Page 66 of No One But Us

“I’m fine.”

He looks behind him and then pulls me out to the front stoop.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Do you have a date?” I hiss.

He looks surprised, and then he grins. “Yeah. That’s the plan anyway.” I step away from him, and he pulls me back with his hands around my waist. “With you, Elle. I meant I had a date with you.”

I feel all of my anger transform into a deep desire to cry. “Oh,” I say in a choked voice.

His hands tighten on my hips. “I thought you knew.”

“How would I know that?” I ask. “You never even mentioned it.”

“I spend every freaking minute with you. I thought it went without saying.”

“Nothing goes without saying, James. I have no idea where things stand.”

“Things stand wherever you want them to,” he replies.

I think he realizes how untrue his words are as soon as I do. His lips brush my forehead and cheeks like an apology.

I want to tell him where I want things to stand. I want to tell him that I’d settle for not lying about our relationship to everyone we know. But I say nothing. He’s put up these barriers to us becoming more—not telling anyone, keeping things less physical. I’ve already knocked down one barrier, and I plan to knock down a lot more before this summer is through. I might even knock down all of them.

* * *

That night he tells me to dress up. I come downstairs wearing the same backless dress I wore to Ginny’s birthday.

“You look…” James begins.

“As I recall, you were unable to come up with anything nice to say the last time I wore this.”

He pulls me against him. “Every time I saw you in some new way, it was like being punched. I couldn’t stand the things I thought about when I saw you in this. And I couldn’t stand the fact that other guys were thinking them too.”

“That’s sweet.”

“What’s less sweet,” he says with a sigh, “is that I’m thinking them now. So if we don’t get in the car this minute, I don’t think we’re leaving at all.”

We go to a restaurant in Lewes, which is far enough away that no one we know will see us. For once, reality eclipses even my loopiest daydreams. It’s all the best parts of a first date—the hopefulness and the giddy excitement—without the awkwardness of being out with a relative stranger. We talk easily about almost anything, but honestly, it would have been enough just to see his smile, to hear the low rumble of his laughter. To drink in the way he looks at me, like I’m a prize he can’t believe he’s won. The way his eyes grow hazy and heavy-lidded when either of us references last night.

We get back to a—thank God—empty house. I run to the bathroom and find James waiting on the couch when I return downstairs.

“So we probably need to talk,” he says.

I stand before him, reaching to the side of my dress for the zipper.

“In spite of what happened last night, I don’t want this to be something that—”

“James,” I say, pushing my dress off. It billows into a small pile at my feet, and I step out of it.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes.

I climb into his lap. “We don’t have to sleep together,” I whisper. “Not until you’re ready.”

His laugh is slightly strangled as he runs a hand down my back and glances at his crotch. “I don’t think my readiness was ever the issue.”

“You know what I mean.” I smile. “But I’m not going backward either.”