by Kevin Sean
“What?” I can’t help yelping. This can’t be. An essential component of our marketing for the dating app is our plan to feature cool celebrities using our service. And who’s cooler than an up-and-coming rapper who met her girlfriend on Twitter? “Why did she jump ship and head to Photogram, didn’t we have a contract with her already?”
Sue hesitates. “We almost did, sir, but you never responded to Daisy’s agents calls asking for one final round of negotiations. He said he tried calling you all afternoon. When he didn’t get an answer, he reached out to Dalton Elijah. They had a contract signed and sealed within an hour.”
Immediately I realize Daisy’s agent must have called during one of the multiple occasions Ben and I were having very loud, very passionate sex today. I get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I keep telling myself that hooking up with Ben over and over again won’t interfere with my career, but it’s already started happening. Have I made a huge mistake?
As I mull my options on how to handle this crisis, Ben entertains himself with a sexy little dance. First, he’s gyrating and twisting and then rolls his hips and thrusts sexily, as if miming pounding the shit out of me. He tops all these sexy moves off with a cheesy, rap video-style imitation of spanking an ass, waving his hand back and forth through the air.
I hate how easily he pulls off a perfect mixture of being adorable and jaw-droppingly sexy when he dances like that, because I really can’t afford to be distracted right now. But fuck, do I want Ben to distract me till I can’t walk straight.
I smile back at him and do a little pantomime of my own, making a face which I hope conveys something like I hate every second I’m not touching you, but a CEO’s got to do what a CEO’s got to do.
I cover the microphone so I can whisper to Ben and let him know that however adorable he is, now isn’t the time for sexy dancing. I love watching his body move, but I can’t concentrate on that at the moment. I’m too anxious to deal with the Photogram-scented shit storm swirling around Lexington Tower and threatening the stability of my company.
“No, I’m sorry, but I don’t have time for any of that stuff right now. I have some actual work to attend to… why don’t you just go do something to pass the time? You can… I don’t know, go paint something else?” I don’t intend for my words to be callous, but the second they leave my mouth Ben’s expression completely changes, as if I’d struck him right across the face. I know immediately that I haven’t expressed myself well.
“Cool,” he mutters, almost spitting out the word. He definitely doesn’t think that me asking him to leave is cool. It’s clear that Ben’s been hurt by what I’ve said, so I shift my focus to him instead of work. There’s a whole team of people focusing on LexTech at the moment, but who’s watching out for Ben? Only me.
“Can I call you back in a minute?” I don’t wait for an answer and hang up immediately. I turn physically towards Ben, trying to make it as clear as day that I’m here for him, as much as I can be.
“I’m sorry,” I say, stumbling over the words which come out shaky as though I’m on the verge of tears. I’ve never been a crier or gotten choked up like this, but I’ve also never seen this particular emotion on Ben’s face: sullen anger. “What’s wrong?” I ask.
Gone is the happy-go-lucky boy next door I’ve gotten to know. All of Ben’s saccharine positivity is sucked out and replaced with pure, white-hot rage. He’s trying to keep his cool, but he’s doing a bad job. I’m half afraid he’s about to punch me.
“Listen, Logan, I know you’re stressed with all kinds of things at work. I get it—I understand. But that isn’t an excuse to just… shit all over my passion. A passion you encouraged. How is that fair?”
“Woah! When was I doing that? You know I love your paintings,” I say, pushing back. However dismissive I may have sounded just a minute ago, it wasn’t intentional. It doesn’t change the fact that I think Ben is insanely gifted and artistic. “I’m genuinely impressed by your talent with a paintbrush. Hell, I’m jealous of your creative flair!”
Ben scoffs. “Creative flair, my ass. You’re probably just happy I’m painting because it gets me out of your hair during the day. That way you only have to put up with me when it’s time to fuck.”
“Ben, you know that isn’t true,” I insist. I can’t believe this conversation has gotten so ugly and emotional so quickly.
