No One But Us

by Elizabeth O'Roark

  I smile a little. “I don’t know. You and I never talked about that kind of thing.”

  “We should have,” he says. “I would have wanted to know.”

  My mother reaches across the table and grabs my hand. “Do you want me and Tommy to come to your interviews?”

  I control any eye-rolling urges admirably. Having my tipsy mother and her leather-clad boyfriend along for the ride would certainly make them interesting, but I’m not sure interesting is what I’m after.

  “I think I’ll be okay.”

  Tommy’s eyes light up. “If it’s a canned piece, they’ll need some music for the lead-in and parts of the segment. Why don’t you see if they’d like to play something off our new album?”

  Oh my God.

  Must. Roll. Eyes.

  Summoning reserves of inner fortitude I didn’t know I possessed, I manage to smile. “What an interesting idea.”

  Ryan’s leg is shaking with the effort not to laugh.

  “What a douche,” he says under his breath as Tommy and my mother begin another private conversation.

  I giggle. I love Ryan. Not in a romantic way, but as a friend, I really love him. And one day he’ll make someone—not me—an awesome boyfriend, if he can just get his dick out of the driver’s seat.

  “So what happens with you and your bodyguard once school starts?” he asks.

  “His name is James.”

  “Fine, James. Your bodyguard. The guy who starts growling the minute anyone gets within 10 feet of you.”

  “You did say I looked ‘edible as fuck’.”

  He chuckles. “The guy stole my girlfriend. He deserves it.”

  “He didn’t steal me, and I haven’t been your girlfriend for months.”

  “It was just a matter of time and you know it, Elle,” he says. He raises a brow. “It’s still a matter of time.”

  I might have thought this declaration would affect me, that I could be swayed by the appeal of being with someone who wants me unapologetically. But instead, it just makes me miss James.

  It hits me out of nowhere, the need to have him beside me, the wish that it was him here meeting my mother. To lean toward him and breathe him in, that clean mix of pine and sand and soap. To feel the pad of his thumb rubbing against my palm, and know that once the meal concluded, I’d have him all to myself.

  Yes, I’m upset about how things have gone for us, but I also have very little time left with him, and I can’t stand to waste a single moment of it if I don’t have to. I introduced Ryan, and I’ve been pleasant to my mother. That’s enough saintliness for one night. I push my plate away, jump to my feet, and make my excuses, leaving Ryan in my mother’s semi-capable and not-at-all-sober hands.

  Me: I’m leaving now. Are you still out?

  It takes him a few minutes to reply. I’m nearly back at the apartment before I hear from him.

  James: Yeah

  Me: Want me to meet you somewhere?

  James: Not the best night for it. I’ll be back in a while.

  I feel like I’ve been slapped, but once again, why the fuck am I surprised? Of course he doesn’t want me to meet his friends.

  I climb in bed, listening for the sound of his key in the door, trying to decide what I’ll say. I lie there for a long time, but I never hear a sound.

  He’s asleep on the couch when I get up. He opens one eye when I walk into the room.

  “Why are you out here?” I demand.

  “I didn’t want to wake you up.”

  It sounds like bullshit to me. “What time did you get in?”

  He doesn’t meet my gaze. “I don’t know. Late.”

  “Nice spending time with people your own age?” My words are oozing bitterness.

  “At least one of those people wasn’t my ex,” he replies.

  He sits up and rests his head in his hands. I can’t tell if he’s hung over or just exhausted.

  “Look, I don’t want to fight with you, okay? We need to talk, but I’m operating on about two hours of sleep.”

  I just stare at him. I’m assuming we need to talk really means this is over.

  “Wow. You really think you can use the fact that you didn’t come home last night as a reason for me to take it easy on you?”

  “It’s not what you think,” he says.

  Our entire conversation sounds like some bad Lifetime movie about cheating spouses, and I don’t plan to listen to another word. I start grabbing stuff and throwing it in my suitcase. I’m half done when Ryan calls.

