Page 50 of No One But Us

“Yeah.” I sigh. “Me neither.”

“Let’s go do something today,” he suggests. “We could take the ferry to Cape May, if you want. Have you ever been?”

“That’s sweet of you, James,” I say, with a smile that is small but real. “But you’ve already got plans.”

“Max will understand.”

I shake my head. “I’m fine. I’m working a double today anyhow.”

Max pokes his head out. “Dude. Let’s roll.”

James stands reluctantly. “You sure?”

“I’m fine.”

“Things aren’t always what they appear,” he says quietly. “Don’t start interpreting all this yet. Your parents love you. They just happen to be in a shitty place right now.”

What about you, though, James? I ask silently.

* * *

I generally hate working doubles, but today it’s a blessing, preventing me from dwelling on my mother’s impulsivity or the fact that my father seems to feel I’m a mistake he’s moving on from. Worse than any of that, though, is the idea of James staying out with Max. What if he brings a girl home? What if he doesn’t come home at all?

The house is dark when I get back, and it feels lonelier than it should. The only calls I got all night were from Edward, who’s taken to leaving voicemails on my phone that I no longer bother listening to.

I’ve just reached the kitchen and kicked off my shoes when James stumbles through the front door. Alone. The relief I feel provokes a bizarre desire to burst into tears. I didn’t cry about my dad’s failure to invite me to his wedding, but this—James home alone—would be enough to make me weep for hours if I allowed it.

“Hi,” he says, bleary-eyed but keeping his distance.

He’s as drunk as I’ve ever seen him, yet he still remembers to be wary of me.

“You’re shit-faced,” I say, walking to the refrigerator.

He gives me a drunken half-smile. “Possibly.”

“Where’s Max?”

“I left him,” says James, running a hand over his face. “I was worried about you. You were so sad earlier.”

I’m touched by this, and I don’t want to be. “That’s sweet, James, but I’m fine.”

He walks forward and bangs his shoulder, then leans against the offending wall and stares at the ground.

“You need to go to bed.” I set my water on the counter and go to him, wrapping an arm around his waist and attempting to pull him—a nearly impossible feat as he outweighs me by at least 80 pounds.

“Don’t,” he warns. He tries to shrug me off but staggers sideways instead, pulling me with him. He smells like fabric softener, bourbon, and the sea. I never realized how amazing that combination could be until now.

“Stand up straight. You’ve got to help me here. I can’t do this by myself.”

“I don’t want you to help me,” he argues.

“You’re being ridiculous,” I say. “Come on.”

“Elle,” he grumbles. “I’m trying so hard…just don’t.”

“Trying so hard to do what?” I huff in exasperation as I continue to tug him toward his room. “Because you’re sure not trying to walk.”

He leans sideways against the wall and closes his eyes. “You,” he says. “Trying to stay away from you.”