by Liza Palmer
“‘Wriggle.’ What an adorably condescending word.”
“Why can’t you just say you’re sorry?” Ben is getting more and more upset. Whatever suave polish he had earlier in the day is all but gone. “And actually mean it this time?” Then Ben’s entire face changes. “Oh, wait. Shit. Okay, I get it. I get it now.”
“What?”
“When you talk about high school, you—”
“I don’t talk about high school.”
“Fine. When you think back on high school, then.”
“I don’t think back on high school either.”
Ben is about to speak and then doesn’t. Another strangled start and stop. He takes a deep breath and finally speaks. “We were both terrible.” His voice is soft. Different. My throat burns as I swallow through the emotion. We are quiet. For a long time. We were both terrible. I say it again and again inside my own head. Looking to Ben for some reason why that statement is so true but has never been spoken until this moment. Maybe birds of a feather flock together because they have to. Everyone else thinks they’re awful. Am I still terrible? I allow a tiny nod. He watches me and is about to say something else, but … doesn’t.
I used to think Ben was perfect because he was the only one who challenged me. He was the only one who waded in and wasn’t afraid. Turns out, he was just the only other jerk who spoke the language.
“Good thing we’ve left that firmly in the past,” he says.
“Yeah.”
Quiet.
“I really loved playing football.” He looks down at himself, his eyes skim over the uniform and his own body. I watch as the shame infects him.
“You can still play.”
“It’s not the same.”
“Does it have to be the same?” Ben’s eyes lock on to mine. “I don’t know, we may have been younger back then, but apparently we were giant assholes.”
I set down my costume and take a step toward Ben. He leans slightly to one side, his head tilting so we can see eye to eye. I don’t know what to do with my hands. Or moreover, I want to do everything with my hands, but won’t. I place them as platonically as I can on his upper arms. I feel his biceps tighten and move underneath the slippery jersey material. I take a deep breath and smile.
And just as I’m about to say something chastely motivating and wholesomely inspirational, Ben kisses me.
And. It. Is. Good.
HAMBURGER NIGHT FOR VEGANS
Warm tingles break out everywhere, bursting across my body like fireworks. I follow the detonations like a curious detective. Goose-pimpling skin. His unshaven jaw. My body and his body. Just the heat. The heat. No. Too much. I can’t breathe. My fists tighten around his jersey as if the teenage version deep inside of me is already throwing a tantrum because I’m about to ruin this for her. And she propels me deeper into him. I want more. No. I hear myself let out a painful, yearning moan that comes from somewhere so hidden it scares me. Frantic, I break free from him.
“I’m so sorry. I … I shouldn’t have done that. I’m so sorry.” Ben steps back. And then farther back. “Shit.”
“We’d better get back out there.” I turn around and gather the costume in a wad. “You ready?” I whip the Groot head around with enough pent-up energy to hurl it all the way over the San Gabriel Mountains and motion to the door.
“Right behind you,” he says. And of course now everything he says is sexual and I feel my face flush and I hate it. I have to get out of this musty conference room. Now.
As we walk down the hallway, I start and stop a thousand sentences. All of them horrifying. I congratulate myself on realizing they’re horrifying before I say them. The worst offender being some blurted version of, “My husband was right behind me last night, if you know what I mean.” Which is both super tacky and 100 percent false. My husband hasn’t been “right behind me” in years.
Years.
Years.
Adam and I and sex … it just never clicked. I jiggle too much. I’m too heavy. My body doesn’t work right or something because it never reacted to Adam how he wanted. How I thought it was supposed to. Is this right, I’d be thinking? Is this what sexy is? Is this what love feels like? And I would miss it. He would finish and I’d still be wondering. When I found out about the other women, it didn’t surprise me. If I’d been good at sex, Adam wouldn’t have had to go looking elsewhere for it. No, I did this. This was all my fault.
But, that kiss was something new. Although, right now the shame and embarrassment for how uncontrollably greedy I felt and that no matter the state of my marriage, I am in fact still married, is eclipsing any big questions or even the fantastical high-fives that finally, after scoring his phone number just days ago, Ben Dunn kissed me.
