Bloom (23 page)

Chapter 52

We head across
town to some steakhouse Tommy likes. They’re late, and as Ryan and I order our second round, it occurs to me that I wouldn’t be all that surprised if my mom forgets to show up at all.

“Are you nervous?” I ask, watching him slam his beer as if it’s ice water.

“A little,” he admits. “How about you?”

“Why would I be nervous?” I ask.

“You’re about to meet your new daddy, right?” he teases.

I snort. “I’m surprised it’s even lasted this long,” I tell him. “My parents were together for 20 years. There’s no way she’s going to end up with her first rebound.”

But the truth, despite my words, is that I
am
nervous. Not about meeting Tommy, but about seeing my mother by his side. She sounds so ridiculous, so besotted, when she talks about him. She doesn’t even seem capable of making good decisions right now, and I’m worried that it will become patently obvious once I see them together.

There’s a murmur through the restaurant, heads turning, when they enter. I’m not sure if it’s because people actually know who they are, or if it’s because they look like an aging rock star beside an aging model. Maybe it’s just that they’re so attractive — my mom could still pass for someone 15 years younger than she is. Though even then she’s way too old to wear her hair so long or her dress so short.

She hugs me, and then Tommy hugs me. He’s short enough that when we hug his head winds up uncomfortably close to my chest, which only seems to bother me.

The two of them are giddy, giggling, bubbling over. For a hopeful moment I think perhaps my mother’s actually excited to see me, to include me in this new circle of family she’s creating. But it turns out they’re both just a little drunk, which is slightly less touching.

I introduce Ryan, and he and Tommy start chatting while my mom watches with adolescent adoration on her face.

“Look at us with our two rockers,” she coos to me. I throw up a little in my mouth.

“Mom, you know we’re not together anymore,” I remind her.

She winks at Ryan. “You two were meant to be together,” she says. “Those little college break-ups never last anyway.” I can’t believe this is coming out of her mouth. She and my father
hated
the very idea of Ryan last year.

“Your mother is a very wise woman, Elle,” Ryan grins.

We look at menus and my mother defers to Tommy on every decision, as if she has absolutely no opinions or desires of her own. Every question he asks she meets with “I don’t know, honey, whatever you think.” She even asks him what she should drink. It occurs to me that for so long I thought my mother was subject to my father’s whims, his job demands, but in reality, perhaps, she allowed herself to be swept along because it was so much easier than taking responsibility for her own happiness.

My phone buzzes and I ignore it. It’s undoubtedly Max, who has left no fewer than 10 messages that consist solely of shrieking “Night of the Dragon!!”

“I’m so sorry about that magazine article, Elle,” my mom says once the waiter leaves.

“Yeah. About that,” I begin, wrapping my hands tight around my water glass. “I’m going to respond. Tomorrow.”

For the first time all night she stops acting like a 13-year-old meeting her crush at the mall. “Oh, honey. That’s not a good idea.”

“It’s a better idea than letting Edward Ferris get away with slander.”

I can tell she desperately disagrees. “You need to talk to Bruce first,” she says.

“Why?” I ask. “So he can tell me what’s in Dad’s best interest? You know Dad called and tried to threaten me into not responding?”

“I’m sure he wasn’t trying to … ”

“Mom, he said no one would be paying for college if I ‘didn’t get with the program’. And he suggested he’d buy me a car if I did.”

I watch her harden a little, grow slightly sober, a tiny glint of hatred for my father puncturing her champagne-induced bubble.

“Who are you talking to?” she sighs.

“The
Times
and Rona Blakely.”

“Things go wrong on live TV,” she says. “You know that.”

“Yes, that’s why I insisted I’d only do a canned piece.”

“Things can still go wrong,” she says. “You’re just providing more ways for the press to twist your words.”

“I’m releasing the voicemails he left for me too,” I tell her.

“Voicemails?” she asks.

“I told you about them,” I say between my teeth. She finds out her teenage daughter is getting harassing voicemails from her boss and she
forgets
? “They’re bad, but no one is going to believe my word against his without them.”

She bites her lip, clearly uncertain about the course I’ve chosen, and turns to Tommy. Because who better to advise than a high school drop-out with one song anyone remembers?

“You deserve to have your side of the story out there,” he says.