“I don’t know that, Logan. Can you blame me for sometimes thinking the only reason you have me here is for sex with no strings attached? Can you blame me for being insecure when the only things we talk about are work and sex? We never have real, honest conversations.” My heart breaks more the sadder his expression gets. He’s right. No matter how many designer shirts or home-cooked meals I’ve given him, I also haven’t been fully communicative regarding my feelings or my intentions.
Not only is Ben correct in calling me out for being a prick… I think he’s tearing up. Ben’s eyes are a puffy red and there’s a flush of color in his cheeks which would be adorable if it wasn’t a physical manifestation of the severe emotional distress I’m causing for him.
“I’m sorry,” I say, because I’m not yet sure what other words might make this right. While I try to conjure something pacifying to say I clasp Ben’s shaking hand and give him a loving squeeze.
“No, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap on you,” he murmurs, returning my squeeze. “That wasn’t cool of me. I just… I’ve been feeling insecure lately.”
“About… painting?” I ask while gently caressing his hand.
“About everything. My art, my life, the fact that I will probably die alone…”
“Hold up, Debbie Downer, let’s not get ahead of ourselves!”
“Sorry. It’s just that for so long painting was like my therapy, my escape from the world. So when my last relationship ended, and I lost my inspiration to paint, I didn’t just lose my lover and best friend… I also lost my coping mechanism and emotional support system. Without art, I break apart and can’t function correctly. And finally, finally, I’m painting again, and I’m happy again… but honestly, I’m terrified for this storm to end and to have everything come crashing down. I don’t want to be sad and uninspired again…” By the time Ben finishes his outpouring of emotion, his words are barely a whisper.
My heart is swelling and splintering, coming together and falling back apart repeatedly. On one hand, it brings me great joy that Ben is happy and artistic for the first time in forever, thanks to being with me. On the other hand, he’s terrified of having his heart broken… by me.
“I understand,” I respond, which causes Ben to raise his eyebrows at me with skepticism. “Really! I’m very guilty of having an unhealthy relationship between work, sex, and emotions. If I’m being honest… you’re the first person I’ve slept with more than once in over a decade.”
Ben’s eyes widen in surprise after this revelation. “Seriously? But you’re… Logan Lexington. You could have anyone!”
“One might think,” I say bitterly. “I decided years ago to focus on work, not love. Relationships have burned me before… my first and only boyfriend tried to ruin my life and derail my career by spreading slanderous lies about when I first founded my company. Since then, I’ve closed myself off from love,” I admit.
Ben’s expression is back to being soft and sweet, like it usually is. “Oh, Logan,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry, I had no idea.”
“Why would you? I was too busy enjoying how delicious every inch of you tastes to unload the emotional trauma of my past onto you. Don’t worry about it,” I assure him.
“God, it’s so hard to stay mad at you!” Ben groans although he’s smiling. He traces my jawline with his finger. “It’s okay if you’re scared, Logan. In fact, it’s downright intelligent. I’d worry about you if you thought we could spend the rest of our days being happy-go-lucky in the hideaway. Let’s be realistic: at some point this storm will let up and I’ll need to go home. You can’t conference call in to work forever, yo
u know.”
Why not? What do you have against sticking to conference calls and being happy-go-lucky in the hideaway? I want to say these thoughts out loud; I want to scream them. But I don’t, because I know that I’ll just send petulant and privileged and willfully naïve, like some love-sick yet uncommitted idiot.
Besides, I know the answer to both questions. Ben deserves better, he deserves something real. Which is the exact something I’m not sure I can offer. Money can’t buy emotional intimacy and attachment. A platinum credit card can’t buy real.
Real life is complicated. Real love is complicated. It’s instantly beautiful and easily bent. There’s a reason I’ve avoided it for so long. Am I sure that I’m ready to turn my back on my philosophy of one night stands, one I’ve followed so devoutly for the last ten years?
