No One But Us

by Elizabeth O'Roark

  “Of course not. I haven’t told anybody,” I spit out.

  James’ worried eyes meet mine, reminding me that I did tell someone. I told the police, who told special counsel, and God knows who else.

  “Look,” he says, “just avoid reading the papers, and if you get calls from the media, tell them you have no response.”

  “As long as he tells the truth. But I’m not letting him destroy my reputation.”

  “Eleanor, you have no reputation because no one knows who you are. Or cares. Therefore your ‘reputation’ doesn’t matter. But mine does. We’re on the cusp of recovering here. I get that job and you can have your allowance back and your credit card and everything else. And it’s probably time we got you a car. Everything is turning around is what I’m telling you. As long as you don’t mess it up.”

  I sit back, momentarily speechless. “So basically you’re trying to buy my silence.”

  “Jesus,” he snorts. “Must everything be such a drama with you? Maybe you should be looking at a career on Broadway instead of the news.”

  “Explain to me how I’m wrong,” I reply. “You just told me that no matter what Edward says about me, I’m supposed to stay quiet, and if I do I get an allowance and a car.”

  “That is not what I said,” he snarls. “I need to work. I don’t know who you think is paying for Cornell next year if both your mother and I are unemployed, but unless you want to stay in Delaware waiting tables for the rest of your life, you’d better stop acting like a child and get with the program. It’s not just my life that turns to shit if this doesn’t happen.”

  “Good talking to you as always, Dad,” I say as I hang up, feeling so sick I barely have the heart to meet James’ eyes.

  “It’s because of the restraining order, isn’t it?” he asks quietly.

  I shake my head. “I don’t know for sure.”

  “He has no other reason to be going on the defensive like this,” James says. “Elle...I’m so fucking sorry. What are you going to do?”

  “I have no idea,” I tell him. My voice is empty. “I guess I’ll ask Corinne if she knows anything.” What I want to do is fall asleep until this whole summer is behind me. This, in combination with leaving James, feels like the last straw.

  Corinne does some double checking. She confirms that there have been murmurs in the press about the restraining order. Edward’s PR team is trying to get his story out ahead of it.

  “Do you know what he’s going to say?” I ask her.

  “I’ll try to find out,” she says. “But my guess is he’s either going to blame you, or make you sound crazy. And neither of those is particularly good for you.”

  Chapter 49

  JAMES

  She is killing me.

  Everything changed after we had that fight. She is wary of me now, and I want to beg her to come back, to be the girl who looked at me the way she did before, the one who trusted me. I could tell her the truth, except in the end, we’re still going to end up apart. Is knowing I care about her really enough to offset the knowledge that her mother and my father planned to run off together at one point? Like she doesn’t have enough to deal with.

  Right now the things that distress her about her mother are rumors. It feels entirely different once they’re confirmed. I should know. I feel like I never want to hear my father’s voice again.

  For Elle’s sake, though, I will.

  I call my father and tell him about the article. Nearly half of their practice is defending celebrities, threatening whoever they must to keep stories quiet. Usually they’re defending the guilty. Since Elle is innocent, I’m guessing shutting this story down should be a walk in the park compared to other things they’ve quelled.

  Unsurprisingly, my father still refuses.

  “Is this a joke?” he asks. “You know precisely why I can’t help her.”

  “It’s going to ruin her, Dad. She’s going to spend the rest of her fucking life trying to live this down.”

  “What they’re going to do is compare her to her mother,” he says. “Even if I wanted to help her, I can’t. Your mom has suffered enough, and this would open everything right back up.”

  I feel helpless. Everything is going to hell for Elle, a lot of it my fault, and there’s nothing I can do. She tells me about the trip to NYC to introduce Ryan to Tommy and asks me to go dinner with them. I can’t even agree to that. On her behalf, I’d stomach sitting across from Kelly. I’d even manage to be pleasant. But there’s the chance that finding out about the two of us will prompt Kelly to tell Elle everything, and I can’t risk that.

  However, I also can’t risk giving Ryan unfettered access to my girlfriend all weekend. Even though he’s about to have unfettered access to her for an entire fucking year.

  Chapter 50

  ELLE

  “This could have been such a good trip under different circumstances,” I say, watching the trees give way to fields dense with end-of-summer corn. They move by slightly faster than they should. At the rate James is driving, I assume we’ll be making the three-hour trip to NYC in about ten minutes.

  “You mean circumstances that don’t involve your ex-boyfriend?”

  “I just meant it would be good if we had more time.”

  Because it’s the third weekend in August, enough of the Pelican staff has gone back to school that neither of us was able to get our Saturday shifts covered, so we’ll be rushing home tomorrow. Between that and the fact that James is refusing to go to dinner, I’m surprised he wanted to come at all.

  His hand reaches out to squeeze mine. “I wish we had longer together. Here or at home. I can’t think of anything I’d want more.”

  I say nothing in response. He sounds sincere, but it’s almost impossible to believe he means it.

  We manage not to argue about Ryan during the remainder of our drive, but James’ tension begins anew as we approach the city. He is silent and brooding by the time we get our bags into the elevator, his worry a weight I feel dragging us both down. I tug him toward me the second we’re in the apartment.

