Bloom

by Elizabeth O'Roark

  I slide away from him.

  “What’s the matter?” he asks.

  “Nothing,” I reply, going to the bathroom and locking the door behind me. I splash water over my face and force myself to at least look blank rather than hurt, but when I come out, he’s the one who looks disturbed.

  “You missed a call,” he says, handing me my phone. “Why is Edward Ferris still calling you?”

  “I don’t know,” I admit. “I stopped listening to the voicemails. He was … a little unhinged the last time we spoke.”

  “And when was that?”

  “Why are you acting like I’ve done something wrong?”

  “I’m not. I just want to know when you spoke to him.”

  I shrug. “A few weeks ago. I told you about it. The time he told me he had a job and wanted me to come to the Hamptons. That was the last time.”

  “Did you save the voicemails?” he asks.

  “I have the last several, just because I haven’t deleted them,” I say. “Honestly just seeing his name on my phone makes me feel sick. I guess you’re going to tell me it’s immature to avoid it.”

  “No,” he says, pulling me to sit beside him. “But it pisses me off that he’s doing this to you. And I think you should be monitoring what he’s saying.”

  “You can listen if you want,” I tell him. “But delete them when you’re done. I don’t want to hear them. And I don’t want to know.”

  He nods and gets dressed, carrying my phone outside. If it’s a fling, why is he this bothered by Edward? I go into the kitchen, watching him on the deck as he listens. It was stupid of me to think he’d want more than a fling. Why would he? He was stuck with Allison all year and now he’s getting ready to finish school and get a real job. Why on earth would he want to saddle himself with some long-distance girlfriend who’s only 19?

  Maybe he’s dying to get back to school, to shrug off his clingy housemate and start fresh. And suddenly I’m not sure I can endure the next few weeks knowing that’s the case. I steel myself to ask him point blank, but waver when he walks back inside. His body is rigid, his hand holding the phone in such a tight grip I’m surprised it doesn’t snap.

  “You need to call the police, Elle,” he says, his voice oddly quiet.

  “The police?” I gasp. “That can’t be nec … ”

  “It is,” he cuts me off. “It is necessary. I don’t even want you to listen to what he says on those voicemails. They’re filthy. And obsessive. He’s out of his fucking mind. He even suggested coming down here.”

  “I never did anything with him,” I tell him warily, wondering if those messages imply otherwise. “I don’t know what he said but he’s never laid a finger on me.”

  “I know. It was obvious by the way he described things. But the shit he said … ” James flinches. “Just let the police handle it.”

  “It’ll be all over the news if I go to the police,” I tell him.

  The anger in his eyes is now directed at me. “It’s time for you to step up, Elle. You need a restraining order, at least. Listen to the messages.”

  I make no move to take the phone back from him, so he puts it on speaker. Edwards voice flows out. “Eleanor,” he says. “You ungrateful bitch. I can’t believe you’re treating me like this after everything I’ve tried to do for you. You’d better call me or I’m going to make you sorry you ever heard my name.”

  I’m already sorry I ever heard his name.

  “You’re going to think I’m naive,” I say. “But I don’t think he was physically threatening me. He probably just meant career-wise.”

  “You didn’t hear the rest of the messages,” he says. “He’s saying some really messed up stuff, Elle. I don’t know whether he’d hurt you or not, but I’m not going to risk finding out. You need to make sure he can’t come down here.”

  **

  An hour later I’m facing a weary police officer who clearly would rather be doing anything but conducting this interview with me. He keeps casting longing glances at the copy of Sports Illustrated on the corner of his desk.

  James does most of the talking, which is for the best since I’m unable to draw up a lot of outrage over the whole thing.

  “This is a clear stalking violation,” James says. “And since he’s suggested an intent to come find her here, her most immediate need is a restraining order, one that’s enforceable in New York since she’ll be back at the end of August.”

  “So,” the police officer says, “Are you her lawyer? Her boyfriend?”

