shoulder, then leans against the offending wall and stares at the ground.

  “You need to go to bed,” I sigh. I set my water on the counter and go to him, wrapping an arm around his waist and attempting to pull him. A nearly impossible feat when he outweighs me by at least 80 pounds.

  “Don’t,” he warns. He tries to shrug me off but staggers sideways instead, pulling me with him.

  “Stand up straight. You’ve got to help me here. I can’t do this by myself.”

  “I don’t want you to help me,” he argues.

  “You’re being ridiculous,” I say. “Come on.”

  “Elle,” he grumbles. “I’m trying so hard … just don’t.”

  “Trying so hard to do what?” I huff in exasperation, as I continue to tug him toward his room. “Because you’re sure not trying to walk.”

  He leans sideways against the wall and closes his eyes. “You,” he says. “Trying to stay away from you.”

  My heart is pounding thick and sluggish in my ears, and suddenly I am no more capable of propelling him forward than he is. “Why?”

  He pulls me into him, his hands at my hips, resting his forehead against mine. “I can’t even think when you’re in the same room,” he sighs. “I want you so much I can’t even think.”

  That airborne feeling I had when Max suggested James might like me? It’s nothing compared to this. This is a wave slamming into me so hard and so fast I don’t even have time to brace myself.

  “You said you didn’t like me in that way,” I breathe.

  He closes his eyes. “I lied,” he says quietly. “I don’t want to think about you that way because you’re too fucking young. But I do.”

  His hands move to my face, long fingers resting against my jaw and cheekbones, holding me steady while his head lowers.

  I should stop him. He has no idea what he’s doing. I should stop him.

  He leans in and finds my mouth, softly at first. A sweet, unhurried kiss, his tongue opening my lips, his hands sliding back into my hair.

  “God I love your mouth,” he groans. He sucks at my lower lip, wrenching a gasp from my throat that surprises even me.

  I really should stop him. I know I should.

  And then his tongue finds mine once more, slow and insidious, making the whole world fall away aside from the pressure of him against me and the dark, consuming thing inside me.

  This changes everything, I think to myself. You can’t convince someone to like you, but to ignore a few misguided convictions? That’s a battle I can fight.

  His hands leave my hair, roll down my back until they rest at my hips once more and then he pulls me against him, where I can tell with absolute certainty that one part of his anatomy is ready to see this through to the end.

  But he doesn’t know what he’s doing. And this isn’t the choice he would make sober. I pull away.

  “Come on, James. You’re drunk.” I tug him again and this time he follows me to his room.

  I pull the covers down, but as he falls backward he pulls me with him, and we are in the air, and we are landing, me on top, unable to remember why I really shouldn’t be here. My breath stutters to a halt as his fingers run along my jawbone, his eyes fixed on mine, half-question and half-plea.

  It’s another moment of weakness on my part, a split second of hesitation that gives him the opening he needs.

  He threads his hands through my hair. “You’re so beautiful, Elle,” he whispers. “You’re so fucking beautiful it hurts to be around you.” He pulls my head toward his. His mouth is firm and pliant at once, his hands cradling my head above him. I will pull away in a minute, I swear to myself, but God this is a good kiss. I never want it to end.

  He flips me so that I am under him, so that he is pressed between my legs, and the moment I feel him there I begin to forget about stopping. “I want to do so many things to you I don’t even know where to start,” he says hoarsely.

  He finds my mouth again, catching my breathy whimpers as he continues to press against me. The kiss is different than before. There’s something dark and desperate about it, something that seems to wipe away thought. I respond, allow myself to fall into the heat of it, to arch into his roaming hands and to thrill at the pained noise he makes as I do so. His hand slides over the outside of my t-shirt, cups my breast. He uses his thumb against it and even through all the layers of fabric manages to draw my nipple into a hard point that he captures between his teeth. I breathe his name out on a gasp, and the hem of my shirt begins to rise. I hear my own shaky inhale as his fingers brush my skin, his teeth still moving against me while his hand climbs past my rib cage. Once we’re undressed there will be no stopping this. There is no natural end point but one, and he will hate me tomorrow if I let that happen.

  “James, stop,” I whisper, arching against him even as I say it. I’ve never wanted anything to continue so badly in my life.

  He stills, but remains above me, coiled with tension.

  “Not like this,” I whisper. “Not when you’re drunk.”

  He looks surprised for only a moment before his face falls in horror. “Oh, fuck,” he hisses, rolling off me like I’m on fire.

  “James, it’s okay,” I whisper. He’s face down beside me.

  “No, it’s not okay,” he says. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry,” I plead. “I want this. I just don’t want you to be drunk when it happens.”

  “It can’t happen,” he says. “It will never happen. You’ve got to leave.”

  “Because of my age?” I scoff. “Is that seriously what this is about?”

  “Yes,” he says. “I’ve fucked up so many things. But this tops all of them.”

  “That’s ridiculous. We’re only six years apart.”

  He groans. “God you’re not helping.” He turns toward me, brushing my hair behind my ear, his hand sliding back around my neck, with that same pained look on his face I’ve seen so often, but never this close. “You’ve got to go,” he says. “Before I do anything else.”

  “James, you didn’t do anything wrong,” I insist.

  His eyes flicker to my mouth and his hand tightens in my hair. For a second I feel certain that he’s going to kiss me, but instead he releases me entirely.

  “Please,” he says. When I don’t move his eyes narrow, and his tone grows dangerous. “Now, Elle.”

  My pulse drums quickly, a breathless moment where I consider defying him, where I consider bridging the distance, forcing him to see me as an adult no matter how badly he doesn’t want to. My desire and his thicken the air between us.

  Pushing away and leaving him is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I should be proud of myself, but really I feel nothing but regret.

  Chapter 29

  I wake the next morning torn between ebullience and shame. The things he said would mean something if they were reall
y true. But were they?

  I’m clinging to an event he probably won’t even remember. One I shouldn’t have allowed to happen at all.

  Max and I are sitting at the kitchen table when James emerges from his room, walking out in nothing but a pair of workout shorts. Despite my guilt, I look at him shirtless and feel like I got cheated. He at least could have had the shirt off. He glances at me and averts his eyes, which tells me everything I need to know. He remembers, and he’s pissed.

  Max laughs. “You look pretty rough, dude.”

  “No shit,” he says, walking toward the coffee. “How many shots did we do?”

  “I lost count at 15,” says Max. “What happened to you anyway? I look away for one minute and you’re gone.”

  “That band sucked,” James grumbles, turning away to pour his coffee.

  “You were in a weird mood all night,” replies Max.

  James ignores him. He comes to the table and stops beside me. “Can I talk to you?” he asks, his voice low and unhappy.

  “Sure,” I murmur. Max raises a brow to me with a look that says ‘you are in so much trouble’. Like I didn’t already know.

  I follow James to the deck and he sits, placing his head in his hands. I’d expected anger, not shame, and it leaves me uncertain how to proceed.

  “Last night,” he says, raising his head just enough to look at me sideways. “Did we … ?”

  “Did we … ?” I ask. I want to know what he remembers. I’m not going to give all the info up this easily.

  “Did we sleep together?” he asks hoarsely, sounding horrified by the prospect. He could be asking if we’d really dismembered a body in the woods last night and his voice wouldn’t hold more dread.

  “No,” I say tersely. “And you don’t need to make it sound like that would be the worst thing you’ve ever done.”

  “It would be,” he snaps. “It would hands-down be the worst thing I’ve ever done.”

  I know he doesn’t mean that to be as insulting as it sounds, and yet I can’t seem to stop my reaction. I’m not sure if I want to hit him or cry. Maybe both.