Chapter 2
JAMES
“This will all be yours one day.”
I’m sure my grandfather thought I’d be excited to hear those words, his hand landing on my shoulder like a weight. Except I was a kid, and I didn’t want to inherit a law firm. I didn’t want to sit behind a sterile wall of glass, pecking away at a computer all day. The words felt like a burden, one I thought I might grow accustomed to.
But I’m 25. The words still weigh as heavily on me now as they did then.
My mother calls. I answer reluctantly, knowing she’ll say the same shit I’ve heard every day since I left. I don’t know why I waited so long to tell my parents the truth. I suppose because, until I interned at the firm last summer, I didn’t fully realize it myself.
“I just don’t understand how could you do this to us right now,” she says. An oblique reference to my grandfather’s death last winter. “This is the time you need to think of someone other than yourself.”
My grandfather’s death hit all of us hard—and made it impossible for me to tell my parents what I’d intended to: that my plans and theirs no longer coincide.
Leaving the internship like I did was selfish, and what I’m planning to do now is even more so. But I can’t seem to stop myself. “I’m sorry, Mom,” I tell her. “I tried. I just couldn’t spend another summer in that office.”
“What exactly do you think being a lawyer is?” she asks, exasperation sharpening her voice. “Once you’re an associate, it isn’t going to suddenly involve a keg and football games, James. This is what your life is going to be, day-in and day-out.”
No, it’s not, Mom, but you don’t know that yet.
When she finally realizes the conversation is going nowhere, she gives up and instead asks about my sister, once again affirming that Max, our roommate for the summer, knows how young she is and is not going to try anything. I laugh wearily as I assure her it isn’t an issue. Max is 25. He’s no more interested in dating a college freshman than I am.
Ginny finds me on the back deck after I’ve hung up the phone. “Did she say anything to you about the internship?”
I roll my eyes. “She’s barely capable of discussing anything else.”
“I can’t say I blame her, James. I mean, people would kill for that chance, and you just walked away.”
It troubles me that no one seems to understand. Allison, Ginny, my parents—they all think I’m making a mistake. And when enough people think you’re wrong, you usually are.
“Well, look on the bright side. If I don’t go back, you get the whole thing to yourself.”
“Except I don’t want it,” she argues. “And if you bail, it’s all going to fall on me.”
We sit there for a minute in silence. I could tell her what I keep telling myself—that there’s a limit to what she owes our family—but I know it won’t fly. I’m disturbed by my mother’s illness, but Ginny is devastated by it. She can’t imagine doing anything to make it worse, and both of us bailing on the family would definitely make it worse.
“By the way,” Ginny says. “I think Elle is coming down.”
I stiffen, hoping I’ve misheard. “Elle Grayson?” I ask, and she nods. “For how long?”
“The summer,” she chirps. “Her parents want her to lay low for a while, until the Edward thing dies down.”
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“Did you tell Mom?” I ask quietly.
Ginny shakes her head. “I have no idea what’s crawled up her ass about Elle and her parents, but ever since she got sick, it’s like she hates their whole family. I’ll tell her. I’m just kind of dreading it. I mean, really, why should it matter to her if Elle is here?”
I agree with Ginny that based on what we know, it shouldn’t matter. But I also know it will matter, and I have a sneaking suspicion about why that is.
Chapter 3
ELLE
The guy sitting across the aisle spends an hour of the train ride to DC pretending he’s not staring at me before he finally bridges the distance between us.
“Has anyone ever told you,” he begins, “that you look just like Kelly Evans?”
Yes, everyone, ever, has told me I look like Kelly Evans. “I’ve heard that a few times.”
“I mean, look at her,” he says, holding his phone aloft. I glance over at it: long blond hair, high cheekbones, a mouth that is slightly too full. I know the face well. “It’s uncanny,” he continues. “I’ve spent the past hour trying to figure out if you were her, but I think she must be in her 30s by now.”
Actually, she is 44, so she’d be thrilled to hear his guess. I’d probably even share it with her, if she’d answer her phone.
I cab from Union Station to Georgetown, arriving at the townhouse to find it vacant. It’s times like this that I long for normal parents, the kind capable of providing comfort or even, merely, the kind capable of returning my calls.
Then again, if I did have parents at home, there’d be someone to stop me from taking their Porsche.
It’s not a long drive—about three hours, most of it in Maryland. I should be spending it worried about the internship, about the possibility that my name will get out to the press. Pathetically, I instead spend it thinking about James.
The boy I remember doesn’t exist anymore. He’s an adult now, and I’m sure he’s changed. But the boy I remember was beautiful, and I’ve stared at him so long and so hard that I could sculpt his face with my eyes closed. The blade of his cheekbones and his nose, soft lips, the long lashes so at odds with his hard jaw. His eyes reminded me of the tea that used to steep on their back deck, a honeyed brown shot through with sunlight.
