No One But Us

by Elizabeth O'Roark

  I look over at him, tan and shirtless and unshaven, and before I can pull it back, I just tell him the truth. “No,” I say softly.

  Our eyes hold, and I swear I see him shudder in response.

  James has made reservations at a small Italian restaurant I’ve never heard of for Ginny’s birthday. Apparently lots of other people have heard about it though, because he had to call in a few favors to get a table. He, Allison, and Max head there early to set things up, leaving Ginny and me alone for the first time since this morning.

  If it weren’t her birthday, I’d say something about what happened, but I decide to let it go. She, oddly enough, is the one who seems to be holding a grudge. The whole time we’re getting ready, she’s giving me sidelong glances the way strangers do when I’m with my mom. Only there’s no admiration in the looks she’s sending my way.

  I put on one of the new dresses I bought for my summer in the city: white, completely backless, held together by two clear straps that are practically invisible. A dress my mother talked me into buying. At the time I was horrified. Now, primed to put Allison in her place, I’m grateful. Since my mom is apparently an expert at stealing men, maybe just this once her advice will turn out worthwhile.

  I am, however, regretting the strappy gold sandals she convinced me to purchase. If I’d known I was going to have to walk six fast blocks to the restaurant, I might have chosen something else.

  “Ginny, I can’t keep you with you in these things,” I complain.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t have worn them,” she snipes. “I wish you hadn’t worn the whole outfit, if we’re being honest.”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Has it ever occurred to you that maybe I don’t want to spend my birthday standing beside someone who’s eight inches taller?”

  I stop. “Are you saying you don’t want me to come because I’m taller than you?”

  Her jaw shifts. “No, I’m just saying I don’t understand why you need to wear heels on top of everything else.”

  “I don’t even like being this tall. You know that. It rules out, like, half of all available men.”

  “Max and James are both tall,” she says with a bite to her tone.

  Her irritation makes no sense to me, but it’s not as if that sharpness in her voice is a novelty. It’s been there, to some degree, ever since Allison arrived.

  We finish our walk to the restaurant in silence and are ushered onto the back brick patio. Ginny goes off to greet her guests and help Allison, who appears to be swanning about, spreading shit on the table, and I am left face to face with James, the mere sight of whom makes me feel slightly weak-kneed. In khaki pants and a collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up, he is the single best-looking man I’ve ever seen in my life. The sea blue of his shirt stands out against his tan, against the gold flecks in his hair, the warmth of his eyes. A warmth that changes once they lock on me.

  “Wow,” says Max, walking up beside him. “That dress is…holy shit. I think you’re actually even hotter than your mom.”

  “How is that dress even staying up?” James asks, his voice tense with displeasure.

  Max elbows him. “Stop being a dick, dude. Tell her she looks nice.”

  “James hasn’t told me I look nice since my first communion, so I’m not holding my breath,” I reply. “Is everything all set?”

  “Everything aside from the fact that you’re missing half a dress,” grumbles James as he turns toward the table.

  He takes charge of the seating, placing Ginny at the head of the table, flanked by Allison and Max. In the center are friends from The Pink Pelican, and by some unbelievable stroke of luck—one Allison must be enraged by—I am at the other end next to him. This makes tonight the best thing that’s happened in weeks, even if he’s going to spend the whole time bitching about my dress.

  “I have a jacket in my car,” he suggests.

  “Enough about the damn dress,” I tell him sternly. “Seriously.”

  “Fine,” he mutters, more to himself than me. “I need a fucking drink then.” He grabs the wine list and sighs. “I know nothing about Italian wines.”

  I slide it toward me. “If you want red I’d go with the Super Tuscan—Vitticio is good. If you want white, go with the Alto Adige pinot.”

  “Maybe you should let the grownups take care of this one, Elle,” calls Allison from her end of the table. “You’re not even old enough to drink.”

  I picture sending my knife whistling down the table into her eye. I don’t even think I’d feel guilty.

  “Not old enough to drink here,” I amend.