Hearing Tommy’s expert opinion seems to sway my mother, and her face grows relaxed and optimistic. They begin talking to each other, and I stop listening.

Ryan glances quickly from my mother to me. “I had no idea it was like this with you guys,” he says quietly. “Why didn’t you ever tell me? I always thought you had super-involved sitcom parents.”

I smile a little. “I don’t know. You and I never talked about that kind of thing.”

“We should have,” he says. “I would have wanted to know.”

My mother grabs my hand. “Do you want me and Tommy to come along tomorrow?”

I control any eye-rolling urges admirably. Having my tipsy mother and her leather-clad boyfriend along for the interviews would certainly make them
interesting
, but probably not the kind of interest I’m after. “I think I’ll be okay.”

Tommy’s eyes light up. “If it’s a canned piece, they’ll need some music for the lead-in and parts of the segment. Why don’t you see if they’d like to play something off our new album? I’d be happy to grant permission.”

Oh my God.

Must. Roll. Eyes.

Summoning reserves of inner fortitude I didn’t know I possessed, I manage to smile. “What an interesting idea.” Ryan’s leg is shaking with the effort not to laugh.

“What a douche,” he says under his breath as Tommy and my mother begin another private conversation.

I giggle. I love Ryan. Not in a romantic way, but as a friend I really love him. And one day he’ll make someone — not me — an awesome boyfriend, if he can just get his dick out of the driver’s seat.

“So what happens with you and your bodyguard once school starts?” he asks.

“His name is James.”

“Fine, James. Your bodyguard. The guy who starts growling the minute anyone gets within 10 feet of you.”

“You did refer to my dress as ‘easy access’.”

He chuckles. “The guy stole my girlfriend. He deserves it.”

My phone buzzes again and I continue to ignore it. “He didn’t steal me and I haven’t been your girlfriend for months.”

“It was just a matter of time and you know it, Elle,” he says. He holds my eye. “It’s still a matter of time.”

I might have thought that this declaration would affect me, that I could be swayed by the appeal of being with someone who wants me unapologetically. But instead, it just makes me miss James. It hits me out of nowhere, the need to have him beside me, the wish that it was him here meeting my mother. To lean toward him and breathe him in, that clean mix of pine and sand and soap. To feel the pad of his thumb rubbing against my palm, and know that once the meal has concluded I’d have him all to myself.

“No, Ryan,” I say quietly, not that Tommy and my mother would notice. Two drunk high school freshman would show more restraint than they do. “It’s not a matter of time. James is it for me.”

“You’re 19. No one’s ‘it’ for you. You really believe either of you can spend the next three years apart without anyone else in the picture?”

Can we? It feels as if a part of him was always inside me, always tethered to me in some way. But it’s James himself who’s insisted that I’m naive. And the fact of the matter is he was too embarrassed about our relationship to show his face here tonight.

“I don’t know,” I sigh. “But I hope so.”

Ryan scowls suddenly, his eyes on something in the distance. “Are you sure he doesn’t have some kind of listening device on you?” he asks, nodding toward the front of the restaurant.

James stands there, talking to the hostess, his shorts and t-shirt such a dress code violation that I’m surprised they’ve allowed him in at all. He’s arguing with the hostess as his eyes scan the room, and when he sees me he brushes past her as she continues to argue.

I can’t stop the grin that spreads over my face as he comes to the foot of the table.

“I thought you wanted to wait?” I ask.

“I changed my mind,” he says, a flicker of a smile crossing his face. “If I can’t be away from you for two hours, it’s probably time I face the firing squad.”

“James?” my mother asks. “Ginny’s brother?”

“Yes,” he says. “But more importantly, James, your daughter’s boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend?” my mother asks. She looks to me for confirmation, and I nod. “But you’re … ” Her face falls. “You’re so much older than she is.”

I groan.
Now
she decides to act parental? “Mom, we’re six years apart. It’s not a big deal.”

“But he’s an adult,” she says. “You’re still in school and … ”

“He’s in school too, Mom.”

“I’m sorry to spring it on you like this, Mrs. Grayson,” he says. “But I’m in love with your daughter and I don’t think the age difference is all that relevant.”

I kiss Ryan’s cheek and stand beside James, grabbing his hand. “It was nice meeting you, Tommy.”

“I’m going to have to think about this,” my mother says, frowning.

