Page 5 of No One But Us

* * *

It’s not a long drive—about three hours, most of it in Maryland. I should be spending it worried about the internship, about the possibility that my name will get out to the press. Pathetically, I instead spend it thinking aboutJames.

The boy I remember doesn’t exist anymore. He’s an adult now, and I’m sure he’s changed. But the boy I remember was beautiful, and I’ve stared at him so long and so hard that I could sculpt his face with my eyes closed. The blade of his cheekbones and his nose, soft lips, the long lashes so at odds with his hard jaw. His eyes reminded me of the tea that used to steep on their back deck, a honeyed brown shot through withsunlight.

I spent as many hours as possible at Ginny’s house, largely for the thrill of watching him come home at night. There was always something so focused and certain about him, a sense that no matter what was going on, if you were with him it would all make sense, feelsafe.

He was left in charge of us, occasionally, when the nanny had to go. He watchedThe Princess Bridewith us one night, begrudgingly at first, and then with reluctant laughter. For years afterward, James made a point of saying “inconceivable” to almost anything I told him, just to make me giggle. I attached so much meaning to every kindness from him. Too much, I’msure.

I stop just outside of Rehoboth to clean up, and am slightly appalled by myself. My career is shot. My family is all over the paper in the most embarrassing way possible, and everyone thinks I’m sleeping with a married guy my father’s age. But what am I doing? I’m standing in the Royal Farms bathroom wondering if James Campbell will finally think I’mpretty.

* * *

The house is only a block off the beach, slightly run-down but nicer than I expected for a beach share. It’s owned by James and Ginny’s parents, who used to rent it and long ago decided it wasn’t worth the trouble. I think it was the summer someone took a dump in each of the dresser drawers, in every room of thehouse.

I knock on the door, and no one answers, though I hear a surprising amount of noise inside. I should have asked precisely how many housemates wehave. I text Ginny to say I’m outside, and moments later my best friend is flinging the door open wide, along with half the contents of the plastic cup in herhand.

“You’re here!” she squeals, hugging me. Ginny is small and fair, with bright red hair and delicate features—like an adorable little female leprechaun, if that leprechaun was super loud and opinionated. I’ve never understood how she and James could be the product of the same parents. Physically, they couldn’t be moredifferent.

She asks about my drive and if I’ve eaten and where my bags are without waiting for an answer, all the while dragging me through the very crowded living room. She opens the sliding glass door and pulls me toward thekeg.

“Hey, boys!” she shouts. “Your new roommate hasarrived!”

Several heads turn, but I’m only looking atone.

He wasn’t a fantasy. He wasn’t some figment of my 14-year-old baby hormones. James Campbell is 100% as beautiful as I remember. Only now, he’s grown-up hot. Steamy hot. A head taller than any guy at the keg. Tan. His brown hair already turning light with the sun, his eyes just as striking, as impenetrable, as they were. I’m tall enough now that if I went on my toes—my hands at his shoulders, index fingers pressing to the soft skin of his neck—I could just reach hismouth.

His brows come together, and he stares at me. “Elle?” He shakes his head as if to dislodge something. “You’re all grownup.”

I’m not sure why this is a surprise to him, given that his sister is 19 too. Then again, the last time he saw me I had braces, glasses, and was so skinny that my nickname was “Skeletor.” And Ginny’s so small, she looks a lot less 19 than Ido.

The guy beside him has dark hair and eyes and a sly smile that I’m guessing gets him a lot of action. He grins and extends a hand. “I’m Max. And you, very obviously, are Kelly Evans’daughter.”

Internally, I sigh. My mom quit modeling years ago, and she might have faded into obscurity were it not for one thing: the bathing suit poster—my mother in a white bikini with her arms over her head, every element of her anatomy visible. It has decorated more male bedroom walls than I ever want to contemplate, and not a week goes by that I don’t hear the following from a guy I’ve justmet:

1. That my mother is the first person he ever jerked off to (most guys imply this subtly, but not subtlyenough)

and

2. That I look just likeher.

Often I hear both things simultaneously, which is a particularly creepycombination.

“I had her poster on my wall in high school,” Maxsays.

I have a strong feeling he’s about to tell me more about this, but he’s cut off by James, who raises a brow at Max before turning tome.

“How was your drive?” heasks.

He seems unsettled by my presence here. He hasn’t smiledonce.

“Good,” I say. “I went to DC first, to my parents’ place.” I suppose, technically, it is now only my mom’s place. My mom, who still hasn’t returned mycalls.

He nods. “I’m sorry… Ginny told me about your parents and, uh, everythingelse.”

He offers to help carry in my stuff, so I follow him through the house, weaving through a sea of bodies to keepup.

“It’s not always like this,” he calls back to me. “Although if it were up to Max, it wouldbe.”

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