I open the door to the outside and hold it open for Ben just as Myrna comes walking down the hallway with Louisa, Tilly, and five cakes between them.
Fuuuuuuuuck.
Ben quickly glances back and looks as horrified and flushed as I do. For such a teenage fantasy moment, it seems apropos that his mom would almost walk in on us.
“Ten goldfish and now five cakes. What else? A partridge in a pear tree?” Ben asks, throwing his hands up.
“Dad, that’s nuts. You know that’s not how the song goes.” Louisa laughs, struggling to hold her two cakes. Louisa looks over at me. “We sing it all the time. He knows the words.” Louisa says this as if she’s concerned his little joke will besmirch his good name in the Christmas carol community.
“Señorita Tillyweather McStubbins, please tell me you’re done fleecing this poor charity event for the day?” Ben asks, unable to keep from smiling. Tilly hands Ben a cake and puts her hand on his cheek and then ambles on into the conference room.
“She just kept winning,” Myrna says in a haze of wonderment.
“She’s got to give them back,” Ben says.
“Can we have cake for dinner?” Louisa asks, poking her head out from the conference room.
“It’s hamburger night, but we can have cake for dessert,” Ben says.
“Five cakes for dessert?”
“No, a piece of one cake.” Louisa stomps back into the conference room and breaks it to Tilly. Tilly looks from Louisa to Ben. Her icy glare sends a chill down my spine. While she stares at Ben, she casually runs a finger along the pink icing of the nearest cake and licks it.
“I’ve got this. You guys look like you’re in the middle of something important,” Myrna says.
“No, it’s—” Ben stammers.
“I’m just going to go put this in my car.” I hold up the Groot costume as if Myrna has just won it on a TV game show. She nods and heads into the conference room. Tilly closes the door behind Myrna.
“I’ll walk you,” he says.
“No need,” I say, my pace quickening.
“It’s really no trouble,” he says.
“Fine.” We walk in silence through the parking lot. “I’m just right over here.” I point to the side street. I look back and Ben nods. Understood. Yes. You are parked on that side street. Noted. I find my car. Beep it unlocked and place the Groot costume in the backseat. “Thank you.”
“Olivia—”
“I should head back. Check on Caroline and Gus,” I say, starting to walk back toward Asterhouse.
“What were you going to tell me? Earlier. Before I—” Ben cuts himself off and stops walking. He puts his hands on his hips and stands there. “What were you going to say?” I turn around and walk toward him. He watches me. He’s about to say something, but cuts himself off again. “Please.”
“That you should be proud of what a great dad you are.” I am about to step closer to him, but stop myself. “Your girls are amazing.” He nods. I can hear him breathing. It’s loud. And I can’t help but smile.
“I know. I’m a loud breather.” He doesn’t lean this time, probably because it led to something we would both rather not repeat (ish). Instead he stands up straight and looks down his nose at me—not in a snobby way, in
the actual literal way. The sunlight gleams through his eyelashes. Which is ridiculous.
“Is it allergies?” I ask. We continue back toward Asterhouse just as the kids are set loose on the Trunk or Treat portion of the day’s events. The kids swarm car trunk after car trunk as volunteers help them fill their pillowcases and plastic pumpkins full of candy.
“I got my nose broken as a sophomore and then again senior year. It hasn’t been right since,” he says. He turns his head to the side. “I think this is the problem.” He slides his finger over a crooked bump at the bridge of his nose. “Super attractive, huh?” I see Caroline across the parking lot and wave her over.
“Oh, I love your nose,” I say absently. My stomach drops. My face flushes. Goose bumps slither down my spine. I try to think of something to say. Anything. Instead, I just stand there with my mouth hanging open—weird noises gurgling and oozing from it like some sort of petroleum seep.
“Good to know,” he says. I force my mouth closed. “Good to know.” Caroline walks over to us.