  My breath stills while I wait for him to answer. It’s pathetic, as usual, that with everything going on what I care about most is how he chooses to qualify our relationship.

  “Friend,” he says, and the breath wooshes out of me. Wrong answer, asshole.

  “Okay,” the officer says doubtfully. “Well, we’d need to hear these messages in order to determine if there’s something to pursue.”

  “That’s fine,” I agree, handing him my phone.

  “Before we proceed,” he says, turning to me, “I need to know the nature of your relationship with Mr. Ferris.”

  “He was my boss,” I say. “I interned for him at the start of the summer.”

  “And was your relationship ever romantic in nature?” he asks.

  “No,” I reply. “Never.”

  The officer looks dubious. He casts a glance at James. “It strikes me that perhaps this is something we should be discussing in private.”

  “There’s nothing I would say to you that I wouldn’t say in front of James, if that’s what you’re implying. I have never been with Edward Ferris in any way.”

  He shrugs. I get the feeling he still doesn’t believe me, probably because he reads the tabloids like everyone else. He takes the phone and leaves to have the messages transcribed.

  James reaches out and squeezes my hand. “You okay?”

  I nod, slipping out of his grasp. I’m going to be cool about this. He wants to think of me as his friend, that’s his right.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, friend,” I say. So much for being cool.

  “Elle,” he says. “I just … didn’t know what to say.”

  “It’s fine, James,” I say icily.

  “You know you’re more than that,” he exhales.

  I want to be someone other than who I am in this moment. Someone calm and mature. But instead bitterness spews from my mouth like I’m possessed. “Yeah? A friend you fuck? Oh wait, we don’t do that. I guess we really are just friends.”

  “Stop,” he says. “If you want to talk about this we can, but don’t sit here where I can’t really discuss it and accuse me of shit. You have no idea how I feel.”

  My shoulders sag. “Okay.”

  “Give me your hand,” he says, holding his between our chairs. Reluctantly I meet his but mine lays limp in his grasp.

  The officer comes back out, taking a quick look at our joined hands and smirking a little. “I’m turning the transcripts over to counsel,” he says. “They’ll make the final call, but I’ve got no doubt there’s enough there for a restraining order. Probably an investigation too.”

  I nod, but my stomach falls. The truth is that I was hoping he’d say there was nothing to worry about. I’ve been in the spotlight enough this summer to last me the rest of my life. And I know better than either of them that if this gets out, it won’t just be Edward’s life that gets worse.

  **

  He drives us home, my stomach twisting as I think about what lies ahead. I’m going to be in the papers again. Everything about me will be dissected. They will find every photo known to man and portray me as some kind of wild nymphomaniac, never mentioning that the bathing suit shot is from a family trip or that I’m posing in pajamas next a roommate cut out of the photo.

  And James. That’s the part that actually hurts, as opposed to making me sick with worry, although it does that too. After all these weeks he’s still referring to me as his friend? How stupid do I
need to be to not read the writing there? We have a little more than three weeks left of summer, and then he’s going back to school, and probably to Allison, and that’ll be it. And he won’t owe me a thing, because he never took anything, or promised it.

  He pulls into the driveway and I begin to open the door but he stops me with a hand on my arm. “Elle,” he says. “Wait.”

  “We have to get ready for work.”

  “I know. I just want you to know that … back there … wasn’t what it seemed,” he says haltingly. “I know you’re upset. I just didn’t know what to say.”

  Does he really think that explanation helps his case? “Yeah, it’s pretty clear that you didn’t know what to say,” I reply, my voice slightly hoarse with the need to cry, which I won’t do in front of him. “And it seems pretty clear to me that by now, you probably should.”

  I get out of the car and go inside alone. He doesn’t even try to argue with me.

