I swallow my tears, but my voice is still rough. “No one but you thinks that.”
“Look,” he says. “I can remember babysitting you. I can remember giving you piggyback rides. I remember you learning how to read. And now … you look like an adult and … ”
“I am an adult,” I tell him.
“You’re not,” he argues. “You look like an adult but it’s an illusion, because there’s just as big a difference between us as there was when you were younger. And it’s killing me because the adult you is … well, it’s you,” he says, gesturing at me. “You’re … perfect.”
“So when I’m 80 and you’re 86, is the age difference still too great?” I ask.
His jaw sets. “That’s different.”
“How?”
“You’ve only been out of your parents’ house for a year. You can’t even drink yet. There’s just a lot that happens soon and you haven’t lived any of it.”
“I disagree. I think this is just about you wanting to see Ginny as a child, and because of that you have to see me as a child. Because I guarantee you that I could walk inside right now and Max would agree that I was adult enough to do anything I offered to do.”
His face grows grim and his eyes darken. “Don’t even fucking think about it.”
“So did you mean the things you said?”
He closes his eyes. “I don’t remember what I said. And I don’t want to know what I said. But yeah, most likely, it was all true.” He looks over at me. “So are you going to tell me what happened?”
“You tell me,” I say. “What do you remember?”
He sits again. “I don’t want to tell you because I’m not sure what was a dream and what wasn’t.”
“Why would you assume any of it was a dream?”
“Because … ” he flinches. “Because it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had fairly vivid dreams about you.”
A muscle in my belly flips over. “Really?” I smile.
“That hardly makes me unique,” he sighs. “I’m sure every guy in this house has had vivid dreams about you.”
“Tell me what you remember,” I offer, “and I’ll tell you if it’s correct.”
“I kissed you,” he begins. He looks over at me and I nod. “And I remember you telling me to go to bed. And then we were in my room and there was more, but it’s all vague. That’s the part I’m less sure about.” He looks to me beseechingly, but I stay silent. “So we didn’t sleep together?”
“No,” I reply.
“Did you, uh … ” he looks at me again, and I wait. “Did you give me … ” He trails off, unable to even ask.
“No,” I sigh. “Nothing happened. I stopped it because when it happens, I want it to be something you actually remember the next day.”
He shakes his head. “It’s not ever going to happen.”
I laugh, and the sound is slightly evil, like Max hatching a plan. “If you say so.”
Chapter 30
James naturally reenters his avoidance phase, and doesn’t even speak to me until two days later when another massive bouquet arrives.
“What the fuck?” he snarls. “It has to be Edward again.”
“He must be in luuuuuuv,” drawls Ginny. “Or lust.”
James ignores her. “I thought you were going to tell him to cut it out?” His voice is sharp with anger.
I feel immediate irritation at the implied accusation.
“I did,” I snap. “I’ve told him several times, in fact.”
“Several times? You mean you’re having multiple conversations with this guy?”
“He’s the one who keeps calling. And the only reason I ever called him back was because he said he had a job for me.” I open the card. It says ‘I hope you’ll change your mind’, followed by some sonnet I think is Shakespeare. If Max were here, he’d undoubtedly know.
James rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I bet he had a job for you alright.”
“Be an asshole about it all you want,” I say. “And you’re right. It was a total ruse to get me to come see him. But unlike you, I know what I want, and I don’t turn down potential opportunities the second they make me uncomfortable.”
I can tell by the look on his face that he knows exactly what I’m referring to.
He’s about to respond just as Max walks out of his room, yawning. “Can you two keep your lovers’ quarrels restricted to the outside of the house?” he asks, and then he notices the flowers. “Wow. I know you give an amazing blowjob, Elle, but that’s … ”
There’s a sickening thud as his body hits the wall. James has him pinned by his throat, and it all takes place so quickly that I stand speechless, my brain racing to make sense of what has just happened.
“And how,” says James, his voice lethal, his grip crushing, “would you know that?”
Max throws his hands up. “Jesus. Settle down. I know because Ryan told me.”
Ginny seems relieved, oddly enough, but James still stands there, unappeased, holding Max to the wall as if he’s been frozen in that position.
“Let him go, James,” I whisper. “He didn’t do anything wrong.” James doesn’t budge. “Let him go,” I say more insistently.
When he finally releases Max, I turn and walk out, my face so warm that I can almost feel it pulsing. I hate this. I hate all of it. I can’t believe Ryan told Max that, of all things. I can’t believe Edward is still calling, is still sending flowers, as if we had some kind of torrid affair. Given how limited my experience is, this summer is beginning to feel like one long after-school special about the dangers of being a slut. If it weren’t for James’s continual presence, I’d be considering celibacy at this point.
**
Ginny asks the next night if I want to go down to Dewey after our shift. There’s an odd tension between us that is never entirely absent, though we act as if it is, so I agree. But I don’t really want to go, and I doubt she does either.
The whole endeavor is tinged with desperation, with our mutual fear that the friendship we’ve both counted on for our entire lives may be done whether we want it to be or not. It’s a conclusion that seems unavoidable as the night wears on. As her mysterious irritation with me grows. She’s spent the entire night pointing out cute guys I should approach, chatting up guys on my behalf even after I’ve made my whole-hearted lack of interest clear.
“I’m trying to help you out,” she complains, as I slide away from the most recent guy she’s dragged over.
“I don’t want any help,” I tell her. “I’m just not into it.”
“What’s your deal?” she asks. “I’m beginning to think you’re dating someone you just aren’t telling me about.” There’s something unhappy — bitter, even — in her eyes.
“Why would I do that?” I ask. “And how? When am I ever not at work or the house?”
“If it was someone in the house you could get away with it,” she says. It sounds like an accusation.