I spent as many hours as possible at Ginny’s house, largely for the thrill of watching him come home at night. There was always something so focused and certain about him, a sense that no matter what was going on, if you were with him it would all make sense, feel safe.
He was left in charge of us, occasionally, when the nanny had to go. He watched The Princess Bride with us one night, begrudgingly at first, and then with reluctant laughter. For years afterward, James made a point of saying “inconceivable” to almost anything I told him, just to make me giggle. I attached so much meaning to every kindness from him. Too much, I’m sure.
I stop just outside of Rehoboth to clean up, and am slightly appalled by myself. My career is shot. My family is all over the paper in the most embarrassing way possible, and everyone thinks I’m sleeping with a married guy my father’s age. But what am I doing? I’m standing in the Royal Farms bathroom wondering if James Campbell will finally think I’m pretty.
The house is only a block off the beach, slightly run-down but nicer than I expected for a beach share. It’s owned by James and Ginny’s parents, who used to rent it and long ago decided it wasn’t worth the trouble. I think it was the summer someone took a dump in each of the dresser drawers, in every room of the house.
I knock on the door, and no one answers, though I hear a surprising amount of noise inside. I should have asked precisely how many housemates we have. I text Ginny to say I’m outside, and moments later my best friend is flinging the door open wide, along with half the contents of the plastic cup in her hand.
“You’re here!” she squeals, hugging me. Ginny is small and fair, with bright red hair and delicate features—like an adorable little female leprechaun, if that leprechaun was super loud and opinionated. I’ve never understood how she and James could be the product of the same parents. Physically, they couldn’t be more different.
She asks about my drive and if I’ve eaten and where my bags are without waiting for an answer, all the while dragging me through the very crowded living room. She opens the sliding glass door and pulls me toward the keg.
“Hey, boys!” she shouts. “Your new roommate has arrived!”
Several heads turn, but I’m only looking at one.
He wasn’t a fantasy. He wasn’t some figment of my 14-year-old baby hormones. James Campbell i
s 100% as beautiful as I remember. Only now, he’s grown-up hot. Steamy hot. A head taller than any guy at the keg. Tan. His brown hair already turning light with the sun, his eyes just as striking, as impenetrable, as they were. I’m tall enough now that if I went on my toes—my hands at his shoulders, index fingers pressing to the soft skin of his neck—I could just reach his mouth.
His brows come together, and he stares at me. “Elle?” He shakes his head as if to dislodge something. “You’re all grown up.”
I’m not sure why this is a surprise to him, given that his sister is 19 too. Then again, the last time he saw me I had braces, glasses, and was so skinny that my nickname was “Skeletor.” And Ginny’s so small, she looks a lot less 19 than I do.
The guy beside him has dark hair and eyes and a sly smile that I’m guessing gets him a lot of action. He grins and extends a hand. “I’m Max. And you, very obviously, are Kelly Evans’ daughter.”
Internally, I sigh. My mom quit modeling years ago, and she might have faded into obscurity were it not for one thing: the bathing suit poster—my mother in a white bikini with her arms over her head, every element of her anatomy visible. It has decorated more male bedroom walls than I ever want to contemplate, 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 he’s about to tell me more about this, but he’s cut off by James, who raises a brow at Max before turning to me.
“How was your drive?” he asks.
He seems unsettled by my presence here. He hasn’t smiled once.
“Good,” I say. “I went to DC first, to my parents’ place.” I suppose, technically, it is now only my mom’s place. My mom, who still hasn’t returned my calls.
He nods. “I’m sorry… Ginny told me about your parents and, uh, everything else.”
He offers to help carry in my stuff, so I follow him through the house, weaving through a sea of bodies to keep up.
“It’s not always like this,” he calls back to me. “Although if it were up to Max, it would be.”
It’s blissfully quiet on the other side of the front door. The moon is just breaking through the pines, their needles crunching beneath my sandals as I head to the car I borrowed.
“Your parents let you bring a vintage Porsche Targa to the beach? They weren’t worried about rust?”
I bite my lip. “I didn’t actually ask.”
In a moment he goes from relaxed to wary. “Do they not know you’re here?”
“I don’t think they’d care,” I admit, popping the trunk.
I aim to sound ambivalent about this fact, but it doesn’t quite work. He arches a brow, waiting for me to elaborate.
“My mother hasn’t returned any of my calls, and my dad is mostly worried that I’ll talk to the press and mess up his attempts at damage control.”
James’ mouth pinches tight. He comes to a dead stop in front of me with a suitcase in each hand, and I can’t help but notice the way his biceps flex. “How old is that girl he got pregnant?”
“24. Younger than you.”
“Inconceivable,” he says with a small grin.
I giggle, the same way I did when he first said it to me a decade ago, and his smile fades. “I’m really sorry,” he says. “I can’t believe he had so little self-control.”