  “Stop,” I demand.

  “Stop what?” he asks.

  “Stop fretting.”

  “I’m not fretting. Men don’t ‘fret’.”

  “Fine,” I laugh. “Stop doing whatever it is you’re doing that’s just like fretting but sounds more manly.”

  “I can think of several things we could do right now to take my mind off it,” he says into my hair.

  In spite of everything, the mere suggestion is enough to send a jolt to my abdomen, but I look at my watch and sigh. “I have to meet Corinne.”

  He kisses me—a chaste kiss, but one that lingers like he doesn’t want to let me go—and wishes me luck.

  Unfortunately, the time for luck has already come and gone. The article Edward’s putting out is done. All I can do now is control the damage.

  I find her at the restaurant, wearing a ball cap and sunglasses. “Hi there, Ocean’s 11,” I tease, sliding into the booth beside her. “Are you in hiding because you’re embarrassed to be in Planet Hollywood?”

  She removes the sunglasses. “No, but if I’m seen with you, I’ll probably lose my job.”

  “I guess that’s why we’re meeting somewhere no New Yorker would be caught dead,” I reply. “Okay, let’s hear it. How bad is the article?”

  Her smile fades. “Imagine the worst possible situation. And then double it.” She slides the advance copy along the booth to me.

  The article is titled “‘I Made a Mistake.” It seems like a promising start, but it is not. Edward’s “mistake,” apparently, was that he allowed himself to be “seduced.” I am no longer a clueless 19-year-old intern in this tale, but a nympho whose nickname at work was “The Teen Temptress.” Apparently I am some combination of Mata Hari, Helen of Troy, and the Sirens from The Odyssey. No one, it seems, can resist me when I put my mind to it.

  And then there are the pictures. In one I’m draped across Ryan’s lap, though his
face is blurred out. In another I’m the only female in the middle of a group of frat guys, dressed like the St. Pauli girl, all bosom in the German dress I rented for Halloween. And then there’s one where I’m leaning over and you can see straight down my shirt.

  There are several paragraphs addressing the rumors about my mother—rumors even I have never heard before. They don’t just mention the fact that she broke up my dad’s marriage but go so far as to blame her for breaking up a few famous marriages while she was with my dad. But they draw parallels between us so well that I half believe them myself. Which means everyone else will too.

  A source “close” to me tells the magazine, “she’s always had a thing for older men” and “what Elle wants, Elle gets.”

  I know enough about how the media works to know any idiot could have given them those quotes. But there are things here that couldn’t have come from just anyone. Things only a few people knew. It mentions the flowers Edward sent and even the notes that came with them. It claims I’ve been caught emerging from “more than one” of my male housemates’ bedrooms this summer, concluding that “there’s nothing she likes more than stealing what belongs to someone else.”

  I know the source is Allison. She’s evil, and she’s holding a grudge, so it doesn’t hurt me.

  But the fact that Ginny gave her so much ammunition certainly does.

  I wait until I’m in the apartment before I allow myself to cry.

  James holds me while I tell him all the worst bits. “That’s defamation of character. They can’t get away with it.”

  “The article will be out Tuesday. I could sue, but the damage will be done.”

  “You need to defend yourself,” he argues. “I hope you’re not gonna do what your dad asked.”

  I shake my head. “No, but I’m not sure it’ll do much good. Corinne said Edward’s got some heavy hitters in his corner. People are scared to cross him.”

  He holds me tighter. “We’re going to fix this.”

  I nod as if I believe him, but I don’t. I may be young, but I’m old enough to know some things can’t be fixed.

  Chapter 51

  ELLE

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” James says when I emerge from the bedroom a few hours later.

  After a shower and some time to think, I’ve kind of pulled it together. What’s done is done, and I’ve decided I may as well enjoy my last big dinner out before I become the most famous slut in America. Except I’m wearing the dress my mother left for me—a simple slip dress with spaghetti straps that ends at mid-thigh—and apparently James does not approve.

  “Like it’s not bad enough you’re taking Ryan on a date to introduce him to your mom and her fiancé. You’re going to wear that?”

  “I think it would be more accurate to say I’m going to a dinner you’re too scared to attend. And don’t even get me started on the real reason you won’t go.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” he demands.

  The doorman calls up to tell me that Ryan is downstairs, and I walk out with James on my heels. “Because you’re embarrassed by me, James. Probably just my age, but who knows? Maybe you don’t want to be associated with my mom either. I can hardly blame you for that.”

  “Elle, cut it out,” he says, following me into the elevator. “You know that’s not what it is.”

  “No,” I reply, swallowing through the thickness in my throat. “I think that’s exactly what it is.”

  The elevator doors open, and Ryan is there. He smirks as he takes in the anger on my face and James’.

  “Wow, Elle,” he says. “You look edible as fuck.”

  “Uh, thanks, I guess.”

  James turns me back to him, his hands on my hips. “Elle...” he begins, and then he stops himself. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  “Like admit we’re together?” I ask. “Don’t worry. I won’t.”

