**
The next morning James emerges from his room just as I’m leaving for my spin class. “I’ll walk with you,” he says. “I need better coffee than the shit we drink here.”
“Okay,” I say cautiously. He’s trying to prove he doesn’t avoid me. All it really proves is that he doesn’t want it to appear he avoids me, but I’ll take it.
We take the boardwalk, though it’s not the most direct route. Early in the day like this, when the tourists still sleep and Funland is closed, Rehoboth feels peaceful, whole. Even the water seems calmer. I enjoy my solitary walks, but this is better. His presence makes almost anything better for me, while mine appears to do the opposite for him.
We part at the studio’s door. “Well, enjoy your class,” he says.
“Enjoy your coffee,” I reply. Rest assured that you’ve checked off ‘prove I don’t hate Elle’ from today’s to-do list.
But later he comes to the beach with me, as if he’s trying to squeeze a whole summer of civility into one day. Probably so he won’t ever have to do it again.
“What are you reading?” he asks, when we’ve laid our towels down.
“Madame Bovary,” I reply, sliding it toward him.
“Are you reading it because you think you’ll enjoy it, or are you reading it because you think you’re supposed to?” he asks.
I shrug. “You know, it’s just one of those books you always hear about.”
He grins. “So it’s a ‘supposed to’ book.”
“I guess,” I reply. “But hopefully I’ll enjoy it too.”
“Do you ever do anything just because, and not to further yourself in some way?” he asks.
“You sound like Max,” I reply. “What are you reading, then, Max Jr?”
He looks surprised for a moment and then grins sheepishly. “Two Treatises by John Locke.”
“Seriously?” I laugh. “You’re reading John Locke and giving me shit?”
He smiles wide, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You’ve got a good point. I’d suggest we go to the bookstore and get crappy beach reads, but I’m too scared of turning into Max.”
“I think a little Max could benefit us both,” I tell him.
“Did you know he’s got an IQ of like 150 or something?” James asks.
“I’m not surprised,” I reply. “Every once in a while he says something almost profound.”
“He ought to go back to school. I’m worried he’s never going to find his ‘path’ or whatever it is he claims he’s doing.”
“And now you sound like Ginny.”
“Shit,” James groans. “I think I’d rather sound like Max.”
Our time together is surprisingly comfortable. We both read, and take turns making fun of each other’s books. He falls asleep on top of his and I watch him, the way his long lashes sweep his cheeks and his lower lip falls open, begging me to run my thumb across it.
It’s one of the best days of my life. I’m not sure why it surprises me to discover it.
He enjoys it too. Not in a polite way, not in a way that essentially means “this is bearable.” He really enjoys it. I watch the weight lift off him as the afternoon progresses, his smile spreading as easily as spilled liquid.
I make him happy. I just wish I wasn’t the only one of us who realizes it.
Chapter 26
Hot tea is my nemesis. Who the hell orders hot tea when it’s 100 degrees outside, in a bar with no a/c? Hot tea requires a cup, saucer, tea bag, spoon, lemon slice. The odds of me successfully remembering all of these items are slim. The odds of me wanting to go to this much trouble for an item that costs $1.99 are non-existent.
Once my customer stops bitching to Brian about the fact that I brought her Earl Grey when she specified chamomile, and once I’m done wishing I’d laced her hot water with arsenic, I go back to cocktail, where I have two guys drinking steadily and trying to “accidentally” elbow my breasts every time I come to their table.
Ashleigh stands nearby, smirking. She loves watching me get into trouble. She sidles up beside me after I finish serving the breast-elbowers. “You know, you might want to see if Edward Ferris will give you another chance. I’m guessing you’re better on your back than you are on your feet.”
It’s only 1 p.m. and I’m already exhausted. Too exhausted to put up with her shit, anyway.
“Maybe if you were better on your back, James would give you the time of day,” I retort. Again not heeding my mother’s advice to be smart as opposed to defiant, because now James is single and I’ve just given Ashleigh something to prove.
I’m still stewing over what she said when I get home, so irritated that I don’t even notice the massive bouquet of flowers sitting on the counter at first.
“Someone likes you an awful lot,” says Ginny. I notice her tone, the flatness of it, before I see what she’s referring to.
They can’t be for me. Ryan has given me flowers before, but he’s more the type to steal them from someone’s yard — or grave — than this. And this bouquet is hardly a “come back to me, college girlfriend” one anyway. It says something more along the lines of “Marry me, Kim Kardashian.” It’s that big. Like a bouquet that ate all the others around it right before it left the shop.
I approach the card cautiously. Maybe my father, apologizing? File that under ‘things least likely to happen in this lifetime’.
The card is written in curling, feminine script — clearly a flower store employee did the work — but its contents make my skin crawl.
“Ugh,” I groan. I grab the whole vase and march to the trash can, where I am body-blocked by Ginny.
“Stop!” she screams. “That’s like $500 worth of flowers! Are you crazy?”
I shove the vase at her. “Fine,” I say. “Now they’re yours. But I don’t want to look at them.”
She sets them down and grabs the card off the counter, reading it aloud. “‘Elle, You are the springtime I dreamed of so desperate during the cold winter chills. Edward’ Did he write that? What the hell does that even mean?”
“It’s Wagner,” says Max easily. “Act One of The Valkyries.”
“Damn, Max,” replies Ginny. “The drugs haven’t killed all your brain cells after all.”
James’s voice comes next, a low growl that sends a chill up my spine. “Why the fuck is he sending you flowers?”
I round on him. “And why are you acting like I’ve done something wrong?”
His jaw sets. “I didn’t mean that to come out the way it did,” he says. “That guy just makes me sick. You’re a child and he’s a predator.”
“I’m not a child,” I huff.
“So you like the way he’s trying to buy you with flowers and Wagner quotes?” he demands.
“No,” I reply. “Obviously I don’t since I was about to throw them in the garbage. But the whole situation is disgusting enough without you dramatizing it. I’m not a child.”
“Then show it,” he replies. “Call him and tell him to cut this shit out.”