“What would you guys do without me?” he asks that afternoon, walking into the living room to find all of us sprawled on couches and corners, reading. “I’m guessing it would be all ‘Downton Abbey’ re-runs and Scrabble tournaments.”
“I’d kick your ass at Scrabble,” says James.
“I’m sure you would, but the fact that you’d even brag about that is a perfect illustration of my point,” counters Max.
It’s almost entirely at Max’s behest that we have people over so often, a fact that irritates Ginny to no end. Actually, everything about Max seems to irritate Ginny to no end. Mostly, she’s just appalled that he’s not more like her. That he dropped out of college only one semester shy of graduation and appears to have no interest in returning. That he spends his winters as a ski instructor and his summers tending bar and seems completely content. Decisions that Ginny finds unimaginable.
“We’re having a blow-out Tuesday, by the way, since you’re all off,” he informs us.
“As opposed to what you host every other night of the week?” Ginny asks snidely.
“I’m doing it for you, Gin Gin,” he replies. “To help you remove the large stick that seems to have accidentally been wedged in your ass.”
“Yeah, well that ‘large stick’ is what’s going to make me rich and successful one day, while you’re … what? Some washed-up old guy still tending bar?”
He shrugs. “There are worse outcomes than that.”
This bothers Ginny tremendously. “How do you plan to support a family that way?” she demands.
“I’ll know that when it’s time for me to know. Besides,” he adds with a grin, “what part of my behavior has led you to think for one moment that I’m interested in having a family?”
“So all you want out of life is to bang a different girl every night?” she snarls. I’m surprised by her tone – it’s unusually aggressive, even for her.
“No,” he replies. “If we’re talking about ideal outcomes, I’d bang two or three.”
Ginny is still bitching about Max that night while we get ready.
“He’s such a pig,” she says. “And who are all these skanks he hangs out with? Do they have no self-respect?”
I laugh. “Not everyone is a Campbell,” I remind her. The acorn didn’t fall far from the tree with Ginny. Both of her parents are intense and driven. They don’t believe people make mistakes: they believe people have failed to plan. And they have fairly stringent views on human conduct — anything outside of their tightly proscribed moral code is looked upon with horror. I can only imagine what they think of my father, and me, right now.
Downstairs, both the house and deck are already full of people. “At least there are lots of men,” says Ginny.
“Did something happen between you and Alex?” I ask. The idea is almost unthinkable. They are as alike as two people ever were.
“No,” she says. “But I can look. Besides, I meant for you.”
“I think I’m over men for a while,” I tell her. What I really mean is that I am over all men but one, but even if I wanted to talk to Ginny about James, would there be a point? He has a girlfriend and he can barely stand to be in the same room as me. I’d say that makes the prognosis for our future together pretty poor.
“You can’t let that thing with Ryan kill your mojo,” she says.
I laugh. My ex-boyfriend is the furthest thing from my mind, something I didn’t even realize until she mentioned him. He’s my ex for a reason, after all. Actually several very good reasons. “It has nothing to do with Ryan,” I tell her. “I’m just not into it. There’s enough drama with my family to keep me busy for one summer.”
“That’s exactly why you need a man,” she counters. “To take your mind off things.”
I force myself to survey the room again — maybe finding someone to take my mind off James isn’t such a bad idea. But I look at the men here and find that their non-James-ness makes them about as appealing as crackers to a dry mouth.
“Ugh, gross,” Ginny whispers. “Martin is here.” Martin is our strange next-door neighbor. He’s older — maybe 30 — and seems to live in the house next door all by himself. He tends to just hang out on his front stoop, engaging whoever walks by in awkward, unending conversation. And though he isn’t invited, he apparently feels welcome to crash parties at our house. Ginny and I go around the back way to avoid him and end up sitting on the deck with James and Max. I briefly wonder why Max insists on these parties at all — he only seems to want to hang out with us no matter who is here.
He drapes his arm around my shoulders. “I want to hear more about this ex-boyfriend of yours,” he says.
The whole thing with Ryan, surprisingly, doesn’t hurt, and I really thought it would. We dated the entire year, and though I initiated the break-up, it was his douchebaggery that precipitated it. We’d been good together, but not perfect. “What do you want to hear?”
“Just what he did wrong,” he says. “So I know what not to mess up when we’re a couple.” He throws up his hands in response to James’s raised brow. “I’m kidding. But seriously, what did he do? So I’ll know once we’re a couple.”
“We had different thoughts on fidelity,” I reply.
“Oh my God,” Max cackles. “He cheated on you? What a moron.”
“I like how you emphasize the word ‘you’” scoffs Ginny. “Like it’s okay to cheat, but not on a girl who’s hot.”
“He didn’t cheat on me,” I reply. “But it was clear that a summer apart was going to be an issue.”
“So he couldn’t go for one summer without it, and lost you because of it,” concludes Max.
Ginny snorts. “Right, like you could? You wouldn’t even make it a week.”
“I could for the right girl, Gin Gin,” he purrs. “Why don’t you dump that tool you’re dating and find out?”
She rolls her eyes. “Please.”
“Oh, what’s that?” asks Max, holding a hand to his ear. “Did you fail to write me into your 10-year plan? I think you might have forgotten the following bullet point: ‘sexual awakening that occurs once I suspect my high school boyfriend sucks in bed’.”
James just laughs. His eyes are softer, almost liquid, in the moonlight. Sprawled out in the chair he’s too big for, an easy smile on his face. It’s impossible not to be drawn to him in moments like this.
Ginny and Max are consumed by their bickering, which I get the sense they both secretly enjoy.
“They’re going to do this all summer, aren’t they?” I ask James.
“Yep,” he sighs. “Makes that internship in Boston look a little more appealing.”
“You don’t mean that,” I smile.
“No,” he says. “Nothing could be worth working there again.”
“Why did you hate it so much?” I ask.
“I just didn’t care about the work,” he says. “I don’t want to give up my whole life to helping some rich-ass company delve into the tax implications of moving their headquarters. I want it to mean more than that.” There’s unhappiness in his voice, though, as if he can’t stand fully behind his position.