  “I can’t believe you’re up so early.”

  He laughs. “I haven’t gone to bed yet, actually.”

  “How’d things wind up with Tommy?”

  This is the point at which James realizes who I’m talking to. I can tell by the sneer on his face.

  “He’s going to listen to our demo,” Ryan says. “And by the way, I can give you a copy. You know, in case you want to ask the reporter to play it in the background.”

  I crack up. “Please promise me that no matter how famous you get, you’ll never turn out like that.”

  Feet away from me, James’ unhappiness is shifting from a grumble to a low roar.

  “Not a problem,” he replies. “What is your mother thinking? She could do so much better than that guy.”

  “No clue. Maybe the shock of the divorce has killed brain cells.”

  “Not all of them,” he counters. “She still thinks you’ll end up with me.”

  “I think that only further supports my theory about the brain cells.”

  “So I’ll see you in a week, right?”

  “Yeah, I’ll probably be up next Saturday.”

  James stiffens at that.

  “Cool. Can you put your bodyguard on the phone?”

  “Why do you want to talk to him?” I ask warily.

  “He’s old enough to fight his own battles, don’t you think?”

  “You’re just trying to cause trouble,” I counter, “and he doesn’t want to talk to you anyway.”

  James holds his hand out for the phone, and I reluctantly give it to him. There’s absolutely no way this talk will go well.

  I don’t need to hear Ryan’s end of the conversation. The look on James’ face tells me everything.

  “Yeah, I do,” James says. “And it’s none of your fucking business either way.”

  Ryan says something else then, something worse. Something that makes James look ill.

  “Then I hope you enjoy it,” James says, his voice dangerously quiet. “Because it’ll be the last thing you ever do.”

  He hangs up and hands me my phone silently.

  “What did he say?”

  “Nothing,” he says, jaw set so hard I’m surprised his teeth aren’t cracking.

  We make the ride home in absolute silence. I think of a hundred ways I could make the peace, and my anger stops me every time. This isn’t my problem to solve, it’s his. He’s the one refusing to let this become anything, refusing to tell his family, to meet mine. We only have a week left together, and I’m not sure we’ll even make it that long.

  I’m not sure, at this point, why we’d even try.

  Chapter 52

  ELLE

  We get back to the beach with barely enough time to change into our uniforms and head to work. James is still not over the conversation with Ryan. He hasn’t smiled once all day. And I’m sure as hell not over the fact that he came in as late as he did. I don’t think he was with another girl, but he’s hiding something. I’d stake my life on it.

  Ginny comes in for her shift, and I ignore her. Maybe she didn’t give those quotes to Allison, but she clearly spent the whole fucking summer gossiping about me.

  It feels like something is building, a sort of escalating animosity I can’t pinpoint but read as if it were written in marker above me. Adding to all this, I’ve been assigned tables in both cocktail and the dining area, which means I can basically take my inadequacy as a waitress and multiply it by a factor of 10. I’
ve got three tables in cocktail waiting to order, but I’m stuck off to the side while some dithering woman asks me to repeat the specials three freaking times.

  “So what would you like?” I ask, attempting not to sound exasperated.

  “I don’t know,” she says. “Whatever.”

  My cocktail customers are starting to look around, irritated.

  “So you don’t want anything specific?” I prod, as gently as possible given that I would now like to suffocate her.

  “I don’t know,” she says. “What’s good?”

  Food from other restaurants. “People like the crabcakes.”

  “Oh,” she says. “I don’t like crab. What are the specials again?”

  It’s right then, when I feel like I have lost the very last thread of my patience, that I see Martin walking in.

  He smiles at me. An unnerving smile, as if we share a secret. And then he goes straight to the bar. And James.

  I don’t hear their exchange. But he says something that makes James go rigid. And then he pulls my bikini bottoms out of his back pocket.

  James’ face seems bled of color. He’s almost expressionless as he leaves the bar and comes to me.

