Page 44 of No One But Us

When he finally releases Max, I turn and walk out, my face so warm I can almost feel it pulsing. I hate this. I hate all of it. I can’t believe Ryan told Maxthat, of all things. I can’t believe Edward is still calling, 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, except I don’t think I ever was one. Mostly I hate that James, the only person I’ve actually kissed since school ended, seems so willing to believe the worst ofme.

When I get back upstairs, I find Ginny in bed with her books around her, her jaw set with tension, just like her brother’s is so often. They really look absolutely nothing alike, but they both react to stresspoorly.

“Allison and James broke up,” she says. “I hope you’rehappy.”

I roll my eyes. “I had nothing to do with that. He broke up with her lastweek.”

“He was justconfused.”

“Whose interpretation is that—yours or Allison’s? Because it sounds not one iota like what I heard fromJames.”

“Since when are you and James so close?” she asks. “But then, I guessyou’reclose to everyone, aren’tyou?”

“What’s that supposed tomean?”

“Nothing,” shesays.

I get the feeling, however, that the opposite is true. She’s so stiff with rage, it’s as if she can’t decide what accusation to hurlfirst.

“But maybe you and your family should learn to keep your hands toyourselves.”

“Are you shitting me? Are you seriously trying to compare me with myfather?”

“No,” she says coldly. “I don’t thinkanyonerelated to you is all thatinnocent.”

* * *

I wait all day for James to explain what happened the previous night and why he ran, but I don’t actually lay eyes on him until I get to The Pink Pelican that afternoon. I look toward the bar just in time to catch him turning away, his jaw locked shut as if he can somehow cage me out. If there were a noise associated with your heart breaking, I’d be making it rightnow.

All night he avoids me, and it’s so much worse than the early days when I felt invisible. Now it’s as if I am so noxious to him that he can’t stand to look. When I walk onto the deck later, after work, I’m not even in a chair before he’s rising to leave, mumbling something about going for a run, though it’s aftermidnight.

I want to go back in time. I want to go back to a time before I knew he would reject me and Ginny would turn on me. Before I knew what it was like to feel him pressed against me, to imagine I heard raw need in his voice as he groaned my name. I want to go back to a time when he was a distant memory and not this thing I feel inside me, as real as the fists he’s clenched as he walkspast.

It’s been an eventful month, but this is the first thing that feels like more than I canbear.

* * *

I call my mom the next morning, and shockingly, she answers. “I’m so glad you called, Elle!” she says. “You’ll never guess what I’m being consideredfor.”

Please don’t let it be another of Tommy’s videos. My mom is still very pretty, but I don’t need the whole world watching her slither over a car in a bikini again. It’ll feel like it was me doing it, and that’s how everyone who sees me willact.

“RealHousewives!”

I flinch. It’s actuallyworsethan my mother in one of Tommy’s videos—a syndicated show filming her drinking too much and screaming at other women, with her random hookups a topic for morning shows and the other, more chaste,wives.

“They’re doing Real Housewives in DCagain?”

“No,” she says breezily. “I’ll need to move. Probably Beverly Hills. Exciting,right?”

“Sure,” I reply. “That’s great. But hey, I was just calling to tell you I’m going back to the townhouse in Georgetown. I hope that’sokay.”

“What?” she asks, soundingdistracted.

“Things just aren’t going well here,” I reply. My voice sounds tinny in an effort not to cry. She isn’t paying close enough attention to hear it,though.

“Tommy’s friends are still at the house now. Check back with me in a week and maybe they’ll begone.”

She hangs up, leaving me feeling more hollow than I did before we spoke. My mother’s helplessness always ensured that I’d be wanted somewhere, that I’d have something or someone to call home. I sometimes resented how much she needed me, but it’s only now—now that she no longer does—that I realize I needed hertoo.

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