  We don’t say another word to each other. I bike to work rather than wait for him. I know I’m being childish even as I do it, but I can’t listen to his excuses and his rationalizations, the endless stream of words he will use to avoid saying what I already know: he just doesn’t care enough. He glares at me when he walks in, and I ignore him. I spend the rest of the night acting like he’s invisible, which is for the best because I think I’d probably burst into tears if I allowed myself to act like he wasn’t.

  “What’s up with you two?” asks Kristy.

  “We’re having a little disagreement.”

  “About what?”

  “James … ” I begin, and then shake my head, suddenly choked up. “Just doesn’t see things with us the way I do.”

  She frowns. “I don’t know what he said, Elle, but it’s been obvious since your first day here that he’s crazy about you.”

  “If that were true he wouldn’t be so hell-bent on making sure nothing happens between us. I can’t believe … ” I’m unable to continue, and she lets it go.

  This is what I would have said:

  I can’t believe I didn’t see it sooner.

  Chapter 42

  The cop we met earlier in the day leaves a message during my shift. He says that he spoke with counsel, and they won’t have an answer on the restraining order for a few days. Since James and I aren’t speaking, I have no one to tell.

  I go to my room after work, and I stay there. There’s something piercing my chest as I lay in bed, waiting for a text from him that never comes. I avoid him in the morning, seeing him for the first time only as I head to the beach with Ginny, whose temp job has finally ended. He glances up from the table, his jaw set hard, his eyes still angry.

  I glare right back. Fuck you, James. You’re the one who wants it to be a secret. You’re the one who’s ashamed. You don’t get to be angry on top of that.

  **

  I don’t ride with James to Ryan’s show, but he’s there. Probably so he can break my legs if he sees me going somewhere with Ryan. And that pisses me off. If he doesn’t care about me enough to really be with me, what right does he have to stand in the way of someone else?

  Ryan’s band already has a huge following, and the bar is packed an hour before the show’s even begun. I may have my own opinions about him as a boyfriend, but as a musician he’s unbelievable. He certainly deserves a recording contract way more than some loser like my mother’s fiance.

  As soon as the lights dim and they come on stage, I remember why I fell for Ryan. He is effortlessly masculine, and he barely seems to register all the screaming fangirls at the front of the stage. Everything about him is sexy. He offers the crowd that panty-dropping grin of his, and launches into their first song. His voice is low, rough, amazing. I remember the way I once felt when I heard him sing, and know I’d be lying if I said some part of it wasn’t still there. But it’s not what I feel for James, and it’s only a ghost of what I once felt for Ryan.

  We stand to the right of the stage, in a raised area not too far off the floor. They do covers and they play their own stuff, which the crowd seems to know as well as the other songs. Kristy, Ginny and I move in sway with the crowd, who anticipate every stop and start, every bass line, every chord. Ryan sees us and catches my eye. When they begin to play “Used to Be”, my favorite of all of their songs, I jump off the platform we stand on and dive into the crowd, with Ginny right at my heels, and Ryan laughs and shakes his head. He was always oddly proud of that, the way I’d let loose when he played. I feel his pride at the same moment I feel James’s displeasure.

  The song ends and Ryan steps back to the mic. He points at me. “That’s my ex-girlfriend,” he tells the crowd. “Isn’t she hot?”

  There are catcalls and laughter. “I messed up, Elle,” he says. “You don’t need to tour with me. I just need to know you’ll be waiting for me when we get back to school.”

  He launches into a song he wrote for me last winter but said was “too girly” to play in public. As he sings it I can’t help but look over at James, who is looking at me. I’ve never seen him look so lost. It makes me want to comfort him, and angers me in turn. Why am I always worried about his feelings when he worries so little about mine?

  The song ends and Ryan mouths “I love you”. The noise of the crowd is deafening. They all love this kind of thing, even the girls who’ve come here to throw themselves at him are whistling and stamping their approval. It would have moved me two months ago, but it doesn’t now. Even if I’m only a fling, even if he plans to move on once summer is over, there’s no room inside me now for anyone but James.