  “Can I speak to you in the kitchen?” he asks, curiously restrained.

  I offer my still-undecided orderer a few more minutes and follow him into the back, behind the deep freezer. Then he turns, and his restraint is abandoned.

  “Did you sleep with him?” he gapes, looking sick.

  “Are you serious?” I cry. “I can’t believe you’d even ask me that.”

  “Then how do you explain the fact that he has your bikini in his pocket and he’s telling me you left something at his house?”

  “If I tell you I didn’t sleep with him, that should be enough for you,” I snap.

  “I recognize your suit, Elle!” he shouts. “So I want to know what the fuck he’s talking about.”

  I’m a little staggered. Does he really not know me better than that? “He snatched it out of my hand,” I snap. “The day I had to climb off your deck because you are so terrified that Ginny might find out and tell your mom. And I can’t believe you’re fucking demanding an explanation as if I’ve done something wrong.”

  “So that pervert stole your bikini and you don’t even mention it to me?” he seethes.

  “Yeah, silly me,” I reply. “I thought you might overreact, but look at how well you’re handling it.”

  He storms out of the kitchen, and I follow, but I feel empty, as if his doubt has stripped something from me. I can’t believe he thought it was true, even for a second. I can’t believe he had to ask.

  When I reach the bar, he’s already got Martin on the floor.

  It takes Brian, Matt, and Brooks—all three of them—to pull James off.

  “How was I supposed to know she was your girlfriend?” Martin demands as he climbs up, pulling his shirt to his nose to staunch the flow of blood. “You guys always have some slut leaving your house.”

  Bam.

  James hits him hard enough that he topples over a cocktail table.

  The shock on Ginny’s face morphs to horror. “Your girlfriend?”

  “I was going to tell you,” James says as if he’s admitting to a crime, to something he’s ashamed of. I thought I wanted him to admit we were together, but I never pictured it like this.

  “You have got to be fucking kidding me. Of all the people in the world, you had to choose Elle?”

  The sense of déjà vu is overwhelming. I see the wait staff, the customers who know me, casting covert looks my way. Suspicious looks, as if I’ve really done something shameful. It’s exactly like the morning I was fired from the internship, except these people should know better. Do they really believe I could have cheated on James with Martin? Of course they do—people are willing to believe anything of you, as long as it’s bad. Even James. Especially if your mother is Kelly Evans.

  James and Martin are yelling at each other. Ginny’s continuing to yell at James. None of them notice as I grab my bag and walk out the door.

  I’m nearly done packing by the time I hear James running up the steps. A moment later he stands there, blocking the light from the hallway.

  “You’re leaving?” he asks in astonishment.

  “Yes,” I spit out, wiping my eyes hastily, but unable to stem the flow of tears.

  “Why?” he asks. He actually looks confused, as if he wasn’t just in the restaurant a half hour ago accusing me of cheating on him.

  “You believed him,” I reply. “You believed Martin over me. Just like everyone else did.”

  “No, I didn’t,” he argues. “I was just…it took me by surprise is all. He showed me the bikini he said you left on his floor! There weren’t a lot of alternative explanations.”

  “But once I told you I hadn’t done it, you should have believed me, and you didn’t.”

  “Of course I did!” he shouts. “I just wanted to know why. I wanted it to make sense.”

  “I. Saw. Your. Face!” I shout back, my words punctuated by sobs. “And there was complete skepticism written all over it! There is always going to be a piece of you that associates me with my mom.”

  “That had nothing to do with it,” he insists. “I was just freaked out. I’ve got Ryan telling me you’ll sleep with him by the end of next month, and then Martin has this thing of yours, and… It took my brain a minute to catch up. God, you’re killing me. Stop crying.”

  He tries to pull me into him, and I push him off.

  “No,” I cry. “You don’t get to be the person who comforts me anymore.”

  He pulls me back to him, and this time he doesn’t let me bat him away. “Yes, I do.”

  “Let me go!”

