Chapter 8
“Mommy, I’m ‘fraid of the dark.”
Is it terrible that I think my three-year-old daughter is a liar? Not that I don’t believe a child can be afraid of the dark, but the thing is, her bedroom is not dark. It’s not anything resembling dark. Yes, the overhead lights are off, but that doesn’t matter. There are super bright Frozen-themed nightlights plugged into literally every outlet in the room. There are two desk lights that are on. The light in her walk-in closet is on. And we’ve got an iPad in the corner that glows as it plays soothing sleep music.
I suppose I could offer to turn the overhead light on and just abandon all pretense of darkness. But then I feel like she’d forget it was bedtime and just get up and start playing.
“Leah, honey,” I say. “You have to go to sleep. It’s really late.”
And Mommy needs an hour to herself before going to bed or else she will have a nervous breakdown.
“Mommy?” Leah says.
“Yes?”
She sniffles. “I’m scared you’re going to die.”
I groan to myself. Last week, we let Leah watch the movie Bambi. I don’t know whose brilliant idea it was to put that particular tear-jerker on, but we’ve been paying for it ever since. Why would they make a movie for kids about a deer whose mother dies? I know it was a long time ago and kids were tougher back then, but it seems to be deliberately traumatizing. I think every children’s movie should only involve good things happening all the time with little to no conflict whatsoever. Because otherwise, you end up with a three year old who is terrified that her mother will be shot by a hunter while she sleeps.
“I’m not going to die,” I assure her.
Her green eyes fill with tears. “It’s so sad, Mommy.”
“I know,” I admit. Poor Bambi. When we were watching the movie, I was crying right along with Leah.
“Can’t you lie down with me?” Leah pleads. “Just for one minute?”
Leah’s concept of “one minute” is very shaky. It’s something she hears us saying, so she repeats it all the time. She’ll say to us, “Can you play with me for one minute?” But what she actually means is, “Can you play with me for hours on end?”
But I know that there’s no way I’m getting out of this room while Leah’s still feeling traumatized from Bambi, so I settle down next to her in bed. This is dangerous because I’m really tired, so the second I lie down, I’m liable to fall fast asleep. And then I’ll wake up an hour later, feeling completely disoriented.
So I keep my eyes open as I lie down next to Leah’s warm body. She runs her hand through my hair with varying degrees of gentleness.
“I love you, Mommy,” she murmurs.
“I love you too,” I say.
“I love you a hundred,” she says.
“I love you a thousand.”
She smiles. “I love you a million.”
“I love you infinity,” I say, hoping to put an end to this game, since there is obviously no number larger than infinity.
“I love you infinity plus a hundred,” Leah says.
Oh God, this will never end.
But when I don’t reply, Leah grasps a lock of my hair firmly with her sticky fingers, then shuts her eyes. I watch her sweet, round face until her breathing starts to slow. I feel my own eyes threatening to drift closed, so I do something that I know I shouldn’t do:
I think about Ryan.
I think about how sexy he looks in his scrubs. How much sexier he looked when we were all alone and the scrubs came off. How sexy his voice was when he said my name. Jane. Ryan was the only man in the world who could make my plain name sound sexy.
When we were together, he was always so confident—the same way he was in the rest of life. And he earned it. When he whispered in my ear, “I’m going to make you feel good, Jane,” he was never wrong. “Good” was definitely not a strong enough word for the way Ryan Reilly made me feel. “Amazing” would be better, but still not quite enough. Incredible. Phenomenal. Unbelievable. Something along those lines.
Is it wrong to think about him? In all the time I’ve been with Ben, I’ve never fantasized about another man. At least, not in any serious kind of way. But there’s nothing wrong with this. They’re just thoughts in my head.
Leah’s breathing has deepened. She’s asleep. That means I can sneak out of here, if I’m very careful. But one wrong move and she’ll wake up. When she was younger, I used to sometimes crawl out of her room on my hands and knees because I was so terrified of waking her.
