Eight Weeks to Mr. Right

by Archer, Amy

  After our tasting, we walked around on the beautiful grounds, staring out over the fields of grapes and hills beyond.

  “I love coming out here,” Sophie said, then sighed. “I only wish Matt liked wine. I couldn’t get him to come to Sonoma if I paid him.”

  I looked at her. “Sophie, should I be worried about you two?” I asked.

  But she shook her head emphatically. “Not at all. We just have different interests. And that means I get to come out here with both of you!”

  I locked my arm through hers. “And I’m glad we did,” I said, and stared up at the bright blue sky, feeling light and happy.

  At the next winery, we were the only customers in the place. It was a nice surprise, and allowed me to relax even more. Sophie asked for small tastes since she was driving, but I let the warm feeling spread through my body, not drinking too much but enough to let down my guard.

  As we finished our tasting at this winery, Sophie asked about the wine club, and Ben and I took our last sips outside to sit in the breeze overlooking the vineyard while she got the info and made her choices. We found a seat side by side on the edge of a fountain, feeling the occasional stray droplets hit our arms.

  I was feeling bold, I supposed, from the wine, and I couldn’t hold back the question that had been nagging at my brain.

  “Ben,” I said. “I need to know…why did you break up with me? Back in high school? I never really knew.”

  He hesitated, then nodded slowly. “You’re right, I wasn’t very good at talking about my feelings. Maybe I’m still not.” He turned his body to face me slightly. “I think I just got scared. My dad had left, and for a long time I just kept hoping he’d come back. I think my mom hoped so too. But after a while, when it became obvious he wasn’t going to. I realized that you never really know what’s going on in someone else’s head.”

  I nodded. Andrew, Brandi, Ben himself…it had become clear recently that there was a lot I didn’t know about others’ inner lives. I imagined how scared and angry the teenage Ben must’ve been when he realized he dad was never coming home.

  “January, I was falling in love with you. And that scared the shit out of me. I realized that you could leave too, just like he had. With no warning. And break my heart all over again. I didn’t want to let that happen. So I broke up with you first.”

  I sat there, trying to absorb this information. Ben had loved me? At the time, all those years ago, I had felt like I was falling in love with him too, and had been too scared to admit it. Then when he’d broken up with me, I’d been so glad I hadn’t, and had convinced myself that it wasn’t really love after all.

  “It really hurt,” I said quietly, looking down at the reflection the wineglass made on the pavement beneath us.

  “I know,” he said. “It hurt me too. I’m so sorry. I was just a dumb kid who was trying to run away rather than face things that were hard.”

  “I wish you’d told me,” I said. “I spent months wondering what I’d done wrong.”

  He shook his head. “You never did anything wrong. It was me. I was scared.”

  We sat there in silence for a moment, and then Ben asked, “Do you think you can ever forgive me?”

  I laughed out loud then. I couldn’t help it. “Ben…I forgave you years ago,” I told him, and the relief was evident on his face.

  “Really? I always felt so bad about it. I always worried you must think horribly of me,” he said. “When I first saw you in that bar…my first thought was that I had a second opportunity to make it up to you. Make things right.”

  I cocked an eyebrow at him, the same way he always did to me when I said something ridiculous. “And yet you left it up to me to ask what happened?”

  He smiled and looked down at his shoes. “Well, I’m still not perfect,” he said.

  “Don’t worry,” I assured him. “You’ve made it up to me plenty. You’ve been there for me during a hard time. I would be lost without your support, without you helping me respond to people online, without knowing that at least you still think I’m a good person.”

  He smiled at me. “I’m really glad I saw you again,” he said. “I’m glad you wanted to move in.”

  And then our bodies closed the few scant inches between us, and I couldn’t tell whether it was the wine or the desire to be closer to one another, but suddenly my arm was pressing into his, and then he reached around my waist and drew me in closer, kissing my forehead lightly. My heart sped up, and my knees felt weak.

  “We’re all set if you’re ready,” Sophie said, appearing around the corner, and Ben and I jumped apart, though not before she’d caught my eye and grinned.