Maybe Ben senses that I’m at war with myself. He must pick up on something, because he takes the chance to assure me again. “I would never, could never try to interfere with your livelihood. And if you think I would be capable of hurting you on purpose, you don’t know me very well. I can barely handle hurting mosquitoes,” he jokes.
This makes me laugh. “Okay, okay, you’re right… I don’t know you very well. But what I do know about you intrigues me.”
Ben scoffs. “Like what?”
“Where do I start? You’re funny. You’re artistic. You’re gorgeous. You like to call me out on my bullshit. What’s not to enjoy?”
This makes him blush. I see him hesitate for a moment, then pull my ear close to his whispering lips. “Let’s go have some make up sex.”
13
BEN
I can feel the can of paint I’m lifting slipping out of my hands.
3… I should tighten my grip or set it down without causing a disaster. But I’ve been consumed with thoughts of Logan all morning since he left after waking, and I’m too distracted to think straight.
2… The can is sliding down now, frictionless against my fingers, seconds away from free fall.
1… I’ve now fully registered what’s happening and am about to spring into action when…
Whoosh. The can is out of my grip and somersaulting through the air. In the cylinder’s wake a glorious splatter of teal paint follows, suspended midair for a moment that feels like eternity, pulsating and dripping and just being with the fluid movement and grace of a synchronized swimmer.
Instead of running to minimize the impending disaster, I just watch, entranced. The paint looks like something living, breathing, beautiful.
And just like that, as quickly as it transitioned from a can of liquid to a work of art, the mass of pulsating dancing color has transformed again and turned into a puddle of shades of blue, lapping at my feet. I should feel guiltier. More silly for letting this happen. I shouldn’t be admiring the mess as though I were Pollock stepping back from a splattered canvas and thinking hmm, yes, that’s actually quite good.
Besides the lake I’ve introduced to the hideaway’s biosphere, I’ve also churned out some paintings this morning. They’re all of Logan.
I did one portrait of the contours of his back from memory, and another of his chest and abdomen. I enjoy racking my memories for reference while painting, but thoughts of Logan are now tinged with doubts and regret. Twenty-four hours ago I felt confident I’d made the right decision in staying here with Logan Lexington, and now I’m not so sure. Fragments of our disagreement yesterday afternoon are still echoing in my mind.
While these doubts consume me I don’t hear footsteps approaching from behind. “Mister Ben?” For a second I’m flooded with relief by the familiar sound of Katarzyna’s voice. Until I remember the fact that I’ve just spilled paint all over the expensive flooring she’s in charge of cleaning.
How do you say “spare me my life, I beg of you,” in Polish?
I turn around, bracing myself before I see Katarzyna’s face twisted into shock and rage. But to my grand surprise, she’s smiling, not scowling. She gleefully presents me with a tray of pastries.
“Surprise! I made my secret recipe for Polish donuts and Polish orange juice! My favorite delicacies from the home country. To feel inspired one must be well fed, that’s what my mother always said.”
I hadn’t even realized until this very second how intensely hungry I am. My stomach rumbles and reacts the second Katarzyna’s treats are in my line of sight. I must not be very subtle about my sudden overwhelming desire to shovel down every last thing on the tray she’s holding, because she smiles and holds the food out towards me, nodding as if egging me on. “Go ahead, try!”
“I like your mother,” I say between bites. These donuts are incredible. They’re fluffy yet firm, with a delectable filling.
“This was her recipe! But I’ve changed the usual onion jam for chocolate cream.” In my head I say a silent thank you for this substitution.
As I finish wolfing down every single crumb prepared by Katarzyna, she focuses her gaze on the disastrous, colorful mess I caused right when she was coming in. The maid’s eyebrows rise farther and farther up, as if threatening to jump clean off of her forehead if any further provoked.
“I see you are… getting very inspired. The paint is supposed to go on the fabric square though, no? This piece is rather…. Unconventional.” She purses her lips and squints, trying to find meaning in the mess.
“Er, no, that’s a spill. I didn’t do it on purpose. Sorry for causing such a disaster, I’ll clean it up,” I insist.