I miraculously manage to escape from Leah’s room without arousing her. I find Ben in the living room, sitting on the couch and basking in the freedom of it not being his turn to put Leah to bed—he’s got his peanut butter jar with a big spoon sticking out of it. After thinking about Ryan for the last ten minutes, it seems somehow odd to come out here and see Ben, like I’ve stepped through a wormhole into another parallel universe.
He’s messing around on his phone, but when he sees me, he puts it down. “Hey,” he says, “wanna watch something?”
“Sure.” I plop down next to him on the couch. “What do you have in mind?”
He raises his eyebrows. “Iron Chef?”
I nod. “Sure.”
Ben set up our television so that we can both control it with our iPhones. That’s the nice thing about having a husband who’s a tech geek—I’d never even know such a thing was possible, much less know how to do it. He whips out his phone and loads up an episode of Iron Chef, then scoots over to get closer to me on the couch.
“Want some peanut butter?” he asks me.
“What kind is it?”
“Lime chipotle.”
Ew. What’s with him and these lime-flavored peanut butters? “Seriously? No thanks.”
Ben grins at me. “You have no sense of adventure.”
I roll my eyes. “Okay, let’s try it.”
“That’s my girl.” He holds out a spoonful of peanut butter to me, which I take in my mouth.
I chew for a second, and then… the lime hits me. I have to clamp my hand over my mouth to keep from spitting it out. Oh my God, that’s awful. Ben starts cracking up at the expression on my face. I manage to get it down but just barely. I want to wipe it off my tongue with soap.
“How can you eat this?” I say.
“You need to develop your palate more,” he tells me.
Ben is a self-proclaimed “foodie.” When I first met him, I asked him if that meant he likes to cook, but he told me it doesn’t. “It just means I like to eat,” he told me.
Ironically, it was Iron Chef that first brought the two of us together. I was at a bar in Manhattan, because my friend Nina dragged me out to meet a bunch of her friends. Ben had been dragged to the same bar by Nina’s boyfriend. He had been brought there for another girl named Angela, because Nina knew that I was “taken” at the time. Ben had been talking to Angela when I arrived, yet I found him oddly attractive. He had these soft brown eyes and brown hair just barely long enough to curl slightly on the ends, but there was something about his smile that I found really sexy. It was obvious Angela found him sexy too, because she was hitting his arm playfully every thirty seconds, and each time he made a joke, she would clutch her chest like he was so funny, she might drop dead of a coronary. (Luckily, several of us were doctors who could perform CPR.)
Because Angela was so busy monopolizing his attention, it took Ben several minutes to notice me after I walked into the bar. But as soon as he did, he did a double-take. In my whole life, I’d never warranted a double-take before—I’ve never been so attractive that a guy felt he immediately had to take a second look. But Ben did. And the second time, he got this smile on his face that made me determined to find a way to wrench him away from Angela’s claws.
But I didn’t have to make the effort. A few minutes later, while I was at the bar, ordering a drink, Ben came up behind me. “Whatever you’re getting,” he said, “it’s my treat.”
�
��I’m actually purchasing a small automobile,” I said. (That was a joke. I was getting a Kahlua and Cream.)
Ben never returned to the table where Angela was sitting. We spent the next several minutes making the kind of small talk that would have been tedious if there wasn’t such an overwhelming overtone of sexual tension. Two drinks later, we discovered that we both loved cooking competitions. After discussing the contestants most likely to win on the latest season of Top Chef, we got to talking about a recent episode of Iron Chef where the secret ingredient was duck.
“I can’t believe they made Peking duck in an hour,” I mused.
“Okay, now you’re making me want to eat Peking duck,” Ben said.
“Me too,” I admitted.
He grinned at me. “Okay, so why don’t we go find some?”
I looked down at my watch. “At this hour?”
“Sure,” he said. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”
I’d been up since six in the morning and I was tired as hell, but there was something about Ben Ross’s sexy smile that made me want to go find Peking duck. He made me want to spend the whole night looking for it with him, if that’s what it took.