  We had lunch at a quaint cafe with high ceilings, lots of fresh bread and local vegetables, and then went to one more winery before heading home. I couldn’t stop thinking about what Ben had said. So when he’d avoided me after we’d broken up, that last year of high school, it hadn’t been because I’d done something wrong. It hadn’t been because he didn’t like me anymore.

  It had been because he liked me too much.

  Even all these years later, knowing what had really being going through his mind during that time was a relief. As we headed back toward San Francisco at the end of the day, I lay back against Sophie’s leather seats and closed my eyes. I felt content.

  It was Wednesday night again, and I was dreading the upcoming episode. Every week now felt like a new opportunity for humiliation, and I no longer knew what to expect.

  This week’s episode was about hobbies and interests, and each of the five remaining women had taken Andrew to do something we enjoyed. My segment was first this episode, and I was glad to get it over with.

  I’d chosen to go to a theme park because I loved roller coasters, and Andrew had seemed surprised by the choice.

  “You don’t seem like the roller coaster type,” he commented to me as we walked along, hand in hand, sharing a sticky mound of pink cotton candy. I glanced uncomfortably at Ben, but he didn’t react to the hand-holding.

  “I don’t?” TV-me responded. “What about you — do you like them?”

  He hesitated. “Not so much, but I’m willing to take one for the team,” he said, tossing his head so that his sun-streaked hair caught the light.

  The sideways grin I’d thrown at him betrayed how I was feeling in that moment: I was almost giddy with excitement that Andrew was willing to do something with me that I enjoyed, even though he didn’t enjoy it. He had referred to us as a team.

  Now, though, months later, I thought, How long would that have lasted? On the show, he’d been trying to impress us all, to present himself to the women and the nation as Mr. Right. But what would our relationship have been like afterward?

  On an impulse, I turned to Ben. “Do you like roller coasters?” I asked.

  He grinned. “Love them.”

  I smiled back, imagining the two of us going to a theme park together and taking on the most terrifying roller coasters in the whole park. Together. Side by side.

  “And just for the record,” Ben added, “I do think you seem like the roller coaster type.”

  “Why’s that?” I asked.

  “Because you’re adventurous. You put yourself on a roller coaster by agreeing to go on this show. You take risks.”

  “Huh.” I thought about it, nodding slowly. “I like that.”

  Then there were a few snarky comments from the women back at the house about what we might be doing on our date, which I’d come to expect now. There was Brandi, saying, “I don’t know what the hell she thinks she’s doing. But she shouldn’t be here.” I remembered the moment from the promo I’d seen in the bar before the very first episode, when I’d languidly wondered who the object of derision was. How laughable now — I hadn’t even considered it might be me.

  Otherwise, though, my segment wasn’t so bad, and I breathed out a sigh of relief when it was over. I relaxed as I watched Abby take Andrew country dancing, Brandi take him to sing karaoke (she was decent, h
e was awful), and a woman named Maribel take him to ride horses.

  Last was Isabella. She made the bizarre choice of taking Andrew to get a pedicure for their date, but he took it in stride, even seeming to enjoy himself.

  “So have you been married before?” Isabella asked as they sat back in their plush chairs, feet soaking in warm water. What an odd question, I thought. I guess I assumed we all would’ve known already if he had.

  But to my surprise, Andrew said, “Yes, I was. But it wasn’t meant to be. We had a kid together. But we were young, and…I don’t know. I needed to do what was best for me, you know?”

  Isabella nodded solemnly, blinking at him. She cocked her head to the side. “So do you still see your kid?”

  Andrew shifted uncomfortably. “Uh, I mean, I try to when I can. Work keeps me pretty busy.”

  Beside me, Ben stiffened. “He abandoned his child?”

  I froze. “I had no idea,” I said. Andrew had done exactly what Ben’s father had, leaving his family, not looking back. And now he was trying to hide it, talking around it with noncommittal words like “I try to,” not even owning up to what he’d done.

  On the screen, Isabella just nodded, but I felt myself hardening toward Andrew. Especially now, after hearing Ben’s story about his own dad. Would it have changed how I felt about Andrew if I’d known at the time?