  They’re not so worried about it in Italy. And I also have Ryan’s 23-year-old cousin’s driver’s license if that argument doesn’t work with the staff.

  When the waiter returns, James nods at me. “The blonde here has spent more time in Italy than the rest of us combined, and she says that the Vitticio is good.”

  The waiter glances over. “You don’t look Italian.”

  I shake my head. “I just spent a lot of time there as a kid.”

  He grins. “And did you learn any Italian there?”

  “Un pocito.”

  He asks, in Italian, where I stayed and why I was there, and I reply in Italian. It’s been a long time since I’ve spoken it, but I like the feel of it tripping off my tongue. Though I eventually wound up with some bad memories of Italy, I had many amazing ones first.

  When he finally leaves the table, everyone is staring at me.

  “What the fuck was that?” asks Max. “You speak Italian?”

  I shrug. “Some, I guess.”

  “That wasn’t some,” he says. “You’re fluent. How much time did you spend there?”

  I shrug. “My father covered the Vatican for a while.”

  “You’re conveniently forgetting how you summered on that dude’s yacht there too,” says Ginny. “With your mom’s friend Flavio.”

  I stiffen a little. I go out of my way not to think about some of the things that happened on that yacht, and I don’t really care for her tone. She makes it sound like my mother was some yacht bunny sleeping with whatever wealthy man would give us a room. Or perhaps I’m just feeling sensitive about it because I secretly wonder if it’s true.

  The wine is decanted. I expect James to make some snide crack about my age when the waiter pours it into my glass, but he does not. I sip and it rests in my stomach, heavy and warm.

  “Any other hidden skills I need to know?” he asks. “Did you also climb Everest and go through sommelier training?”

  “You mean you haven’t?”

  His low laugh sends a trill of delight rocketing through my stomach.

  “So are you going to order for me too, Elle?” he asks, his mouth close to my ear, his voice quiet. It sounds dirty somehow.

  “Do you want me to order for you, James?”

  “I like hearing you speak Italian,” he says. “Say something.”

  “Hai dimenticato di comprare il latte.”

  “That sounded dirty,” he says.

  “You just have a dirty mind. I said, ‘You forgot to buy milk’.”

  He laughs. “Say something else.”

  “Il mio pastello e grande.”

  “What was that?” he asks.

  “My crayon is large.”

  He gets a sly grin on his face. “Je promets que mon crayon est plus grande,” he says, close to my ear again.

  French, spoken too quickly for me to follow. He’s right. It sounds positively filthy.

  “I promise my crayon is larger,” he translates with a smile so dirty I find myself squeezing my thighs together.

  I’m having the best moment of my entire summer, until it’s ruined by a chair sliding between James’ and mine.

  “I’m Domenico, the owner,” the guy says in Italian, talking only to me.

  For one horrible moment I worry that he’s going to card me, but instead he angles the chair, shutting James out entirely. “My waiter is in ba
ck telling us all of your flawless accent,” he says, “so I had to hear it for myself.”

  “I think he was being kind.” I smile. “I just spent a little time there as a kid.”

  “We don’t get a lot of Italian speakers here,” he says. “And certainly not beautiful ones.” The smile he flashes makes me want to edge my chair farther away.

  We speak for a few minutes about the coast, and then he asks if I want to see their garden after the meal. I agree with some trepidation, sensing he has something he wants to show me there besides organically grown herbs.

  “What was that about?” asks James when he leaves.

  I shrug. “I guess they don’t get a lot of people in Rehoboth who speak Italian.”

  “Yeah,” he says, his jaw tight. “I saw the way he was looking at you. I’m pretty sure this isn’t just about his desire to speak Italian.”

  I wish he was wrong, but I’m fairly certain he’s not, especially when Domenico sends over several bottles of wine we didn’t order. My guess is he’ll be asking me to pay in other ways later during my tour.

