“I’m a lot less sheltered than you think,” I counter, remembering all the times I had to drag my semi-conscious mother away from Flavio’s disgusting friends. “And you’re making it sound like I’m a moron. Like I’m outside hitchhiking in a halter top or walking around the house naked, and I’m not. I don’t walk off at night with guys I don’t know. I don’t accept drinks from strangers. Hell, Martin from next door has invited me over to watch “Game of Thrones” at least 10 times because you guys are too cheap to go in on HBO and I haven’t even done that.”
“Remind me to have a word with Martin,” he growls.
“But you see my point,” I argue.
“Ginny told me you considered going to the Hamptons when Ferris invited you.”
I throw my hands up. “He implied that he wanted to set me up with his son! And he’s my dad’s age! I think it was a reasonable misunderstanding.”
“Maybe it was, but she also told me the shit he said to you, and you should have known.”
“Thanks, James,” I rasp. “Because I don’t feel like a big enough asshole as it is.” I start to turn but he grabs my arm. I hate that, even at a moment like this, I’m still so absurdly conscious of him, of his bare chest and his vivid eyes and the place where his skin touches mine.
“I’m sorry,” he pleads. “You’re right, and this is coming out all wrong. I’m just trying to say that I feel protective of you, and you might not think you need it, but I do. I still remember the little girl who came to me crying at camp because she was homesick.”
“Everyone was little once. It doesn’t mean they still are.”
“I know,” he concedes. “And I’ll try to be better about it. Just please keep in mind that you’re pretty – no, not just pretty, you’re absurdly beautiful — and you haven’t been on your own that long, so you need to be careful.”
“If I’m so pretty,” I blurt out, “then why was kissing me such a mistake?”
He hesitates and then sighs deeply. “I just … don’t see you that way, Elle.”
I feel like I’ve been hit. Not that I hadn’t surmised as much by the way he practically ran screaming from the restaurant when it happened, but still — it hurts. “So you’re not attracted to me?” I ask.
“There isn’t a straight male alive who isn’t attracted to you,” he says hoarsely.
“So what’s the problem?” I persist. I hate myself for pushing this, but on the other hand it seems there’s nothing left to be lost.
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “You can find someone attractive and still not like them in the right way,” he finally says.
“Ouch,” I say quietly.
“Elle. You can’t take it personally. You can have anyone alive.”
“Not anyone,” I say, meeting his eye. I turn to go back to the house, knowing that he will let me go.
And knowing that he will watch me the whole time I’m walking away. That’s the part I don’t understand.
Chapter 22
Things change, superficially, after our talk. He’s polite and he no longer runs off when I walk in the room, but the strain is still there. And watching him struggle to be pleasant is almost worse. I still long to seek him out when my shift has ended and he’s sitting on the deck, but it’s muted by dread of what I know I’ll find: the way his smile will flicker out upon seeing me, the way he’ll grow solemn and watchful, removed as if I’m some danger he must guard against.
And it’s not only things with James that have gone bad.
It begins with Edward, who re-emerges on the cover of the tabloids because his wife is leaving him. There’s another picture of me, slightly less grainy than its predecessor. Corinne texts to say that reporters are asking the staff about me.
And then I go to yoga and they tell me my credit card has been declined. I don’t panic immediately, but there’s a little whisper of worry up my spine. For the first time it occurs to me how little I seem to know about my parents. If it’s possible that my mom’s dating an aging rock star and my dad is marrying a girl roughly my age, it’s also possible that he hasn’t been the beacon of financial responsibility I thought he was.
I stand on the deck and take a deep breath before I dial his number, knowing it will be a struggle to sound civil. It would have been anyway, but under these circumstances — his absolute failure to even try to contact me during all of this — it’s twice as hard.
“I’ve been meaning to call,” he says.
“What stopped you?” I ask.
“Your life isn’t the only one that’s gone haywire, Elle.” I’m not surprised by his attitude — that’s vintage Andrew Grayson. He’s everyone’s best friend and biggest supporter until he registers even a hint of criticism.
“I would think,” I reply, “that given your role in the ways my life has gone haywire, you might have made the effort.”
“You know, your little part in all this hasn’t made my situation any better either,” he retorts.
“My part?” I ask. “Exactly what part is that?”
“The network might have managed to spin this better if you hadn’t already done so much damage.”
“He was your friend, and I thought that was why he was helping me out. Are you really faulting me for that?” I hear the anger in my voice, a rasping kind of anger that could bleed to tears at a moment’s notice.
“You couldn’t have been so naive as to think he just wanted to take you to dinner every night, Elle,” he chides.
“Are you shitting me?” I snap. “You raised me and you can suggest that?”
“You need to watch your language.”
“And you need to watch yours, because I swear to God if you ever even hint that I knew what was happening I will never speak to you again.”
“You’re overreacting,” he says, sounding bored.
“Whatever,” I hiss. “I’m not calling about that. My Amex got declined this morning. What’s up?”
“I changed your limit,” he replies. His tone is both defiant and uncertain at once, as if he’s trying to defend something even he doesn’t believe.
“Changed it to what? Zero? Because I only tried to charge $20 to it.”
“Your credit limit is now $250, and it’s for emergencies only. Holly thinks you need to learn some responsibility,” he says.
“Responsible like her, perhaps? Should I get knocked up by my married boss as well?” I spit out.
“I’m not going to listen to this,” he says. “And you’re going to have to reimburse me for the current balance of that card.”
I’m so staggered I can’t speak. The arrangement we had is one he suggested — no, encouraged: I’d spend summers and breaks interning, he’d cover my expenses. I never got paid a dime during all those years I worked for him.
“And what is the current balance on that card?” I ask.
“About $3000,” he says.
“$3000?! I haven’t charged anything close to that amount!”