  “Fuck Andrew,” Ben said. I looked at him. This was the first time he’d expressed a strong opinion on Mr. Right one way or the other. “I’m glad you didn’t win. You deserve better than a guy like that.”

  I was surprised to discover that I agreed with him. Watching the episodes back, while I was watching myself fall for Andrew on the screen, I was losing interest in him in real life. The facade had cracked, and between all of the dates, all of the ways Andrew tried to sculpt his image with each of us individually, a picture was emerging of who he was as a whole.

  It still hurt how he had rejected me. It still hurt a lot. And there was a big part of me that still wanted to be with him. But with every episode that we watched, it got easier and easier.

  Thanks to Ben. He helped me see past my own nose, see more than just how I was being portrayed to the nation, but how Andrew was being portrayed too. And while I didn’t like what the producers had done to paint me as a fake, manipulative person that I didn’t believe I was, the way they’d shown Andrew seemed to reveal something about him that he was trying to hide.

  After the episode ended, I pulled out my laptop and moved to the kitchen, sitting at the table to read through the tweets about #MrRight.

  “Not so bad today,” I commented. “People are more concerned with the way he dumped Maribel than with anything I did.”

  Ben came up behind me and peered at the screen, and I smelled his scent, felt his warmth, before seeing his face appear by my shoulder. My heart sped up. He rested a hand against my back, and I tried to remember to breathe.

  “Then put the computer away, and just spend time with me,” he said, his words tickling my ear.

  I turned to look at him, our faces just inches apart. “Okay,” I whispered.

  I slowly shut the laptop lid, removing myself from the battle that had consumed me over the past few weeks, and slid it away from me, to the middle of the table.

  “I got ice cream,” he said, moving to the freezer. “Vanilla. It’s very complex.”

  I smiled. “That sounds great.”

  He dug into the frozen pint and carved us each a scoop, then sat down next to me again at the table, his eyes searching my face. “That’s better. You look more relaxed already.”

  I looked down into my bowl. His eyes were too intense. I felt like he could read my mind with those eyes, and what he’d see there was unbecoming for roommates, or for friends. I took a bite of the ice cream, feeling the cold sweetness slide down my throat.

  “Remember that first time we slept together?” he asked.

  “You seemed so nervous.”

  “I was. You were so calm.”

  “I was just pretending.” Neither of us spoke for a moment, eating our ice cream in silence, and then I added, “That was so long ago.”

  “You look just the same,” he countered.

  “You smell the same,” I said. “Clean and sweet.”

  “What do I smell like?” he asked.

  “You smell like orange and sea salt. Magnolia. Pine, and maybe rosemary.” I leaned toward him and smelled his neck. “And something that doesn’t have a name, something that’s just you.”

  He smiled as I sat back, his eyes lingering on my face a moment too long and causing my stomach to jump up into my throat.

  “What do I smell like?” I asked, teasing. I knew I was playing with fire now. He leaned forward. “You smell like…” He leaned closer and closer, breathing me in. Then he looked up at me. “This doesn’t seem like a fair game, you know, with you knowing all about scents.” I smiled.

  Ben scooped a bite of ice cream with his spoon, then picked it up with his fingers. I watched curiously as he brought it toward me, but I didn’t move, didn’t flinch when it touched my skin. He traced my collarbone with the dripping cream, then popped the rest of it into my mouth. As it melted on my tongue, he leaned in.

  “You smell like vanilla,” he told me, and I laughed into the still, quiet room.

  Then the warmth of his tongue hit the cool ice cream, and I sat perfectly still as he licked from one side to the other, cleaning me off.

  My heart was fluttering, and I felt weak. “Ben…” I whispered.

  “January,” he replied, lifting his face level with mine. He was so close. He could’ve kissed me — like Andrew, while we were cooking in the kitchen on set, who leaned over and found my lips with his. But no: Ben waited for me to come to him.

