Page 19 of No One But Us

“I know,” I replied.

“Why are you acting like someone just gave you a month to live?” he asked. “The hottest girl either of us has ever laid eyes on just walked onto the deck and told us she’s our fucking housemate.”

“That girl is only 19, so here are the rules: you don’t touch her, you don’t flirt with her, you don’t even think about her in a way you wouldn’t think of your own sister.”

I knew I was asking the impossible. Because I was already breaking that last rule myself.

Now, not quite three weeks later, it’s so much worse. Everywhere I turn, I see her. I walk into the fucking laundry room, and there she is, holding the tiniest scrap of a thong in her hand. That was 24 hours ago. I’ve spent about 23 of those hours thinking about that thong: pulling it to the side with her on her hands and knees in front of me. Sliding it down her legs as she stands against the wall. Or just tearing it in half in my impatience.

My dad calls and asks how “the girls” are, as if they’re in grade school. It only makes me feel worse.

“This is all very hard on your mom,” he adds. “She’s not eating a lot.”

I want it to not be my fault, and I already know it is. “I didn’t think the internship thing would hit her so hard.”

“It’s that, but you know...anything related to the Graysons sets her off too.”

It almost feels like he wants me to ask. He wants me to say what happened with Elle’s family? Except I don’t, because if my assumptions are correct, it will only make me dislike my father and feel worse for my mom. And if I feel any worse, I won’t be able to do what I plan to do next.

Chapter 13

ELLE

“I’m sorry I haven’t called!” my mom gushes breathlessly when she finally picks up the phone, as if I’m one of her girlfriends and not her only child. “Things have been kuh-razy.”

I’m used to my parents’ complete lack of interest in me, but for some reason it still stings, even after all this time. That I haven’t heard from my father since that testy phone call a few weeks ago doesn’t surprise me—he’s always operated under the assumption that I was old enough to take care of myself, even when I was barely old enough to know what the phrase meant. And I guess he has his hands full, what with his most recent tabloid cover, titled “The Downfall of an Icon,” his girlfriend, future baby, and job status.

But my mom, too, has been mysteriously absent, which hurts and troubles me simultaneously. I’ve spent so much of my life pulling her, stumbling drunk, from unsavory situations that when it takes her a while to return my calls, I panic.

“Is everything okay?” I ask.

“Couldn’t be better!” she squeals. “I’m on tour!”

“On tour?” My voice is regrettably loud. All three of my housemates glance at me.

“Do you remember how I dated Tommy McPhee before I met your father?”

Tommy McPhee is the lead singer of Thunder Jungle, this rock band that went through a brief period of intense fame in the late 80s/early 90s, before fading into relative obscurity. They still tour, and even put out a greatest hits album, although I can’t imagine what they filled it with since they had three or four hits at most. I’ve seen a few pictures of my mother with their squirrelly lead singer. I’m pretty sure she’s at least five inches taller than him, but his hair is so big it makes up the difference.

“Yeah, I remember,” I say cautiously, wondering where this is going.

“Well, we kind of rekindled our friendship,” she says.

“If he’s just your friend,” I say, biting down on the word, “then why are you on tour with him?”

My housemates glance at me, sensing the change in tone.

“Well, I suppose he’s actually kind of my boyfriend. We’re just waiting to announce it. I’m hoping your father can finish his contract negotiations before it comes out.”

Did it never occur to her to mention it to me? If we weren’t having this conversation right now, would she even have told me before it appeared in the tabloids?

“I’m surprised you care,” I reply. “Since you’re getting a divorce.”

“Half that money’s mine,” she says primly.

It’s funny how she’s suddenly capable of acting like an adult when there’s money on the line.

I listen to her babble on about concert dates and how “rad” it’s been, before she asks if I’d mind staying somewhere other than the townhouse. “Tommy’s friends are coming to town, and they really need the space more than you do.”