“Hmmm… it is not an ideal situation, but I have seen much worse in my days. I will fix it.” I gulp. “Easily,” she adds, perhaps to assuage my guilt.
“I’m so sorry about this, Katarzyna. I—”
She raises her hand, making the universal sign for stop. Or in this case, it might be accurate to interpret her motion to mean something more along the lines of I’m begging you to shut the hell up and make it possible for me to keep smiling at you. “No more apologies now. All I want to hear is the sound of Mr. Ben’s enjoyment of my Polish donuts.”
“I wish I could provide you with that noise, but I already ate them all,” I admit.
This makes her laugh. “You’re too funny. I can see why Mr. Logan said he likes you so much.” He did? Before I can ask her to elaborate on what else Logan has told her about me, about us, she’s already engrossed in the cleaning. In no time at all the hideaway’s floor is sparkling new, as if I never spilled the paint in the first place.
“You’re incredible!” I gush. “Thank you so much, Katarzyna.”
She beams at me. “So sweet of you to say that,” says the housekeeper before picking up one of today’s new paintings and admiring the acrylic abs. “It means a lot coming from such a… passionate artist.”
“You like the paintings?” I can’t help but want a second opinion. I hope I’m not deluding myself into thinking they’re good.
“I love them!” Katarzyna says, spinning back to face me and grabbing me by the shoulder. “You have a gift. Mr. Logan sees it and I do too. Now you just need to believe it.”
Tears form in my eyes. That was one of the most inspiring and affirming things anyone has ever said to me. “Thank you,” I whisper, wishing there were enough words to capture my gratitude.
“Anytime,” says the housekeeper. “Well, time for me to find the next crisis in need of being averted. I’m off!” Katarzyna exclaims before giving me a peck on the cheek. She raises a feather duster in the air as if saluting an army general and marches out of the room.
I whip my cell phone out of my pocket. I’ll use the distraction of mindless social media scrolling to get my mind off of paintings, Logan, and the fact that those two things are becoming ever more connected by the minute.
To my surprise, the first notification at the top of my phone isn’t a text from Montana or someone tagging me in a photo on ConnectMe… it’s a message from Zach.
Can you call me when you’re free? I’d love to talk to you. It’s been too long.
For a moment I con
sider cracking a window and just tossing the cell phone right in to the rain. That seems far preferable to speaking with Zach. We haven’t spoken at all since he left.
I know he’s tried contacting me once or twice in the last year, but I never felt ready to answer him. I feel bad, considering that we broke up amicably and I promised we would still be friends, but… every time Zach reached out I was reminded of my failure to paint after he’d left.
That failure, which seems ever more glaring and pathetic compared to the happy life I’m sure Zach is leading now, always felt like a burden too impossible to overcome just for the sake of a saccharine, surface-level conversation with my ex-boyfriend.
But I’m turning over a fresh leaf, right? Starting a new chapter in my life requires freeing myself from the crushing emotional weight of being heartbroken over Zach. Maybe it would be for the best to get closure. That way I can move on and focus on the future.
My hands shake while I dial Zach’s number. I hold my breath the entire time the phone rings. For a moment it seems as though he won’t answer, and relief floods through me. But he picks up on the last ring.
“Ben!” He sounds surprised, but pleasantly so. “Wow. It’s nice to hear your voice after so long.”
“Yours too!” I exclaim, trying to match his level of cheer.
“Sorry to call out of the blue, but I just wanted to check in on you. The news won’t stop talking about a vicious storm hitting San Francisco and… well, I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.” I find this kind of random for my ex to do, but he sounds sincere.
I’m determined not to make a fool of myself, so I try to speak with ease and confidence. “I’m fine, don’t worry about me, Zach. I’m waiting out the storm in a safe place. It should let up any time now. Really, it’s chill.”
“You’re sure?” He presses.
“Yeah, of course.” I pause and pull a topic of conversation out of thin air. “So, you moved out of San Francisco?”