  Our eyes locked, I leaned in, almost imperceptibly at first. Then I dropped my spoon, dug my fingers into his hair, and pulled him into me. His lips hit mine and our tongues found each other, just like they had fifteen years ago. My heart beat harder, my whole body screaming out for him, and our mouths moved frantically now.

  But then he pulled away, straightened back up.

  “Poor girl, you’re all sticky,” he whispered. “Let’s get you into the shower.”

  He reached for the hem of my shirt, then waited for my nod before pulling it up and over my head, and I sat there in our kitchen in a pale pink bra and jeans. He leaned over me again and licked up from between my cleavage, back to my throat, and I moaned without meaning to. Then Ben reached behind me, unclasped my bra, and I wiggled out of it, leaving it lying there on the kitchen floor.

  He stared down at my hard nipples, then dipped the tip of his middle finger back into his ice cream and painted a tiny white dot on the tip of each nipple. I shivered at his touch.

  “Yes,” I said. “I could definitely use a shower.”

  I stood and pulled his shirt off too, then pulled him into a hug, skin to skin, warm, and couldn’t tell whether the pulsing I felt was my heart or his. My nipples pushed into him, transferring stickiness to his chest, and then I pulled back and stroked up and down him, remembering his contours. He was bigger now, more muscular, but still lean, still the same shape I remembered from all those years ago.

  I took him by the hand and led him down the hall to the bathroom, turning on the shower in the clawfoot bathtub, and then we both stripped off our panties, our underwear, and stood naked in front of each other, shy but eager. He was hard, and something throbbed deep within me at the sight of him.

  I smiled at Ben, not sure what to say now, and felt the water with my hand. Warm already. We stepped in, pulling the shower curtain closed behind us, and I stood under the faucet and let the water spill down my hair. When I was wet I moved aside to give Ben a turn. He stood under the water and began soaping me up with scented body wash. I breathed in.

  “That’s the rosemary I smell on you,” I said, and he nodded as he worked my breasts into lathery suds.

  When I shivered, he moved me under
the water again, and as the rivulets swept the bubbles away I lathered him instead.

  We kissed, watery and warm. This felt so right, so good, so normal, as though no time had passed at all. He reached between my legs, and I moaned again, spreading them wider as his finger probed my soft wetness.

  I pinned him against the wall and kissed him again, feeling his erection press hard into my thigh, wanting him. But the water was trickling down the wall outside the tub, so we stood back up, shut it off, and stepped out.

  “Here,” Ben said, wrapping a soft towel around my shoulders, and I pulled it tightly to my dripping body.

  He wrapped one around himself too, then gathered me into a hug. “I’ve been wanting to do this since I first saw you in that bar,” he said, kissing me again.

  I traced a finger down his damp arm, then intertwined my fingers with his, and he led me down the hall to his bedroom. We fell into his bed together, pulling off our towels and letting our cool bodies press up against each other fully for the first time.

  For the first time in years.

  Ben reached over to his bedside table and pulled open a drawer, pulling out a small square packet. “Do you want this?” he asked, pausing before tearing it open.

  “Yes,” I breathed. “Yes, I want you.”

  He rolled the condom on, and then I straddled him, easing him inside of me, and we rocked together, our bodies and faces close, until I had whimpered in his ear, and he had groaned into mine, and our bodies had stilled.

  WEEK 5

  I woke up in a tangle of sheets on Ben’s bed early the next morning. As I lay there watching him breathe slowly in and out, his eyes shut, mixed emotions swirled around my brain. I was giddy with excitement at spending the night with Ben, a fluttery feeling in my chest, and part of me never wanted to leave him. I pressed up closer against his prone body, feeling his warmth as I watched his chest rise and fall.

  But another part of me was screaming No, no no! You can’t do this! This wasn’t part of the plan. Back in New York, I’d made a plan for exactly how the next few months would go, how they’d lead into me living the life of my dreams. It started with going on the show, proving to Andrew that although I was surely not the woman of his dreams — because after all, what were the odds? — that I would be a great employee for La Joie. That I was creative, that I was focused, that I was a hard worker, and above all that I was passionate about perfume. I would be level-headed, not get involved with drama — in a word, I would be professional.