“You know what?” I rasp, feeling tears on the way and knowing I need to make a fast exit. “Fuck you.”
I rise to go but he stops me.
“Elle,” he says. “It’s not that. Just wait, because you’re taking that all wrong.” He stops to gather his thoughts. “It’s not that I don’t want to. If my memory of last night is correct, it was pretty clear I wanted to. You’re just too young. That’s why it would be wrong. Not for any other reason.”
I swallow my tears, but my voice is still rough. “No one but you thinks that.”
“Look,” he says. “I can remember babysitting you. I can remember giving you piggyback rides. I remember you learning how to read. And now … you look like an adult and … ”
“I am an adult,” I tell him.
“You’re not,” he argues. “You look like an adult but it’s an illusion, because there’s just as big a difference between us as there was when you were younger. And it’s killing me because the adult you is … well, it’s you,” he says, gesturing at me. “You’re … perfect.”
“So when I’m 80 and you’re 86, is the age difference still too great?” I ask.
His jaw sets. “That’s different.”
“How?”
“You’ve only been out of your parents’ house for a year. You can’t even drink yet. There’s just a lot that happens soon and you haven’t lived any of it.”
“I disagree. I think this is just about you wanting to see Ginny as a child, and because of that you have to see me as a child. Because I guarantee you that I could walk inside right now and Max would agree that I was adult enough to do anything I offered to do.”
His face grows grim and his eyes darken. “Don’t even fucking think about it.”
“So did you mean the things you said?”
He closes his eyes. “I don’t remember what I said. And I don’t want to know what I said. But yeah, most likely, it was all true.” He looks over at me. “So are you going to tell me what happened?”
“You tell me,” I say. “What do you remember?”
He sits again. “I don’t want to tell you because I’m not sure what was a dream and what wasn’t.”
“Why would you assume any of it was a dream?”
“Because … ” he flinches. “Because it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had fairly vivid dreams about you.”
A muscle in my belly flips over. “Really?” I smile.
“That hardly makes me unique,” he sighs. “I’m sure every guy in this house has had vivid dreams about you.”
“Tell me what you remember,” I offer, “and I’ll tell you if it’s correct.”
“I kissed you,” he begins. He looks over at me and I nod. “And I remember you telling me to go to bed. And then we were in my room and there was more, but it’s all vague. That’s the part I’m less sure about.” He looks to me beseechingly, but I stay silent. “So we didn’t sleep together?”
“No,” I reply.
“Did you, uh … ” he looks at me again, and I wait. “Did you give me … ” He trails off, unable to even ask.
“No,” I sigh. “Nothing happened. I stopped it because when it happens, I want it to be something you actually remember the next day.”
He shakes his head. “It’s not ever going to happen.”
I laugh, and the sound is slightly evil, like Max hatching a plan. “If you say so.”
Chapter 30
James naturally reenters his avoidance phase, and doesn’t even speak to me until two days later when another massive bouquet arrives.
“What the fuck?” he snarls. “It has to be Edward again.”
“He must be in luuuuuuv,” drawls Ginny. “Or lust.”
James ignores her. “I thought you were going to tell him to cut it out?” His voice is sharp with anger.
I feel immediate irritation at the implied accusation.
“I did,” I snap. “I’ve told him several times, in fact.”
“Several times? You mean you’re having multiple conversations with this guy?”
“He’s the one who keeps calling. And the only reason I ever called him back was because he said he had a job for me.” I open the card. It says ‘I hope you’ll change your mind’, followed by some sonnet I think is Shakespeare. If Max were here, he’d undoubtedly know.
James rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I bet he had a job for you alright.”
“Be an asshole about it all you want,” I say. “And you’re right. It was a total ruse to get me to come see him. But unlike you, I know what I want, and I don’t turn down potential opportunities the second they make me uncomfortable.”
I can tell by the look on his face that he knows exactly what I’m referring to.
He’s about to respond just as Max walks out of his room, yawning. “Can you two keep your lovers’ quarrels restricted to the outside of the house?” he asks, and then he notices the flowers. “Wow. I know you give an amazing blowjob, Elle, but that’s … ”
There’s a sickening thud as his body hits the wall. James has him pinned by his throat, and it all takes place so quickly that I stand speechless, my brain racing to make sense of what has just happened.
“And how,” says James, his voice lethal, his grip crushing, “would you know that?”
Max throws his hands up. “Jesus. Settle down. I know because Ryan told me.”
Ginny seems relieved, oddly enough, but James still stands there, unappeased, holding Max to the wall as if he’s been frozen in that position.
“Let him go, James,” I whisper. “He didn’t do anything wrong.” James doesn’t budge. “Let him go,” I say more insistently.
When he finally releases Max, I turn and walk out, my face so warm that I can almost feel it pulsing. I hate this. I hate all of it. I can’t believe Ryan told Max that, of all things. I can’t believe Edward is still calling, is still sending flowers, as if we had some kind of torrid affair. Given how limited my experience is, this summer is beginning to feel like one long after-school special about the dangers of being a slut. If it weren’t for James’s continual presence, I’d be considering celibacy at this point.