  “No,” he says. “And you’re not going anywhere. You’re not going to let one little misunderstanding ruin this, because I’m not going to let you.”

  I try to knee him, and in one fluid motion he has me thrown over his shoulder like a sack of grain and is carrying me out of the room.

  “Put me down, asshole!” I shout, my fists pounding against his back.

  “You better not hit me like that on the stairs,” he says calmly, “or you’ll kill us both.”

  I ignore him, thrashing and crying and hitting him the entire way. He kicks open his bedroom door and shuts it, throwing me on the bed and falling on top of me before I can even think about scrambling away. He pins me down, his hands at my wrists, his heavy legs holding mine.

  “I’m not letting you drive off like this, Elle,” he says.“It’s nighttime, and you’re upset.”

  “Get off me.” I push at his chest but it’s like trying to move skyscraper.

  “Are you going to stay?”

  “No.”

  “Then I’m not getting off of you.”

  “You can’t hold me like this forever. And what did Martin mean, anyway, when he said there was always some slut leaving here? Have you had other girls here this summer?”

  He smirks. “Oh, now who’s the untrusting one?”

  “Nice way to evade the question.”

  “I haven’t been with anyone all summer except for you,” he says. “But let me ask you something. Let’s say I still got along really well with Allison, and we’re having some jokey call together just this afternoon and talking about seeing each other at school next weekend, and then she told you I’ll be sleeping with her again by the end of the month. Wouldn’t you freak out a little? And right after that, some girl walks into the bar with a pair of my boxers? Just how calm would you be in that precise moment?”

  I narrow my eyes. “I’d be exceedingly calm.”

  “You’re full of shit,” he says. “You jump to conclusions every time, Elle. The minute I question you, you think I’m comparing you to your mom.”

  “Well, maybe, but—”

  His mouth comes down on mine, silencing my words—his tongue, his lips, all of it hard and relentless. I want to hold on to my anger, but I can feel it dissipat
ing, replaced by other things I want more. He’s still holding my wrists, and he uses his teeth to raise my shirt, to pull at my nipples through the thin lace of my bra.

  He moves both hands to one wrist and tugs my shorts off. Then he unzips his own.

  A tremor runs through my whole body, listening to that sound, knowing what will follow it. He shoves my thong to the side and slides his fingers inside me, and I gasp against my will.

  “You’re soaked,” he pants. He finds my eyes with a look just shy of desperation. “Please, Elle. Tell me we’re okay.”

  I nod, and he shoves into me, hard, his groan even louder than my own. His mouth comes back to mine, no longer to silence my arguments.

  I press my lips to the soft skin along his neck, tasting salt and sweat and soap as his strokes become hard and fast, almost punitive. He lets go of my wrists and grabs my ass, holding me aloft so he can push farther into me.

  “Oh my God,” he groans. “I’m gonna come so hard.”

  And with those words, I seize up around him, too shocked by the suddenness and force of it to even think of stifling my cries, and he follows me violently.

  When he finally collapses on top of me, his mouth goes to my neck, my ear, my mouth, and mine to his, our skin slick, our breath still coming too fast.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, pulling back. “I’m so sorry I made you feel like that. But honestly, I did believe you. I really did. I was just pissed. I was pissed that he had a piece of you, for whatever reason, and it made me stupid and jealous. But I did believe you.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  This is all ending the same way whether he believed me or not.

  “Of course it matters,” he says, his voice suddenly slurred by exhaustion. Sex often does that to him, and he barely got any sleep last night. “We need to talk about things.”

  “What things?”

  “Not now,” he says, the words so sleep-riddled they’re almost incomprehensible. “Notabenfiting.”

  I interpret this to be along the lines of “not while we’ve been fighting.”

  His breath goes deep and even, and I take one last look at him. Those long lashes of his make him look so much younger at rest. I memorize the feeling of him, my head resting on his shoulder, his arm wrapped around me. My tears pool between my cheek and his skin, but he doesn’t wake.