I hug her. “There’s nothing to think about, Mom. No one’s asking permission.”

**

His hand is rough against mine as he pulls me out to the street, and once the door is shut behind us I am pressed against him.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I acted like a complete asshole earlier. About everything. About meeting your mom. About Ryan. About the dress. You look un-fucking-believable, by the way. I acted like a total dick and the second you walked away with him I knew it and it was too late to fix it.”

“No, it wasn’t,” I say, leaning into him. “You just fixed it, right now.”

“I’m not ashamed of you, Elle. Just the opposite. When we’re together I want to wave a banner that says ‘this is my girlfriend’. But I’m not going to lie — it does bother me, the way people look at it. Like you’re some innocent victim and I’m this manipulative creep. It makes me feel … like Edward.”

“Anyone who’s seen us together knows it’s not like that,” I reply.

He nods. “I know. And I’ll get over it. You’ve just got to be patient with me.”

“So does that mean you’re taking me out now to meet your friends?” I smile.

His hands slide to my lower back, tucking me into him. “We can if you want, but I’d really rather take you home.”

He pulls me toward him in the cab. The kiss is soft but there’s intent behind it. And as it continues, as his tongue rasps against mine, as he sucks on my bottom lip, it begins to feel inadequate. The surface of my skin seeks his but we remain in our seats and it’s impossible to get the closeness I want. A slow burn begins in its place, taking my breath, as his hand digs into my hair, as the movements grow fraught, lingering and heavy.

When his free hand slides to my inner thigh and I inhale audibly, he pulls away.

“I have to stop,” he whispers. I reach down and lay my palm over him and he releases a small groan at the pressure of my hand. “That’s not helping the situation,” he says.

“I know of other ways I could help the situation, but we’re almost here.”

He puts my hand back in my lap and adjusts himself, just as we arrive at my building. I see the photographers, more of them, and I couldn’t care less. The only thing I care about in the whole world is getting him alone.

We make it through the doorway, through the lobby, but I am humming with tension and based on how hard he’s holding my hand, I think he is too.

We stand in the elevator, waiting the endless seconds for the doors to shut, and the moment they do I’m turning toward him and his hand is around the back of my head, pulling me close.

Chapter 53

My interviews are
scheduled a few hours apart. I sent them the audio from Edward’s voicemails in advance, and yet I’m nervous. The things Edward has already said about me are so damning that they seem impossible to overcome.

I’d much prefer to stay where I am right now, wrapped up next to James in bed, and avoid the next six hours entirely. “What am I going to do if she’s hostile?” I ask.

“She’s not a judge, Elle. She’s a reporter. And you’re not offering an argument. You’re offering the facts. And that’s all you can do, so don’t worry about the outcome.”

The reporter meets us in the apartment. She’s cordial as she enters, but a trifle chilly. She gingerly sets her bag down and looks around. I regret inviting her here immediately. Print reporters don’t make a lot of money, and she’s probably looking at this place and hating me a little for being 19 and living better than she does.

I introduce James, wondering belatedly if this was advisable either. Perhaps it’s falling under the heading of “Elle likes older men”.

I tell her my story — that I’ve known Edward since I was little and that he was friends with my dad. She asks what I remember of him from childhood, and I tell her about the time he and my dad went golfing and then he let me ride in his convertible. I tell her about him saving me the chocolates when we were at the same hotel. How he helped me count them and then we created a huge tower on the lobby floor. Remembering it is depressing. How could the guy who was so nice to me as a child be the same one dragging me through the mud now?

And then we move to the present. She asks if I knew he was showing me preferential treatment when I interned. It’s embarrassing to admit that I did. It makes me look a little opportunistic. Was I? The truth is that I was both happy about it and uncomfortable at the same time. I didn’t know how to make it stop, but I also didn’t have a lot of incentive to do so.

When I tell her about his calls, about all the times I told him to stop and my failed attempt to get a restraining order, it pisses me off all over again. I can’t believe that with the shit he’s put me through he may still wind up viewed as the ‘victim’.

When the interview concludes, she turns off her tape recorder, and politely thanks me for my time, telling me it’s slated to appear on Friday’s front page.

“That didn’t go well,” I tell James.

“You don’t know that,” he replies. But he can’t mask his own uncertainty.