It only ended up taking an hour and a half. We walked all over what felt like the entire city and we talked the whole time. As we walked, I noticed that Ben was standing closer and closer to me so that his arm would periodically brush against mine—at one point, I thought he might take my hand, but he never did. We finally found a restaurant tucked away deep in Chinatown that was willing to serve us Peking duck at nearly eleven o’clock. The duck was delicious—flavorful and moist and just the right amount of fatty. We devoured the whole thing in ten minutes. Ben wasn’t lying—he really did like to eat.
When we left the restaurant and returned to the late spring night, I commented to Ben, “That was good, huh?”
“I guess so,” he said.
I raised my eyebrows at him. “Really? You didn’t like it?”
“Truthfully?” Ben smiled crookedly. “I couldn’t really focus on the duck because the whole time I was in there, I kept thinking about kissing you.”
I stopped short on the sidewalk, suddenly breathless. “So why didn’t you?”
“Well,” he said thoughtfully. “You were eating and I didn’t want to bother you. Also, we were the only customers in there and the waiters were all staring at us. Plus… I wasn’t sure if you’d be okay with it.”
“I’m okay with it,” I said, because the truth was, the whole time I was eating the duck, I was hoping he’d kiss me.
“Yeah?” Ben’s brown eyes lit up. He hesitated another half a beat, then leaned forward and pressed his lips onto mine. The night air was brisk and Ben’s body and lips were warm against mine. There was something about that kiss that just felt so right—so perfect. I’d never felt that way about anyone before.
One month later, I showed up in Ryan’s apartment and told him that I couldn’t see him anymore.
_____
I’m sound asleep when I feel an arm flop over my body, encircling me. A second later, I feel a warm, firm chest pressed against my back. There’s a gentle peck on my neck, then the sound of Ben sighing as he settles his head against his pillow.
Then… snoring.
I look at the clock by my bed. One in the morning.
I shut my eyes again and try to get back to sleep. I do the thing that you should never, ever do in the middle of the night, which is I count the hours till I have to wake up in the morning. My alarm will go off at six-thirty, so if I manage to fall back asleep right this instant, I’ll get five and a half hours of sleep.
It’s a lot of pressure.
Ben’s body feels hot pressed against mine. This room is way too hot. I wonder what the thermostat is reading right now. This room feels like a furnace. We’re probably spending hundreds of dollars to heat this room tonight.
I attempt to fall asleep again for the next five minutes, then I get up to use the bathroom. I come back to the bed, and Ben immediately grabs me again.
For the entire time we’ve shared the same bed, Ben has generally gone to bed later than me. And when he comes to bed, he always wants to cuddle with me. I used to find it incredibly sweet, and it was something I looked forward to. It got to the point where I’d have trouble sleeping until Ben joined me and encircled me in his arms.
After Leah was born, that changed. Sleep has become precious and erratic. The last thing I want right now is Ben coming into the bedroom to wake me up in the middle of the night. If he wants to cuddle, he needs to go to sleep when I do. Otherwise, he needs to not wake me up at one in the morning, for God’s sake. One of us actually has to go to work tomorrow.
And now I can’t freaking sleep.
I roll over in bed and look at Ben. He’s asleep again now, his eyes shut, snoring softly out his lips. When did Ben start snoring? That’s a new one.
“Hey.” I shake him until his eyes flutter open. “Hey, wake up.”
“Huh?” He rubs his eyes, trying to get his bearings. “What’s wrong, Jane?”
“I just…” I frown at him in the dark of our bedroom. “When you came to bed, you woke me up. And now I can’t sleep.”
“Oh.” Ben yawns. “Sorry.”
“Do you really need to wake me up every time you come to bed?”
“I wasn’t trying to wake you up,” he says sheepishly. “I just wanted to cuddle.”
“Yeah, but you see why that would wake me up, right?”
He yawns again. “Okay, fine. I’m sorry.”
I lift my head up from the pillow and drop it down hard in frustration. “And now I can’t sleep.”
“I said I’m sorry.” He squints at me. “I was just trying to cuddle with my wife. I don’t know why that’s so awful.”
