Page 101 of Bloom

I see the photo of Ryan and me. He’s got that cocky grin on his face like he’s about to get laid and his hand is on my back, but I’m stepping into the cab so it looks like he’s grabbing my ass. It’s bad. And James is in a pissy enough mood as it is.

Adding to all this, I’ve been assigned tables in both cocktail and the dining area, which means I can basically take my inadequacy as a waitress and multiple it by a factor of 10. I’ve got three tables in cocktail waiting to order, but I’m stuck off to the side while some dithering woman asks me to repeat the specials three freaking times.

“So what would you like?” I ask, attempting not to sound exasperated.

“I don’t know,” she says. “Whatever.”

My cocktail customers are starting to look around, irritated.

“So you don’t want anything specific?” I prod, as gently as possible given that I would now like to suffocate her to death.

“I don’t know,” she says. “What’s good?”

Food from other restaurants.

“People like the crabcakes,” I reply.

“Oh,” she says. “I don’t like crab. What are the specials again?”

So generally, I’m having such a shitty evening that it almost seems inevitable when Martin walks into the bar. Like a lit match near a gas spill. I haven’t seen him once since the balcony incident, and just remembering it makes my skin crawl. He smiles at me. An unnerving smile, as if we share a secret. He doesn’t approach me, however. He approaches the bar. And James.

I don’t hear their exchange. But he says something that makes James go rigid. And then he pulls my bikini bottoms out of his back pocket.

James’s face seems bled of color. He’s almost expressionless as he leaves the bar and comes to me.

“Can I speak to you in the kitchen?” he asks, curiously restrained.

I follow him into the back, behind the deep freezer, and then he turns, and his restraint is abandoned.

“Did you sleep with him?” he gapes, looking sick.

“Are you serious?” I cry. “I can’t believe you’d even ask me that.”

“Then how do you explain the fact that he has your bikini in his pocket and he’s telling me you left something at his house?”

“If I tell you I didn’t sleep with him, that should be enough for you,” I snap.

“I recognize your suit, Elle!” he shouts. “So I want to know what the fuck he’s talking about.”

I’m a little staggered. Does he really not know me well enough to realize that I would never, ever hook up with that sleazeball? There are no words for how much I resent the fact that he’s demanding an explanation, but I reluctantly offer it, expecting him to calm down when I finish. Instead he only looks angrier.

“So that pervert stole your bikini and you don’t even mention it to me?” he seethes.

“Yeah, silly me,” I reply. “I thought you might overreact, but look at how well you’re handling it.”

He storms out of the kitchen, and I follow, but I feel empty, as if his doubt has stripped something from me. I can’t believe he thought it was true, even for a second. I can’t believe he had to ask.

When I reach the bar, he’s already got Martin on the floor.

It takes Brian, Matt and Brooks — all three of them — to pull James off.

“How was I supposed to know she was your girlfriend?” he demands as he climbs up, pulling his shirt to his face to staunch the flow of blood from his nose. “You guys always have some slut leaving your house.”

Bam.

James hits him hard enough that he topples over a cocktail table.

The sense of déjà vu is overwhelming. I’ve been here before. I see the wait staff, the customers who know me, casting covert looks my way. Suspicious looks, as if I’ve really done something to be ashamed of. It’s exactly like the morning I was fired, except these people should know better. Do they really believe I could have cheated on James with Martin? Of course they do — people are willing to believe anything of you, as long as it’s bad. Even James.