Page 90 of No One But Us

Ginny comes in for her shift, and I ignore her. Maybe she didn’t give those quotes to Allison, but she clearly spent the whole fucking summer gossiping about me.

It feels like something is building, a sort of escalating animosity I can’t pinpoint but read as if it were written in marker above me. 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 multiply 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.

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

Food from other restaurants. “People like the crabcakes.”

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

It’s right then, when I feel like I have lost the very last thread of my patience, that I see Martin walking in.

He smiles at me. An unnerving smile, as if we share a secret. And then he goes straight to 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’ 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 offer my still-undecided orderer a few more minutes and follow him into the back, behind the deep freezer. 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 better than that? “He snatched it out of my hand,” I snap. “The day I had to climb off your deck because you are so terrified that Ginny might find out and tell your mom. And I can’t believe you’re fucking demanding an explanation as if I’ve done something wrong.”

“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?” Martin demands as he climbs up, pulling his shirt to his nose to staunch the flow of blood. “You guys always have some slut leaving your house.”

Bam.

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

The shock on Ginny’s face morphs to horror. “Your girlfriend?”