Page 39 of No One But Us

“James hasn’t told me I look nice since my first communion, so I’m not holding my breath,” I reply. “Is everything all set?”

“Everything aside from the fact that you’re missing half a dress,” grumbles James as he turns toward the table.

He takes charge of the seating, placing Ginny at the head of the table, flanked by Allison and Max. In the center are friends from The Pink Pelican, and by some unbelievable stroke of luck—one Allison must be enraged by—I am at the other end next to him. This makes tonight the best thing that’s happened in weeks, even if he’s going to spend the whole time bitching about my dress.

“I have a jacket in my car,” he suggests.

“Enough about the damn dress,” I tell him sternly. “Seriously.”

“Fine,” he mutters, more to himself than me. “I need a fucking drink then.” He grabs the wine list and sighs. “I know nothing about Italian wines.”

I slide it toward me. “If you want red I’d go with the Super Tuscan—Vitticio is good. If you want white, go with the Alto Adige pinot.”

“Maybe you should let the grownups take care of this one, Elle,” calls Allison from her end of the table. “You’re not even old enough to drink.”

I picture sending my knife whistling down the table into her eye. I don’t even think I’d feel guilty.

“Not old enough to drink here,” I amend.

They’re not so worried about it in Italy. And I also have Ryan’s 23-year-old cousin’s driver’s license if that argument doesn’t work with the staff.

When the waiter returns, James nods at me. “The blonde here has spent more time in Italy than the rest of us combined, and she says that the Vitticio is good.”

The waiter glances over. “You don’t look Italian.”

I shake my head. “I just spent a lot of time there as a kid.”

He grins. “And did you learn any Italian there?”

“Un pocito.”

He asks, in Italian, where I stayed and why I was there, and I reply in Italian. It’s been a long time since I’ve spoken it, but I like the feel of it tripping off my tongue. Though I eventually wound up with some bad memories of Italy, I had many amazing ones first.

When he finally leaves the table, everyone is staring at me.

“What the fuck was that?” asks Max. “You speak Italian?”

I shrug. “Some, I guess.”

“That wasn’t some,” he says. “You’re fluent. How much time did you spend there?”

I shrug. “My father covered the Vatican for a while.”

“You’re conveniently forgetting how you summered on that dude’s yacht there too,” says Ginny. “With your mom’s friend Flavio.”

I stiffen a little. I go out of my way not to think about some of the things that happened on that yacht, and I don’t really care for her tone. She makes it sound like my mother was some yacht bunny sleeping with whatever wealthy man would give us a room. Or perhaps I’m just feeling sensitive about it because I secretly wonder if it’s true.

The wine is decanted. I expect James to make some snide crack about my age when the waiter pours it into my glass, but he does not. I sip and it rests in my stomach, heavy and warm.

“Any other hidden skills I need to know?” he asks. “Did you also climb Everest and go through sommelier training?”

“You mean you haven’t?”

His low laugh sends a trill of delight rocketing through my stomach.

“So are you going to order for me too, Elle?” he asks, his mouth close to my ear, his voice quiet. It sounds dirty somehow.

“Do you want me to order for you, James?”