“Meditation?”
“To get laid.”
“Those two things don’t solve everything, Max,” I tell him.
He looks at me as if I’ve grown a unicorn horn off of my forehead. “Of course they do.”
**
I go to the meditation studio with Max. It doesn’t really look all that clean. Maybe that’s why people close their eyes when they meditate. I look at the grimy blankets and bolsters and wish I’d brought my own yoga mat. Or some disinfectant.
The teacher guides us all to close our eyes, but it doesn’t stop me from thinking about the dirt.
She starts telling us to take deep breaths. I listen for a few moments and then I ignore her and think about James. Why is he so hot and cold with me? If he thinks I’m so fantastic, then why does he avoid me like the plague?
The leader tells us to release our thoughts, which I do for about 30 seconds. And then I think about how angry I am at Ginny, and how badly I wish I knew what James was thinking.
I breathe in to the count of 10, hold for 10, release for 10. Then I go back to thinking about James.
Breathe.
Stop thinking about him.
Breathe.
He must just work out way more than we know because his abs … everything … is perfect. Where is he working out?
Breathe.
Maybe he wouldn’t even be good in bed.
Breathe.
Please. You know he’s good in bed. And would it matter if he wasn’t? No. I mean it wouldn’t be ideal, necessarily, but I like him for more than that.
Breathe.
I can’t fucking believe Ginny.
Breathe.
God. I am so bad at this. Is that a bug on my leg?
**
This is pretty much how I spend the next hour. It doesn’t feel all that restorative. Ginny is pulling up from work as we get home. She glares at us and walks inside without a word.
Yep, not all that restorative.
**
Ginny and I avoid each other for the next few days. By Thursday we have brokered some kind of tentative ceasefire. We speak in passing, sit out on the deck at the same time. But it’s not the same thing as being friends. And it’s certainly nothing like being best friends. I look at her warily now. She looks at me warily too, which I find infuriating. Not once during our entire lives have I ever stolen someone’s boyfriend or even attempted it. But Allison suggests it and it’s as good as true in her mind.
James is not himself either. He seems legitimately troubled by something, and tired. He’s been running a lot at night, and he’s different with me — more alert and restrained than normal. I look toward the bar and find him watching me, something pained in his face before he turns away.
The next time I see that dark, brooding look on his face, curiosity wins out.
“Are you okay?” I ask him abruptly.
He looks surprised. “Yeah. Why?”
“You look tired. And troubled. Ginny thinks it’s because you miss Allison.”
He barks a short laugh. “Yeah. Ginny is wrong.”
“So you’re finally a free man. Shouldn’t you be overjoyed?” I ask. The second I say it, a horrible possibility unfolds in my mind. He’s free to date. Date like Max does. He’s free to not come home or to slide some girl still wearing last night’s clothes past the kitchen the next morning.
That dark look on his face only deepens. “It’s complicated.”
I’d like to ask him to clarify, but I don’t. Selfishly, I don’t want to help him untangle this knot of worries. It might lead him further away from me.
Chapter 19
Things are almost back to normal between me and Ginny by the time her birthday rolls around. I get off my lunch shift early and walk into the kitchen to find James baking cupcakes for tonight’s party.
“Now this is a sight I thought I’d never see.”
“Guys bake. Haven’t you ever watched ‘Cupcake Wars’?” he asks, his mouth quirking up to the right a bit.
“Sure,” I laugh. “But you’re James. You know, all alpha male and stomach muscles and testosterone.”
Ooops. That may have gone too far.
He grins. “I feel like I’m being typecast.” He hands me a beater covered in frosting. “Try it.”
He watches me run my tongue along the outside of the beater.
“Oh my God,” I moan. I expected the standard confectioner’s sugar/butter combo, but it turns out that James makes amazing frosting. “It’s so good.” There’s a flicker in his eyes that, for the briefest moment, goes bright and feral.
“Damn, Elle,” grins Max. “Thanks for that. I always wondered what you’d sound like during … ”
“Shut it,” James growls.
I smile at Max. “That was nothing. I’m much louder during sex.”
Max laughs, but James turns away quickly. And that makes Max laugh even more.
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 and Max had to call in a few favors to get a table.
They go ahead of us to set up while Ginny and I get dressed. It’s still awkward around her. She looks at me as if I’m keeping some vile secret that only she knows.
She sighs as she looks through her closet. “If I were six inches taller I’d be wearing your clothes every day.”
“You look adorable,” I tell her.
“But I can’t compete with you,” she says. “I mean, look at that dress. And those shoes.”
I’m wearing strappy gold heels and one of the new dresses I bought for my summer in the city: a white dress that appears 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 I’m grateful.
“You aren’t competing with me,” I tsk. “And besides, you look amazing. If you’re not happy with what you have on, you could always wear one of my shirts with one of your skirts.”
Numerous outfit changes ensue, and she is finally pleased with mere seconds to spare. We arrive at the restaurant and are ushered onto the back brick patio. Ginny goes off to greet her guests, and I go find Max and James. My first sight of James makes me sigh with want. 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 his hair glinting gold from time outside, makes his eyes appear even warmer. He and Max are laughing, and I’m in the middle of thinking how much I love the way laughter makes his eyes crinkle at the corners when he sees me and his face falls flat.
He looks positively grim by the time I reach them.
“Wow,” says Max. “That dress is … holy shit. I think you’re actually even hotter than your mom.”
“How is that dress even staying up?” James scowls.
Max elbows him. “Stop being a dick, dude. Tell her she looks nice.”
James frowns at that. “You look, uh, grown-up.”
I roll my eyes. That’s really not the same thing as ‘nice’. “That’s because I am grown-up.”
“Your driver’s license begs to differ,” he counters.