James takes my bags upstairs, and I go find Ginny. We’ve just sat down with Max and a guy named Brooks who works with them when James returns, frowning at our red plastic cups. “Did the two of you time travel to a future where you’re old enough to drink?”
“I’m not being lectured about responsibility by a guy who walked out of his internship on the first day.”
“Enough about the fucking internship, Ginny,” James growls.
I guess the topic has come up once or twice before.
Max laughs. “James, only you would have the daughter of a supermodel on your deck and worry about the law.”
Ginny pulls me from my seat. “Let’s get out of here before James starts trying to tell us we have a curfew too.”
I follow her upstairs. Our room is immaculate, something I’d have expected had I thought about it, because Ginny always was ferociously organized. Her clothes are ordered by shape and then color. Her books by topic, and then height. She keeps her life’s goals on her wall in a complicated Venn diagram. I still remember the first one she did—she was seven.
“Well, they all liked you,” she says, her tone a little regretful. “I feel like I just brought Kate Upton into the house.”
“James didn’t seem too happy about it.”
She waves a dismissive hand. “I don’t know what that was, but he’ll get over it.”
“You still haven’t told me why he’s even here,” I say, plopping down on the bed opposite hers. “What happened to his internship?”
She groans and smacks her forehead. “It’s a disaster. He bailed after the first day. The first day!” she cries. “My parents are freaking out. I mean, you know how my mom gets, first of all. But this is our family business. He was supposed to take over. And if he doesn’t, I’ll have to.”
“Wow,” I say quietly. It’s a pretty spectacular derailment, especially for the firstborn of the hyper-achieving Campbells. Though no derailment could be as bad as mine. “What happened?”
“I have no freaking idea! Last summer went just fine,” she says. “Allison thinks he’ll come to his senses, but he’s making my parents look so bad right now. I mean, how can they offer him an associate’s position next year after he’s pulled this shit?”
Allison? Who the fuck is Allison? Something begins sinking in my stomach. “Who’s Allison?”
“Oh,” she says, looking at me with her head cocked to the side. “I never told you? She’s his girlfriend.”
Given that I haven’t even seen the guy since I was 14, the words hit me surprisingly hard. “I didn’t know he had a girlfriend,” I say weakly.
“Yeah,” she says. “I can’t believe I never mentioned her. She’s awesome.” This is somewhat redundant. As if James would date someone who wasn’t awesome. “She’s brilliant. Law review, dean’s list, the whole deal.”
“Are they serious?”
“Oh, he’s totally marrying her. Well, he hasn’t asked yet, but he will. I mean, they’ve been together for nearly a year, and she’s just amazing. They’re perfect together.”
The sinking in my stomach was a small boat capsizing. Now it’s the Titanic. I think of him downstairs, with his brooding eyes and dark brows and the way his mouth quirks up to the right when he’s trying not to smile, and all I feel is loss. It’s as if I’ve spent my whole life training for a race, only to discover I’ve gotten to the starting line a day late.
Chapter 4
ELLE
I wake thinking about this sleep-away camp James went to every summer. How there was a curious stillness to the air when he left each year, the surprising silence that ensues after a power outage on a hot summer night.
Ginny and I finally got to go ourselves when we turned nine. Much like this summer’s beach trip, my thrill was entirely related to the fact that I’d be with James. I imagined being able to participate in all of the same activities, giving him a chance to notice my surprising maturity. I also imagined wowing him with my guitar-playing, which was unlikely to work out since I don’t play guitar.
But the camp spread over several acres, and we weren’t even in the same section. And from the very first night, I wanted to go home. By nightfall I was begging to leave, but neither of my parents answered the phone. Finally, lacking any other option, the counselors in my cabin got James.
He s
at beside me on the front steps of my cabin, and I was ashamed of my tears but couldn’t manage to hide them. “What’s going on, Elle?” he asked. “Are you just homesick?”
It was impossible to explain. The crickets suddenly became deafening while I sat silent.
“No,” I finally said. “But I need to get home. I need to get back to my mom.”
“It’s normal to miss your parents when you first go to sleep-away camp. I did. I remember my mom always sang this stupid song to me at bedtime, which I acted like I didn’t like, but when I got here I missed it. And I felt bad that I’d acted like I didn’t like it.”
This made me cry harder, because my own sadness wasn’t the same. I dug my bare toes into the dirt at the bottom of the steps, wishing I could somehow stop. “My mom needs me there.”
“For what?”
I didn’t know how to explain what time with her was like. I couldn’t tell him about all the summers we spent on yachts, the way she’d drink too much and need me to get her to her room before something bad happened. So I told him the lesser things, still troubling. “I’m just worried about her. She...forgets stuff.”
“Yeah,” he said, sounding bitter. “I’ve noticed. But she’s the adult, and you’re the kid.
You’re not supposed to be the one worrying about her.”
I said nothing, because him being right didn’t change the way things worked at my house. 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.”
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