“Caroline Lang, I don’t think I’ve introduced you. This is Ben Dunn. He was the person in charge of the costumes.” Caroline and Ben shake hands. “Nice to meet you’s.” “Pleasure’s.” I’m still wondering how “Oh, I love your nose” slipped out of my mouth.
“Such a lovely event,” Caroline says.
“Ben’s mom, Myrna, is actually the one in charge,” I say. Caroline smiles.
“Speaking of, I’d better check in. See if she needs anything,” Ben says. “Great meeting you.” A nod to Caroline. “Olivia.” A lingering nod to me. And we watch him walk away. For a while. A long while.
“I do love Halloween,” Caroline says.
“It’s definitely growing on me,” I say.
“Rachel Hatayama sent over the photos they’ll be using on Monday along with some of the pull quotes. I’m sure they’re not the only ones they’ll be using, but I thought that was nice of her.” Caroline is speaking quickly. I can definitely appreciate a woman who just doesn’t want to talk about it. Right there with you, sister.
Although …
As time passes and my hunger dissipates, I’m starting to remember more details of our kiss. Ben’s lips. His one hand at my waist pulling me into him and the other at the nape of my neck, tilting my head just as he needed it. His mouth fast on mine. Warm. Wet. Soft. I bring my fingers up to my own lips.
“Olivia?” Caroline. Shit.
“I’m sorry. I zoned out.”
“Is there anything I should be doing tonight?” Caroline asks again.
“What do you want to be doing?”
“I don’t know.” I wait. “I think I want to go home. Unplug. Watch more of that mystery series about the hot vicar.”
“Sure,” I say, smiling.
“Hey. It’s really good,” she says.
“I’m sure it is.”
We fall silent, watching the kids.
“You okay?” I ask.
“No.” She forces out a perfect Hollywood smile. Underneath, though. Pain. Fear. Her smile fades. She looks at the ground and starts speaking. “I hate that this is going to be part of my biography. That sounds so stupid, but there it is. Every time someone introduces me, every time someone talks about me—amongst all of my accolades they’ll always mention that I am divorced.” She looks up at me. “I am divorced.” I watch as those three words buzz around her like wasps. “It’s so … is it scary? Is that the right word? No. Sad.” Quiet. “Sad.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say.
“This is bullshit. I finally get noticed for awards season the year this happens? Because you better believe it’s not going to be about my performance or the film or the script. Nope. How did the divorce color your performance? Did you sense something was off in your marriage and pour all of that into the role? Has Max seen the movie? How hard is it coming to these events by yourself? You’re so brave.”
“Those are one hundred percent going to be questions people ask you.”
“Oh, I know. Rachel already asked one of them.”
“Which one?”
“How the divorce played into my performance.”
“What did you say?”
“I said that I use everything. ‘That’s what actors do. That’s why we’re all so’—and I leaned in and whispered—’so crazy.’”
“I bet she loved that.”
“She did. And then I said something about how marriage is hard even when things are going well. That love is always a risk. Which is when Rachel said, ‘Yeah, that’s why all of the rest of us are crazy, too.’”
“That’s good.”
“Right? I hope the headline isn’t ‘Caroline Lang Thinks All Actors Are Crazy!’” She smiles.
“The love being a risk thing is…,” I trail off. I don’t actually know what it is.
“You know what’s really shitty? I feel—fine. Comfortable? No, at home. I feel at home in all this.” Caroline shakes her balled-up fist over her chest. “Sometimes I think I’m better at being the unhappy, struggling version of myself. I’m sure it’s got something to do with my less-than-great childhood, blah blah blah…” Caroline rolls her eyes.
“Yep.”
“When I’m happy, it makes me feel like I’m missing something. Like there’s this looming thing that’s going to take it all away. And it’ll somehow be my fault that I didn’t see it coming.”
“This isn’t your fault. Max made a choice.”
“Yeah, but one could argue—and I assure you, my therapist has—that making the choice to marry Max made this all my fault.”
“Your therapist definitely never told you Max cheating was your fault.”
