Page 31 of Bloom

Max laughs, but James turns away quickly. And that makes Max laugh even more.

James has made reservations at a small Italian restaurant I’ve never heard of for Ginny’s birthday. Apparently lots of other people have heard about it though, because he and Max had to call in a few favors to get a table.

They go ahead of us to set up while Ginny and I get dressed. It’s still awkward around her. She looks at me as if I’m keeping some vile secret that only she knows.

She sighs as she looks through her closet. “If I were six inches taller I’d be wearing your clothes every day.”

“You look adorable,” I tell her.

“But I can’t compete with you,” she says. “I mean, look at that dress. And those shoes.”

I’m wearing strappy gold heels and one of the new dresses I bought for my summer in the city: a white dress that appears completely backless, held together by two clear straps that are practically invisible. A dress my mother talked me into buying. At the time I was horrified. Now I’m grateful.

“You aren’t competing with me,” I tsk. “And besides, you look amazing. If you’re not happy with what you have on, you could always wear one of my shirts with one of your skirts.”

Numerous outfit changes ensue, and she is finally pleased with mere seconds to spare. We arrive at the restaurant and are ushered onto the back brick patio. Ginny goes off to greet her guests, and I go find Max and James. My first sight of James makes me sigh with want. In khaki pants and a collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up, he is the single best-looking man I’ve ever seen in my life. The sea blue of his shirt stands out against his tan, against his hair glinting gold from time outside, makes his eyes appear even warmer. He and Max are laughing, and I’m in the middle of thinking how much I love the way laughter makes his eyes crinkle at the corners when he sees me and his face falls flat.

He looks positively grim by the time I reach them.

“Wow,” says Max. “That dress is … holy shit. I think you’re actually even hotter than your mom.”

“How is that dress even staying up?” James scowls.

Max elbows him. “Stop being a dick, dude. Tell her she looks nice.”

James frowns at that. “You look, uh, grown-up.”

I roll my eyes. That’s really not the same thing as ‘nice’. “That’s because I am grown-up.”

“Your driver’s license begs to differ,” he counters.

“Whatever,” I say. “Is everything all set?”

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

He takes charge of the seating, placing Ginny at the head of the table, flanked by Kristy and Max. Somehow I end up seated next to him, which makes tonight feel like the first stroke of luck I’ve had 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 sighs, grabbing the wine list. “Then I’ll gripe about something else. 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.”

“How do you know that?” he asks. “You’re not even old enough to drink.”

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

“You order,” he says. “I can’t even pronounce it.”

I would question the wisdom of allowing a 19-year-old to order, but the last thing he needs is another reminder of my age.

“Where are you from?” the waiter asks me. He asks in Italian, I suppose because I have a passable accent when I order the wine. I assure him that I’m not from Italy, but the mere fact that I’ve answered in his native tongue is enough to get him talking. 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.”