  But I forget about that as the meal progresses, too focused on James beside me. He seems to lean closer as the night goes on, his thigh pressing more heavily against mine, his hand brushing my fingers…or perhaps I’ve just had enough wine that I can think of nothing anymore but his proximity. Fireworks explode overhead once it’s dark, and I see now why James insisted on getting us a table outside. We tip our heads back to watch.

  “This must seem kind of lame after watching them in DC every year,” he comments.

  I breathe in deeply, my contentment residing in my chest like a physical presence. “I like it. I don’t remember ever having a better 4th.”

  I don’t look at him as I say it, but I sense that he’s no longer watching the fireworks.

  “Me either,” he says, his voice barely audible over the explosion above us.

  After the fireworks, we sing “Happy Birthday” and Ginny opens her gifts. From Max, a 10-inch vibrator and anal beads.

  “Seriously, dude?” James asks. “In front of me?”

  “Ginny is on the cusp of blooming, sexually,” Max argues. “It’s a cause for celebration, not shame.”

  Domenico returns as we’re paying the bill and asks if I’m ready for my tour. I rise reluctantly. I’ve had plenty of experience fending off advances, but it doesn’t mean I relish the task.

  “Where are you going?” James demands.

  My shoulders sag. “He wants to show me their garden.”

  “Awesome,” he says, rising to his feet. “I love gardens.”

  Domenico’s grimace makes it clear this was not what he had in mind. He places a hand on the back of my arm and turns us toward the garden without acknowledging James at all.

  He shows me the garden, with James right on our heels the entire time. “He’s your boyfriend?” he asks in Italian. When we switch languages, James comes to my side, his hand resting lightly at the small of my back.

  “Yes,” I lie.

  “He’s very possessive.” He smirks. “Perhaps he senses you’re ready to move on to a real man?”

  I smile. “I don’t think that’s it.”

  We head back down the stairs, and when a waiter stops Domenico, James pulls me around the corner. To my surprise, he’s angry.

  “Are you going to keep flirting with him all night?” he hisses.

  “I’m not flirting,” I retort.

  “I know flirting when I see it, whether it’s in English or Italian.” All his earlier softness is gone, and his eyes are dangerous in the moonlight. It excites me and angers me in the same moment. “He’s way too old for you.”

  I roll my eyes. “He’s only 30,” I say, turning to go. “And why would it possibly matter to you?”

  His hand circles my forearm, pulling me back to him. Our eyes meet, and everything that was in his face just moments before has shifted, replaced by something that isn’t angry or distant at all. Like a blurry photo made clear, the things I’ve seen in his face so often have sharpened.

  And—oh my God—all those times he seemed so aloof? I think I was seriously misreading him.

  There’s no time to process this. There is only the thrill of his hand threading through my hair, tilting my chin upward. The bright need in his eyes, the whisper of his exhale over my skin before his mouth brushes mine, setting nerve endings sparking like tiny shivers over my surface, while his lips, warm and soft and searching, open to me. His tongue teases, commanding me to take him in, and when I respond, brushing his tongue with the lightest flick of my own, his body coils tight. I feel the sound he makes, low in his throat, a hum that makes my whole body feel overheated and ripe. He grabs my hips and pulls me against him, and suddenly I am part of his moving pieces—the quick rise and fall of his chest, his arms caging me in. A gust of air blows around us, salt and pine mixing with the smell of his soap, the starch of his shirt.

  “Elle,” he murmurs, the sound of it almost pained.

  His breath is against my ear, his lips pressing to the corner of my jaw, to the soft skin beneath, pulling a shaky inhale from me, then a low whimper as his hands slide over my bare back and below my waist. His mouth finds mine again, the kiss harder this time, urgent, backing me to the wall. The old brick grates against my skin, pain that seems to heighten the pleasure of everything else I feel—his impatient mouth and the heat of his chest and his hands cupping my ass. I arch forward, tasting the salt on his skin as I press myself to the part of him that is hard and ready, and his answer is a groan that seems to vibrate through his chest.

  A voice shatters the bubble we’re in like an explosion. Ginny is approaching, calling our names, and we jump away from each other and stand there, gasping and shocked.