“He’s going to get away with it,” I say, and my eyes fill. “He’s done all this vile stuff, and he’s going to come out on top. I don’t understand how it’s possible.”

“He’s not,” James insists. “You have no idea what’s going to happen.”

“You saw how she was, James,” I cry. “She didn’t believe a word I said.”

“Look, you don’t know that. And here’s the thing: he’s not coming out on top. Edward Ferris is a dick. He’s a bad person who basically stalked a kid young enough to be his daughter and lied about her to save face. He’s not coming out on top because a guy like that is never going to have the things he wants in life. He’s never going to be happy, or fulfilled. You will be, regardless of what happens here. This isn’t your life. It doesn’t dictate how anything turns out. It’s a blip you’ll move past, either way.”

“You sound like Max again,” I smile tearfully.

He pulls me into his chest. “A little Max is a good thing sometimes.”

**

In the afternoon, I’m interviewed by Rona Blakely. I tell her the same things I told the woman from the
Times
. Her demeanor, unlike that of the first reporter, is sympathetic. She leans forward, nodding, eyes focused. It reassures me a little, but then again it’s her job to look sympathetic. She’s supposed to look deeply troubled so her audience thinks she’s a wonderful human being, and so that I relax and admit more than I should.

When we’re done taping, she sits with me while someone helps remove my microphone.

“You need a thick skin in this business,” she sighs.

“I thought I had one,” I tell her. “But I guess I don’t.”

“You’re doing okay,” she says. “And if you want to intern next summer, come to me instead of a man. You deserve at least one summer without perverted voicemails.”

James is waiting for me when I finish. “That seemed better,” he says.

“It did,” I agree. “But it kind of wiped me out. All I want to do now is go back to sleep.”

He wraps an arm around my shoulder. “You can sleep in the car,” he says. We both have to work tonight, and it’s best that we get out of the city quickly anyway. Bad or good, the interviews are going to attract attention, and I don’t want to be here when they do.

Ryan calls on the way home. “How did it go?” he asks.

“Good, I think. Can’t be sure until I see them, though. How did things wrap up with Tommy?”

This is the point at which James realizes who I’m talking to. I can tell by the sneer on his face.

“He’s going to listen to our demo,” Ryan says. “And by the way, I can give you a copy. You know, in case you want to ask Rona Blakely to play it in the background.”

I crack up. “Please promise me that no matter how famous you get you’ll never turn out like that.”

Beside me, James’s unhappiness is shifting from a grumble to a low roar.

“Not a problem,” he replies. “What is your mother thinking? She could do so much better than that guy.”

“No clue. Maybe the shock of the divorce has killed brain cells.”

“Not all of them,” he counters. “She still thinks you’ll end up with me.”

“I think that only further supports my theory about the brain cells.”

“The press is in my corner too,” he says. “Have you seen the picture?”

“What picture?” I’m pretty sure I’ve stopped breathing.

“They got a good shot of us leaving for the steakhouse,” he says. “They’re calling me your newest victim. I’m honored.”

“Great,” I sigh, making a note to check it out when James isn’t around.

“So I’ll see you in a week, right?” he asks.

“Yeah, I’ll probably be up next Saturday.”

James stiffens at that.

“Cool. Can you put your bodyguard on the phone?”

“Why do you want to talk to him?” I ask warily.

“He’s old enough to fight his own battles, don’t you think?”

“You’re just trying to cause trouble,” I counter, “and he doesn’t want to talk to you anyway.”

James holds his hand out for the phone, and I reluctantly give it to him. There’s absolutely no way that this is a talk that will go well.

I don’t need to hear Ryan’s end of the conversation. The look on James’s face tells me everything.

“Yeah, I do,” James says. “And it’s none of your fucking business either way.”

Ryan says something else then, something worse. Something that makes James look ill.

“That’s not happening,” James says, his voice dangerously quiet. “And if it does, it’ll be the last thing you ever do.”

He hangs up and hands me my phone silently.

“What did he say?” I groan.

“Nothing,” he says, jaw set so hard I’m surprised his teeth aren’t cracking.

“Just tell me.”

“No, because it was stupid and he’s just being an asshole.”

“If it’s so stupid then why are you pissed?”

“I’m not.”

Sigh
. Sometimes it’s hard to believe he’s older than me.