  “How is it possible,” Ryan says, climbing into the cab behind me, “that your parents had that apartment all along, and we never had sex there?”

  “Well, for starters, I never knew when my dad was going to be in the city using it,” I reply.

  “He’s not there tonight,” Ryan grins, waggling his brows at me.

  “No, but my boyfriend is.”

  “Once for old time’s sake?” he asks, but he’s kidding, and it’s impossible to stay mad at him.

  I laugh. “Exactly how many favors are you planning to ask for tonight?”

  “As many as you’ll grant,” he says honestly.

  “I’m only granting one.”

  “Do I get to choose what it is?” he asks.

  “No. You absolutely do not.”

  We head across town to some steakhouse Tommy likes. They’re late, and I wouldn’t be all that surprised if my mom forgets to show up.

  Ryan slams his first beer as if it’s ice water. “Are you nervous?” I ask.

  “A little,” he admits. “How about you?”

  “Why would I be nervous?”

  “You’re about to meet your new daddy, right?” he teases.

  I snort. “I’m surprised it’s even lasted this long,” I tell him. “My parents were together for 20 years. There’s no way she’s going to end up with her first rebound.”

  But the truth, despite my words, is that I am nervous. Not about meeting Tommy, but about seeing my mother by his side. She sounds so ridiculous, so besotted, when she talks about him. She doesn’t even seem capable of making good decisions right now, and I’m worried that it will become patently obvious once I see them together.

  There’s a murmur through the restaurant, heads turning, when they enter. I’m not sure if it’s because people actually know who they are, or because they look like an aging rock star beside an aging model. Maybe it’s just that they’re so attractive—my mom could still pass for 15 years younger. Though even then, she’s way too old to wear her hair so long or her dress so short.

  She hugs me, and then Tommy hugs me. He’s short enough that when we hug his head winds up uncomfortably close to my chest. This only seems to bother me.

  The two of them are giddy, giggling, bubbling over. For a hopeful moment I think perhaps my mother’s actually excited to see me, to include me in this new circle of family she’s creating. But it turns out they’re both just a little drunk, which is slightly less touching.

  I introduce Ryan, and he and Tommy start chatting while my mom watches with adolescent adoration on her face.

  “Look at us with our two rockers,” she coos to me. I throw up a little in my mouth.

  “Mom, you know we’re not together anymore,” I remind her.

  She winks at Ryan. “You two were meant to be together,” she says. “Those little college break-ups never last anyway.”

  Ryan grins. “Your mother is a very wise woman, Elle.”

  We look at menus, and my mother defers to Tommy on every decision, as if she has absolutely no opinions or desires of her own. Every question he asks she meets with, “I don’t know, honey, whatever you think.” She even asks him what she should drink.

  It occurs to me that for so long I thought my mother was subject to my father’s whims, his job demands, but in reality, perhaps she allowed herself to be swept along because it was so much easier than taking responsibility for her own happiness.

  My phone buzzes, and I ignore it. It’s undoubtedly Max, who has left no fewer than 10 messages that consist solely of shrieking “Night of the Dragon!!”

  “Did Dad tell you there’s an article coming out about Edward?” I ask my mother.

  She nods. “He mentioned it. Neither of us is supposed to comment. He’s almost got the new contract hammered out.”

  “Well, I’m commenting,” I tell her. “The article is bullshit, and it makes me look horrible, so I’m going to respond.”

  For the first time all night she stops acting like a 13 year old meeting her crush at the mall. “Oh, honey. That’s not a good idea.”

&nb
sp; As if I’m going to defer to your judgment.

  “It’s a better idea than letting Edward Ferris get away with slander.”

  I can tell she desperately disagrees. “At least talk to your father’s attorney first,” she says.

  “Why? So he can tell me what’s in Dad’s best interest?”

  “He and your father are looking after all of our interests.”

  “Right. That’s why he said he won’t pay my tuition if I respond and would buy me a car if I kept quiet. My best interest.”

  I watch her harden a little, grow slightly sober, a tiny glint of hatred for my father puncturing her champagne-induced bubble.

  “Who are you talking to?” she sighs.

  “I don’t know yet. I’ve got a friend setting it up.”

  “Things go wrong on live TV,” she says. “You know that. You’re just providing more ways for the press to twist your words.”

  “I’m releasing the voicemails he left for me too,” I tell her.

  “Voicemails?” she asks.

  “I told you about them,” I say between my teeth. She finds out her teenage daughter is getting harassing voicemails from her boss and she forgets? “They’re bad, but no one is going to believe my word against his without them.”

  She bites her lip, clearly uncertain about the course I’ve chosen, and turns to Tommy. Because who better to advise than a high school dropout with one song anyone remembers?

  “You deserve to have your side of the story out there,” he says.

  Hearing Tommy’s expert opinion seems to sway my mother, and her face grows relaxed and optimistic. They begin talking to each other, and I stop listening.

  Ryan glances quickly from my mother to me. “I had no idea it was like this with you guys,” he says quietly. “Why didn’t you ever tell me? I always thought you had super-involved sitcom parents.”