  “I’m sorry,” James says. I’ve never seen anyone look as horrified as he does now. “Fuck. That was a mistake. I shouldn’t have—”

  “Everyone’s been looking for you!” huffs Ginny. “What were you doing?”

  Allison, behind her, is pale beneath her tan, and seems to know exactly what we were doing.

  “I’m sorry,” James whispers. And then he walks away without another word, with Allison behind him.

  “What just happened?” Ginny demands.

  “Nothing,” I reply.

  Ginny looks from their retreating backs to me. “We’re going to Max’s bar,” she says stiffly. “I think it would be easier for everyone if you didn’t come.”

  I will be hurt by this later, but right now I’m too dumbfounded to process it. So she walks away as I stand there, stunned by what happened and how it ended.

  I lean against the wall and remember it—the moment he pulled me against him, his fingers running through my hair. The whisper of his breath and his soft mouth and the way he said my name, as if it had sat on his lips for a long time waiting to be set free. I remember it all in exquisite, excruciating detail.

  Including the part where he looked at me in horror and apologized.

  Chapter 24

  JAMES

  Ginny and Allison both stare at my face, which undoubtedly has the truth written all over it.

  I must have been out of my mind to seat Elle next to me. I knew I’d fuck up if I spent too much time around her, but I did it anyway—sat there listening to her laugh and leaning in close to smell her damn shampoo. And if you ever want proof that you’re too far gone over a girl, it’s the point where you catch yourself sniffing her head.

  I should have realized right then that I was taking things too far, that the longer I was there, the more I’d want from her, the more I’d want to submerge myself in the moment and forget everything else, all the other things I want from life—things that don’t include sleeping with my sister’s teenage friend.

  “What the fuck just happened?” Allison asks.

  I tell Allison and Ginny it was nothing. Neither of them appears to believe me. Nor should they. It was the opposite of nothing. It was the shittiest thing I’ve ever done,
and I did it to someone I’ve always tried to look out for.

  We get to the next bar. Max asks where Elle is, and Ginny’s face clouds over.

  “She decided to go home,” she replies, making my stomach sink even further, since I’m undoubtedly responsible.

  “Can I talk to you?” Allison demands. Reluctantly, I follow her outside the bar, and she rounds on me the moment we reach the sidewalk. “The truth, James. I want the fucking truth. What’s going on with you and Elle?”

  “I feel like we’ve had this conversation,” I reply. “Maybe because we have. Several times. It’s nice that you want to stay tonight because of Ginny’s birthday, but this is the last time I’m going to defend myself to you, because we are no longer together, and I don’t have to. Nothing is going on with Elle. Nothing is going to happen in the future either.”

  “You’re a liar,” she seethes, drawing stares from passers-by. “You think I don’t see the way you look at her?”

  “My feelings are irrelevant,” I snap. “I’m not going to act on them!”

  Her skin pales, and it’s only then that I realize I’ve admitted more than I should.

  Ginny walks out to find Allison staring at me, caught between fury and tears. “What’s going on?”

  “I’m leaving, Ginny,” says Allison. “Thanks to your friend. Oh, and remember how I told you about Elle’s mom? How she seduces people, breaks up marriages? Well, James thinks she did it to your parents too. That’s why they separated. That’s why your mom’s been sick all this time. Because of Elle’s whore of a mother.”

  I’m speechless. So is Ginny. She looks like she’s been hit.

  But Allison just shrugs. “She needed to know before Elle does the same thing to her.” And then she turns and walks toward the parking lot, leaving a disaster in her wake.

  Ginny looks small and scared, her eyes welling. “James?” Her voice cracks, and it hurts my chest. “Is that true?”

  “She shouldn’t have told you that,” I say. “It was just a theory. I have no idea.”

  “Oh my God,” she says, clutching her stomach. “Of course that’s what happened. Mom started hating the Graysons right when Dad left, and then the Graysons moved. And then she got all psycho about her weight. You thought that all this time and never told me?”