  **

  We make our way back up to Max and James. “I’m going backstage,” says Ginny, bouncing on her heels. There’s a defiant note in her voice.

  James turns to me. “What about you, Elle?” he asks pointedly, every word brimming with anger. “Do you want to go backstage?”

  “I need to talk to Ryan,” I tell him.

  His face grows cold. “I’m going home,” he says.

  “Wait for me,” I tell him. “I’ll just be a minute.”

  His nod of agreement is so subtle it’s hardly a nod at all.

  The backstage of a bar isn’t much like you see in footage about real bands, but there’s still plenty of beer and plenty of inadequately clothed girls waiting around looking hopeful. Ryan sees me and grabs my hand. “Let’s go out back,” he says. The alley smells like day-old trash, but it’s quiet, and it’s the only place we can be left alone.

  “So,” he asks. “Did it work?”

  I look at him sympathetically. A part of me wishes I could give him the answer he wants. “No,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

  He looks at his feet and nods. “It’s that guy, isn’t it?” he asks quietly. “Your friend’s brother?”

  When I nod he closes his eyes and rests his head against the side wall. “How serious is it?”

  “I’m not sure,” I say, sadness leaching into my voice.

  “Why wouldn’t you be sure?” he asks, clenching his fists. “If he can’t even commit then you should be kicking him to the curb. Even I was able to do that.”

  He’s right. I deserve better than this ambiguity from James. “It’s complicated.”

  “Well I’m not done trying,” Ryan says. “Whether this guy fucks up or not, I’m not done trying.”

  I kiss Ryan’s cheek and let him return to the whole room full of girls who want him. Girls he’d give up to be with me. And return to the guy too embarrassed to even admit we’re together.

  Chapter 43

  James is leaning against the bar, looking more unhappy than I’ve ever seen him. He turns without a word when I find him and heads outside.

  My anger comes to a head. What possible right does he have to be mad when I’m the one getting jerked around?

  When I come to a dead stop just outside the door, he rounds on me, his face so angry and so hurt that it shocks me into silence.

  “Are you getting back together with him?” he asks. The words a
re clipped and tight. The rage in his voice makes me remember my own.

  “Why do you care?” I seethe. “You and I are only friends, right?”

  “We were never just friends,” he says, that muscle ticking in his jaw. “So answer the question.”

  “Why should I?” I retort. “You act like it doesn’t matter what happens when I go back to school, so how could it possibly matter now?”

  “Do I look like someone who it doesn’t fucking matter to?” he hisses. “You spend 24 hours not speaking to me and then I have to watch that bullshit between you and your ex-boyfriend, and now you won’t even tell me if you’re with him?”

  “And you’ve spent weeks treating me like some temporary hook-up. You don’t even want to sleep with me for Christ’s sake so why do you … ”

  “Don’t want to?” he exclaims incredulously. “I’ve never wanted anything more in my life! Do you have any idea how much restraint it required not to?”

  “I don’t want your restraint!” I explode. “I never did. You want some fling you don’t have to feel guilty about? Fine. But don’t for one second act like you held back on my behalf!”

  “A fling? Are you fucking kidding me?” he shouts. Heads turn but he either doesn’t notice or care. “Is that what you think? Is that the person you think I am?”

  “What else am I supposed to think? And it doesn’t mean you’re a bad person. It just means you’re a person who doesn’t feel the right way about me.”

  “You’re right!” he yells. “I don’t feel the right way about you! That’s the problem. I should see you as a 19-year-old who needs to get through the next three years of college without me ruining it. But I don’t. I can’t. I’ve tried so damned hard and you just make it all harder.”

  “Make what harder?” I breathe.

  “You make it impossible to walk away. And I should, because you deserve to have the whole college experience without me hovering and getting jealous and wanting to keep you from all the shit you’re supposed to do.”

  “We’ll only be four hours apart,” I argue. “You won’t be keeping me from anything.”