Page 45 of Bloom

“That’s not true,” he says, staring ahead of him, but there’s something uncertain in his voice. “I think I’ve tried really hard to fix that.”

I look at him flatly. “That’s kind of the point, James. You’re not supposed to have to ‘try’. Being in the same room with me shouldn’t be so onerous for you that it’s this massive struggle.”

His jaw grinds. “You’re twisting what I said.”

I’m sick of even discussing it. He’s clearly not going to admit he changed the schedule. He’s not going to admit he doesn’t want to be around me. He’s just going to keep doing what he’s been doing. Torturing me in small ways without offering a single good reason for doing so.

I rest my face against the window and think about Max’s lecture on being in the moment. Because as bad as this moment is, in September when I’m back at school and James is only a memory, I’d give anything to have these seconds back. To watch his profile, troubled and a little pissed off at the moment, to watch his hands at the wheel. To lean forward just close enough that I could breathe in his smell of beach and pine and soap. It’s not a happy feeling, wanting him endlessly and getting nothing in return. But the truth is that I’d take this over happiness without him any day.

**

The next morning James emerges from his room just as I’m leaving for my spin class. “I’ll walk with you,” he says. “I need better coffee than the shit we drink here.”

“Okay,” I say cautiously. He’s trying to prove he doesn’t avoid me. All it really proves is that he doesn’t want it to appear he avoids me, but I’ll take it.

We take the boardwalk, though it’s not the most direct route. Early in the day like this, when the tourists still sleep and Funland is closed, Rehoboth feels peaceful, whole. Even the water seems calmer. I enjoy my solitary walks, but this is better. His presence makes almost anything better for me, while mine appears to do the opposite for him.

We part at the studio’s door. “Well, enjoy your class,” he says.

“Enjoy your coffee,” I reply. Rest assured that you’ve checked off ‘prove I don’t hate Elle’ from today’s to-do list.

But later he comes to the beach with me, as if he’s trying to squeeze a whole summer of civility into one day. Probably so he won’t ever have to do it again.

“What are you reading?” he asks, when we’ve laid our towels down.

“Madame Bovary,” I reply, sliding it toward him.

“Are you reading it because you think you’ll enjoy it, or are you reading it because you think you’re supposed to?” he asks.

I shrug. “You know, it’s just one of those books you always hear about.”

He grins. “So it’s a ‘supposed to’ book.”

“I guess,” I reply. “But hopefully I’ll enjoy it too.”

“Do you ever do anything just because, and not to further yourself in some way?” he asks.

“You sound like Max,” I reply. “What are you reading, then, Max Jr?”

He looks surprised for a moment and then grins sheepishly. “Two Treatises by John Locke.”

“Seriously?” I laugh. “You’re reading John Locke and giving me shit?”

He smiles wide, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You’ve got a good point. I’d suggest we go to the bookstore and get crappy beach reads, but I’m too scared of turning into Max.”

“I think a little Max could benefit us both,” I tell him.

“Did you know he’s got an IQ of like 150 or something?” James asks.

“I’m not surprised,” I reply. “Every once in a while he says something almost profound.”

“He ought to go back to school. I’m worried he’s never going to find his ‘path’ or whatever it is he claims he’s doing.”

“And now you sound like Ginny.”

“Shit,” James groans. “I think I’d rather sound like Max.”

Our time together is surprisingly comfortable. We both read, and take turns making fun of each other’s books. He falls asleep on top of his and I watch him, the way his long lashes sweep his cheeks and his lower lip falls open, begging me to run my thumb across it.