Page 51 of Bloom

“James, it’s okay,” I whisper. He’s face down beside me.

“No, it’s not okay,” he says. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” I plead. “I want this. I just don’t want you to be drunk when it happens.”

“It can’t happen,” he says. “It will never happen. You’ve got to leave.”

“Because of my age?” I scoff. “Is that seriously what this is about?”

“Yes,” he says. “I’ve fucked up so many things. But this tops all of them.”

“That’s ridiculous. We’re only six years apart.”

He groans. “God you’re not helping.” He turns toward me, brushing my hair behind my ear, his hand sliding back around my neck, with that same pained look on his face I’ve seen so often, but never this close. “You’ve got to go,” he says. “Before I do anything else.”

“James, you didn’t do anything wrong,” I insist.

His eyes flicker to my mouth and his hand tightens in my hair. For a second I feel certain that he’s going to kiss me, but instead he releases me entirely.

“Please,” he says. When I don’t move his eyes narrow, and his tone grows dangerous. “Now, Elle.”

My pulse drums quickly, a breathless moment where I consider defying him, where I consider bridging the distance, forcing him to see me as an adult no matter how badly he doesn’t want to. My desire and his thicken the air between us.

Pushing away and leaving him is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I should be proud of myself, but really I feel nothing but regret.

Chapter 29

I wake the next morning torn between ebullience and shame. The things he said would mean something if they were really true. But were they?

I’m clinging to an event he probably won’t even remember. One I shouldn’t have allowed to happen at all.

Max and I are sitting at the kitchen table when James emerges from his room, walking out in nothing but a pair of workout shorts. Despite my guilt, I look at him shirtless and feel like I got cheated. He at least could have had the shirt off. He glances at me and averts his eyes, which tells me everything I need to know. He remembers, and he’s pissed.

Max laughs. “You look pretty rough, dude.”

“No shit,” he says, walking toward the coffee. “How many shots did we do?”

“I lost count at 15,” says Max. “What happened to you anyway? I look away for one minute and you’re gone.”

“That band sucked,” James grumbles, turning away to pour his coffee.

“You were in a weird mood all night,” replies Max.

James ignores him. He comes to the table and stops beside me. “Can I talk to you?” he asks, his voice low and unhappy.

“Sure,” I murmur. Max raises a brow to me with a look that says ‘you are in so much trouble’. Like I didn’t already know.

I follow James to the deck and he sits, placing his head in his hands. I’d expected anger, not shame, and it leaves me uncertain how to proceed.

“Last night,” he says, raising his head just enough to look at me sideways. “Did we … ?”

“Did we … ?” I ask. I want to know what he remembers. I’m not going to give all the info up this easily.

“Did we sleep together?” he asks hoarsely, sounding horrified by the prospect. He could be asking if we’d really dismembered a body in the woods last night and his voice wouldn’t hold more dread.

“No,” I say tersely. “And you don’t need to make it sound like that would be the worst thing you’ve ever done.”

“It would be,” he snaps. “It would hands-down be the worst thing I’ve ever done.”