He shrugs. “Eventually,” he says.
“Isn’t she coming any minute now?”
He turns the channel to ESPN. “No clue,” he replies.
I look to Ginny quizzically and she rolls her eyes at me in disgust. “Can you make sure his bathroom is clean?” she asks.
“I can almost guarantee you that his bathroom is not clean,” I tell her.
“Well then can you go take care of it?” she asks, piqued, as if it’s the most obvious request in the world.
“You seriously expect me to go clean your brother’s filthy bathroom so that his girlfriend won’t be grossed out?”
“Oh, sorry media princess, I forgot you’re too good for that.”
“Stop being a bitch, Ginny,” shouts James over the TV. “And both of you stay the fuck out of my room.”
I go upstairs to shower. I need to get ready for work anyway, but mostly I want to stay out of the line of fire. God only knows what Ginny will expect next. I dry my hair, put on some makeup since I’m working cocktail tonight and my tips tend to be specifically correlated to my appearance, and throw on my uniform. I hesitate, for a moment, when I see myself in the mirror. I kind of don’t want to meet Allison looking this skanky.
“Fuck it,” I sigh, realizing that I’ve caught Ginny’s hero worship. I’ve had dinner with celebrities. I’ve met the past three presidents and done shots with a head of state. I refuse to be intimidated by this girl just because she made law review.
And then I completely regret my stance. I can see her from inside the house, perched on the arm of James’s chair. She is long and elegant, her sleek black hair is straight out of a shampoo commercial. She’s still in the suit she must have worn to work, and despite the drive her clothes look like she just pulled them off the dry cleaner’s hanger ten minutes ago. While I look like I’m walking straight out of a country music video.
“Fuck it,” I say again, and I emerge from the house.
Her eyes rake over me, assessing, disdainful, and before even a word has been said I know this girl hates me.
We are introduced. If an alligator smiled, it would look just the same: all teeth and a clear intent to attack.
“You must get plenty of tips, dressed like that,” she says.
“That’s the uniform, Allison,” says James. She tenses at his defense of me.
“At the bar you work at?” she asks him. “Is it a strip club?”
“At the bar I work at. And that’s the uniform she’s forced to wear,” he says, the words clipped and angry. “The same one Ginny is forced to wear. So maybe you should tone it down some, huh?”
She looks incredibly displeased now, and she appears to blame me for all of it. At least I no longer have to feel guilty about wanting to steal her boyfriend.
**
I stay at work late, taking over Kristy’s section when I’m done. I’ll do anything to avoid what’s occurring at home. If Allison and James aren’t in bed already, they’re headed there, and that’s nothing I need to see.
The house is surprisingly quiet when I get home, but then I notice James’s shut door and realize why it’s so quiet. I guess everyone was giving them their privacy, and the reason for that makes me a little sick. I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and go to the back deck, coming to a dead stop at the door. James is there. And he’s sitting by himself.
“Hi,” I say tentatively. “I didn’t know anyone was out here. I’ll leave you alone.”
“Stay,” he says, half invitation and half command.
I sit, taking a curious sideways glance over at him. He looks worn — the stubble, the circles under his eyes. He never did shower. He still looks like shit. Granted, he looks like gorgeous shit that I would do very, very bad things to given the chance, but for him … it’s not his best look.
“What’s up?” I ask. “Where is everyone?”
“Ginny and the guys went out,” he says. “Allison went to bed.”
Without you? I think it but keep it to myself. He hasn’t seen his girlfriend in weeks. You’d think they’d be going at it like animals injected with extra testosterone.
“So why are you out here?” I ask softly.
He shrugs, and looks over at me. His face, in the moonlight, looks both young and old. Resolved and torn. “I broke up with her. In May. She asked me to wait, to not make any rash decisions because she thinks this is just me freaking out. But I don’t even want to be in the same room with her.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, but it’s a lie. I’ve never been less sorry in my life. I’m so thrilled I could burst into a song-and-dance number right here on the deck.
“I used to be more like Ginny,” he says. “I knew exactly what I wanted and how I was going to get there and if I had doubts I just ignored them and plowed through. I’m not sure what it says about me that I can’t seem to do that anymore.”
“Maybe you just realize that the value of any outcome isn’t the outcome itself, but whether it’s going to make you happy when it’s all said and done,” I suggest.
“What do you mean?” he asks.
“Take Ginny, for instance,” I say. “She’s so hell-bent on marrying Alex because he’s a part of this grand scheme she has. And she’s ignoring some pretty clear signals that she wants something else, because she’s telling herself that the grand scheme is what will make her happy. But if it’s entirely composed of things that don’t make her happy now, how could that be true?” I ask. “She’s so devoted to the outcome that she won’t allow herself to question it.”
He meets my eye then, and it’s just like the last time we spoke about law school. The time he said I was dangerous. He looks at me as if he’s surprised to find me here at all, as if he’s suddenly seeing me for the first time. In a good way. “You’re so young, but sometimes I listen to you and it feels like you’re the one who’s older. You say things that I’ve thought when I’m at my best, at my clearest, but you say them with so much certainty that I believe them coming from you.”
“That’s my newscaster voice,” I smile. “I’ve been trained since birth to deliver complete bullshit with authority.”
“You could still do that, you know,” he says. “People will forget.”
“I don’t know,” I sigh. “A part of me still wants it, and another part thinks that no matter what I accomplish, people are always going to think of me as the intern who slept with Edward Ferris. Twenty years from now, there will continue to be some doubt about whether I truly earned the position I’m in.”
“There’d have been doubt anyway,” he says gently. “Look at who your dad is. Or was. There was always going to be some question of whether you’d gotten where you were because of yourself or because of him. There probably isn’t a single female on TV who hasn’t had someone suggest, or think, that they used their looks to get where they are.”
“I suppose,” I say. “It’s not just that, though. The way they covered it all up, the way they made me the guilty party when they knew I wasn’t. Even the way they initially tried to cover up my father’s affair … it’s just kind of repugnant. I don’t know that I want to be a part of that.”