“You should just…” I kick my feet against the blanket, which feels stifling on my legs. “You should cuddle with a pillow. There are like five extra pillows in the closet.”
Ben stares at me. “Fine,” he says through his teeth. “I will cuddle with a pillow from now on. I’ll never try to cuddle with you again. I’m a monster.”
I sigh. “Now you’re trying to make me feel guilty. I mean, I just want to sleep. That’s all.”
Ben gets up out of bed. He’s wearing nothing but his boxers, and I can see the subtle definition of the muscles in his arms and chest that tighten as he yanks open the closet door and pulls out a pillow. He marches back to our bed, drops down beside me, and turns so that he’s facing in the other direction.
“Good night,” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer.
Chapter 9
I’ve got a terrible case of glitter today.
Don’t laugh. Glitter is a very real affliction. More people’s lives are affected by glitter than by stroke and heart disease combined.
Glitter is just like herpes. It’s not dangerous or deadly, but it’s super annoying. You think it’s just in one place, but then it spreads to other places. Most of the time, you’re not even sure where it came from. But once you’ve got it, it’s nearly impossible to get rid of. And you can give it to anyone you have contact with. Even if you just touch them. So really, it’s worse than herpes.
I mean, not that I’ve ever had herpes or anything. But I’ve heard stories. You know.
With a little girl in the house, we’re always in danger of a glitter attack. On one occasion, Leah must have stuffed some glitter in one of her pockets, because when I did the laundry, all of our clothing was covered in glitter. I remember Ben holding up one of his white dress shirts for work with a horrified look on his face when he saw it was covered in shiny specks. I can’t go to work dressed like Beyonce!
This morning, I know exactly how I contracted my case of glitter. Leah brought home a baggie of glitter from preschool, and she decided to do a project with it in the wee hours of the morning. By the time I discovered what was going on, there was glitter all over the floor of her room. I attempted to clean it up, but I was
already dressed for work, so not only did I barely make a dent in our glitter infestation, I ended up catching glitter.
So during my entire drive to work, I’m busy brushing glitter off my slacks. To the point where I nearly crash my car dealing with this stupid glitter. Seriously, it is freaking everywhere. This is the worst.
When I get into the elevator, I give George the Elevator Guy an enthusiastic hello. George nods in my direction, looking critically at my glitter-stained clothing. I should have changed my clothes while I still had a chance.
As we approach the sixth floor, George looks down at the ground where I was standing. He frowns at me. “You got glitter all over the floor.”
I look down. He’s right. There must have been a glitter pocket trapped in the sole of my shoe, because there’s now glitter all over the floor of the elevator. I’m telling you—worse than herpes.
“Sorry,” I mumble.
He raises his eyebrows at me. “Aren’t you going to clean that up?”
We reach the sixth floor and the doors to the elevator open up. This is my floor, but George is still staring at me expectantly. Does he really think I’m going to clean the floor of the elevator? I mean, I don’t want to sound like a diva or anything, but is he kidding me? I work here as a doctor.
Maybe George doesn’t realize I’m a doctor. Even though I do walk around with an ID badge that says “PHYSICIAN” in big black block letters. Maybe he thinks I have some sort of housekeeping job at the hospital.
“You know, I’m a doctor,” I tell him.
George just keeps glaring at me. I don’t think I made the situation better.
I’m not cleaning up this glitter. Even if I wanted to clean it up, I’m not even sure how I’d do it. Does he expect me to find a janitor and borrow a mop?
Maybe he does.
“Sorry,” I say quickly. “I actually have a patient right now, but… I can call housekeeping, okay?”
George frowns at me.
“Is that okay?” I say again, more timidly.
“I guess it’ll have to be,” he says with a shrug.
I practically run out of the elevator. As the doors close, I check the soles of my shoes, which are absolutely covered in glitter. Oh God, it’s probably all over the floor of my car. Worse—I probably tracked it into the daycare and now Mila’s never going to let me hear the end of it. And the worst part is that it’s still all over my clothing.
The Devil You Know Page 6