“Yeah, but she’s thinking it.” I laugh. “One of these days, she’s going to unwind all those flowy scarves, and tell me what she really thinks of me.” I’m about to argue with her when she interrupts: “I knew. Come on. We hope they’ll change, but you know.”
My face gets hot. Does she know about Adam? Can she sense it?
“You can’t control who you fall for,” I say, my voice a breathy, choked squeak.
“Can’t you, though? I don’t know. I think somewhere I knew that Max would give me what I wanted.”
“And what’s that?”
“To be unhappy. I know that sounds dramatic, but I’m just better when things are hard. You know the really sick thing?”
“You mean, besides you thinking your husband cheating on you is your fault and you don’t get to be happy?” My voice is too loud. Too intense. I’m taking everything too personally. I’m right on the edge.
“It makes the Oscar stuff a little less scary. Sure, a great and amazing thing is happening, but if I just focus over here at the slaughterhouse that is my personal life”—Caroline looks me straight in the eye—“it balances it out. I won’t ever feel too happy.” Before I can answer, Caroline’s eyes go from me to just over my shoulder. I turn around and see that Richard is pulling up just beyond the parking lot. “Today was perfect. The kids are beautiful and it was exactly what I needed. I actually talked to someone on the board about getting more involved.” Caroline pulls her purse higher up on her shoulder and gives Richard a wave. He steps out of the car, opens the back door, and waits.
“I’m glad,” I say.
“But, now? I want a bottle of wine. Or two. I get to do that, don’t I?”
“You do.”
“Good. I don’t have to be on set again for another two months. I can let loose a little.”
“There’s awards season.”
“Yeah, we’ll see about that.” Caroline gives me a sly wink, pats me on the shoulder, and starts to walk toward her car. “Thank you.” I nod.
“Text when you get home,” I say.
“I will,” she says. Richard closes the door behind her. I wave. He does not. All business. One of these days, Richard. One of these days.
I get a text from Leah. She’s running late for our happy hour tonight. A happy hour we’ve already resche
duled twice. Which is fine. A little too fine. We sometimes go weeks without seeing each other, our friendship only surviving through texting. It just never evolved or deepened. Why is that?
I look up just in time to see a little boy throw the football to Ben. He catches it, of course. Ben motions for the little boy to go long! Go long! The little boy, dressed as a policeman, excitedly skitters across the parking lot. Ben threads his long fingers on the white laces of the football, drops back, pumps his arm, moves around in the pocket, and here we are again: uncomfortably reliving the past. Yes, this is very cute. Yes, Ben is so handsome and oh, look at the little boy. Isn’t that adorable? I can’t help but roll my eyes.
This is the kind of shit that made my entire adolescence unbearable. I’d blow up every enchanting thing Ben did—no matter how infinitesimal—and make excuses for everything else. Awww, he’s not a total asshole! He just did something moderately decent and yeah, sure he slept with three cheerleaders in one week that one time in junior year, but you know, I heard it was mostly hand jobs and one of them blew him and even so, he’s just looking for someone to love, you know? He’s just scared. HE’S JUST SCARED.
Isn’t that what I’ve been doing for myself all these years? Making the same excuses for why my awfulness was not actual awfulness, it was just another by-product of tightening the tourniquet, so I could start my new life.
So am I still awful, or is my new life just populated by relationships that, like with Leah, have never deepened or evolved enough to make me lash out the way I used to?
Ben throws a perfect spiral to the little boy and everyone cheers. Naturally. I dopily smile. No. NO. One delightful game of catch with a cute kid does not a good man make. This is Ben Dunn. “You’ve been done by Ben Dunn” Ben Dunn. He may be older and just as funny and awesome as you’d thought he’d be and a great kisser who has amazingly strong hands or whatever? But, yeah. That kiss, though.
Yeesh.
“This is ridiculous,” I say. Ben picks the little boy up and hoists him on his shoulder.
“So, I’m heading out.” Gus bounds up behind me.
“Oh my god, you scared me,” I say, feeling as though I 100 percent got caught fantasizing about Ben. Which I kind of did.