**
Ginny asks the next night if I want to go down to Dewey after our shift. There’s an odd tension between us that is never entirely absent, though we act as if it is, so I agree. But I don’t really want to go, and I doubt she does either.
The whole endeavor is tinged with desperation, with our mutual fear that the friendship we’ve both counted on for our entire lives may be done whether we want it to be or not. It’s a conclusion that seems unavoidable as the night wears on. As her mysterious irritation with me grows. She’s spent the entire night pointing out cute guys I should approach, chatting up guys on my behalf even after I’ve made my whole-hearted lack of interest clear.
“I’m trying to help you out,” she complains, as I slide away from the most recent guy she’s dragged over.
“I don’t want any help,” I tell her. “I’m just not into it.”
“What’s your deal?” she asks. “I’m beginning to think you’re dating someone you just aren’t telling me about.” There’s something unhappy — bitter, even — in her eyes.
“Why would I do that?” I ask. “And how? When am I ever not at work or the house?”
“If it was someone in the house you could get away with it,” she says. It sounds like an accusation.
Does she know? Could she have seen me and James on her birthday? Overheard our talk on the deck?
“Ginny, I’m not dating anyone,” I say firmly. “In the house or outside of it.”
“I’ve seen you out with Max,” she says quietly. “You’re with him all the time.”
“Yeah, because you’re always at work and your brother wants nothing to do with me,” I explode. What the hell? First she’s accusing me of making a play for James, and now Max? I can’t think of anything in my past or present behavior that would lead her to this conclusion. “I’ve got my hands full with
Edward as it is.”
Edward has called me three times this week alone. Each message promises that he has a job lead, but there’s something increasingly unhinged in his voice, in his words, that I find unsettling. “Elle,” he said in the last one, “this is really important. You need to call me right away. I’m not going to let you do this to us.”
The whole thing is bizarre — as bizarre as James’s assertion that I’m too young but at the opposite end of the spectrum. Edward is a grown man with a beautiful wife and a family and all kinds of power, and I’m sure if he wanted to cheat he could find tons of willing young girls to take him up on it. So why me? I know I’m not ugly, but pretty girls are hardly a scarce commodity in NYC. And why is he acting like some love-sick teenager when he’s pushing 50?
Ginny and I get home just as James is getting out of his car, and she’s still carping. “I don’t know why you wouldn’t give that guy your number,” she chides.
“Because I wasn’t into him. Isn’t that reason enough?” I ask.
“How could you not have been into him?” she says. “He was crazy hot.”
This is something I’d really rather not discuss in front of James.
“I just wasn’t,” I sigh. “He made me uncomfortable.”
“Ginny,” says James, his voice a low rumble. “Leave her alone.”
She rolls her eyes at him. “This total hottie was obsessed with her. He looked like Captain America. Admit that much, Elle: he looked like Captain America.”
I shrug. He did actually look like Captain America, so I can’t really argue.
“Anyway, Captain America is following her all over the bar and trying to buy her drinks and he’s a total gentleman. Okay, you’ve got to admit that too, Elle. He was a perfect gentleman. Like you could bring him home and your parents would get a total hard-on for you to wind up with him.”
“That’s a really awkward turn of phrase when you’re discussing my parents,” I sigh.
“Just admit it!” she shouts. I realize, slightly too late, that she’s had significantly more to drink than would be considered advisable for her size and weight.
“Sure, aside from the fact that he was following me and he wouldn’t fucking leave me alone, he was a perfect gentleman,” I reply.
“It’s obvious you’re already seeing someone,” she says in disgust. “I don’t know why you won’t just admit it.”
I feel heat creeping above my neck, stealing into my face. I stare at the ground so that I don’t accidentally – God forbid – make eye contact with James during this rant. “I’m not seeing anyone,” I mumble.
“This is ridiculous!” she hisses, glaring at me. “You know what I hate? Liars.”
“You know what I hate?” I retort, grabbing my purse and heading toward the stairs. “False accusations. And I’m getting pretty sick of yours.”
Chapter 31
On Saturday night Brooks is having a party. I’m closing, so I change in the bathroom at the bar and head over. James is already there when we arrive, and he already has company — Ashleigh. Sitting there with a smug smile on her face, tracing a pattern on his thigh with the nail of her index finger.
The hatred I feel for both of them is an ugly thing. I hate him for choosing her. I hate her for finally getting her way. The sight of them together makes me feel broken inside, unable to keep all my pieces together in any reasonable way. James and I haven’t held a real conversation since the morning after we hooked up, but for some reason I still believed he would come around. And now I’m faced with proof he won’t. Kristy takes one look at my wounded face and puts a beer in one hand and a Jell-O shot in the other.
“Don’t let her bother you,” she says. “Let’s go talk to Brooks’s friends. They’re all hot. Give James a taste of his own medicine.”
With cold-blooded practicality, I choose the best-looking one, the one who, as it turns out, is only a year younger than James. Within minutes he’s getting me drinks, asking about school, and after a few of those drinks, I’m perched on his lap. His name is Justin, he’s in med school, and if the fact that he’s already trying to figure out how many hours apart we’ll be once school begins is any indication, he really, really likes me.
“You know who you look like?” he asks.
I groan a little inside. “That model from the 80s?” I ask.
“No,” he says, looking at me blankly. “The girl from that zombie movie. The one where’s she’s not a zombie and she helps this zombie boy turn human again.” I may have found the only guy alive who hasn’t jerked off to a picture of my mom.
I drape an arm over his shoulder. “You’re my favorite person right now.”
I don’t even know if James is still here. I refuse to look and try not to think about it, though the truth is that no matter what I do, there’s a persistent knot in my stomach that never leaves.
We do more shots, and then I’m back in Justin’s lap. “I really liked that zombie movie,” he says, putting his mouth against my neck.
“I think you’re confusing zombies with vampires,” I laugh.
“I think as long as you’re letting me kiss you I’m okay with that,” he answers.
James’s appearance in front of us doesn’t surprise me in the least. I’m only surprised it’s taken him this long, and it was probably the reason I targeted this guy in the first place. I’m like a child who prefers negative attention to none at all.
“I think you’ve had enough,” he says, pulling the plastic cup from my hand. I suspect that he’s had enough too.
“Thanks, Dad,” I reply. “But I think I’ve got it under control.” I yank the cup back from him and proceed to slosh it all over the front of my shirt. His eyes travel over me before I’ve even had a chance to assess the damage myself.
“Inside. Now,” he demands.
Justin holds me more tightly around the waist. “Is he, like, your brother or something?”
“No,” I say. “Not even close.”
He looks up at James. “I don’t know what your problem is, man, but she seems pretty happy right where she is.”
James grabs my hand and yanks me up. I could resist, and a part of me knows I should, but the bigger part of me doesn’t want to.
He marches me into someone’s room, and closes the door.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he hisses.
“I’m having fun,” I counter. “And since when do you care? I thought I was ‘too young’ for you.”
“You are too young for me,” he says, nostrils flaring. “I’m staying away from you for your benefit. Not mine.”
I narrow my eyes. “Well, guess what? I’m not ‘too young’ for my new friend out there, even though he’s your age. And his lap was pretty freaking comfortable, so I’m going back to it.”
Before I can even inhale he’s backed me to the door, his body pressed against mine, his hands pinning me at the hips. His mouth comes down on mine hard, equal parts anger and desire, his hands digging into my skin, and I am only my response, a whimper in my throat as I open to him, the hard assault of his lips, of his tongue. There’s nothing gentle about it. It’s an angry, desperate kiss and my response is a desire I feel everywhere, emanating out from my center to the tips of my toes.
His mouth moves to my neck, and I gasp, leaning into him. His body coils in response, our hips locked together so that I can feel the hard weight of him against me. His hands are inside my shirt, unclasping my bra, pulling it low. He groans as he cups my breasts, the tip of his index finger brushing against me, eliciting a small, shuddering cry.
Things are happening too quickly and yet not quickly enough. We are not like a new couple, tentative and unsure. It’s as if we’ve been like this many times before, so far beyond the point of uncertainty that there is only action without thought. I’m thinking of nothing but the need for more, for the things that come next. He pushes my skirt up around my waist and I tug the top button of his shorts open with a single hand, my fingers sliding beneath th
e waistband of his boxers.
And then someone tries to open the door behind me, the knob gouging my spine and sending me flying forward. James somehow manages to catch me and slam the door shut at the same time, but the moment it latches he jumps away from me with a look of horror on his face that makes me want to cry and throttle him simultaneously.
“Goddammit,” he hisses. He digs his hands through his hair. “I can’t believe this is happening again.”
“You’re being ridiculous,” I whisper.
“Don’t,” he says harshly. “Stop. You’ve got to stop doing this.”
“Doing what?” I ask.
“Torturing me,” he says. “Jesus Christ I wish you hadn’t come down here this summer.”
His words take everything I feel for him and twist it tight in my chest, make it so raw that I want to clutch at it, this phantom pain that hurts more than any injury he could have inflicted.
He looks up and sees my face, the wound he’s created as plain as day. And then he buttons his shorts, throws the door open and walks out of the room.
Chapter 32
I don’t have the heart to go back to Justin after James leaves. And I don’t have the heart to return to my house, to the place James no longer wants me. Instead I find Kristy and crash on her bedroom floor. As tired as I am and as much as I’ve had to drink, I don’t collapse into unconsciousness right away. There’s an ache in my chest that prevents sleep, that seems to spread without ever diffusing. I lay my hands over it as if it’s a strained muscle I can massage.
Nothing helps. I’m guessing it’s going to stay put until the day comes that I’ve forgotten about James. And how long will that take? I haven’t been able to forget about him for the past 16 years.
I wake feeling bruised and raw. My lips still kiss-swollen, my face abraded. I can’t even relish the memory of how it got that way because I’m too busy remembering the look on his face when he left last night: whatever else he might feel for me, the part of him that was angry and disgusted far outweighed the rest.
It seems entirely possible that he’ll ask me to leave, and maybe I shouldn’t even wait for him to ask. I want to go back to sleep: for hours, for days. Anything to avoid what’s ahead.
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