Just then, the waitress comes by to see if we’d like another round, but Ben says no and asks for the check. When she leaves, he gently takes my hands in his and smiles. “Okay, you’ve got a couple of choices here. I could take you to Banyan Tree, which is a five-star restaurant in Kapalua with a filet mignon and seared foie gras that I think would convince you to stay until New Year’s.”
“Okay, that sounds amazing.”
“Or, if you wanted to stay a little more fun and casual, I could take you to Duke’s Beach House, which has loads of tiki torches and these crab-and—”
“—macadamia-nut wontons. I love those! You have a Duke’s here?”
“Wait. How do you know Duke’s?”
“My friend got married at the one in Malibu.”
“Really? Did she have a cake pull?”
“Thank God, no. I choose Duke’s—”
“Wait. One more choice. This last place is very romantic, right on the ocean, and the chef will make you whatever you want. Provided we stop at the grocery store on our way over.”
I giggle. I don’t mean to, but I actually giggle. “Hm. What’s the chef’s specialty?”
Ben leans in to kiss me again. This time, we make out long enough to be one of those couples where I want to yell, Get a room!
Eventually, we come up for air. I smile bashfully again, then lean in, kiss him lightly on the lips, and say, “I think I’d like to try that last place.”
“Excellent choice, madam.”
Turns out Ben didn’t need to cook until morning.
FORTY-NINE
I awake to the sound of ocean waves crashing against the sand. I open my eyes. Ouch. Jesus, it’s bright in here. I blink a few times to adjust, then look over to the other side of the bed.
It’s empty.
Fortunately, I smell bacon, so I am okay with that. “Do you have a shirt I can borrow?” I yell out toward the kitchen.
“I like what you’re wearing now!” Ben yells back.
“Seriously, I will start rummaging through your dresser.”
I think I hear a laugh. “Second drawer for the shirts. Closet if you want to wear one of my button-ups and be sexy as hell.”
That would be trying too hard, I decide. (Although I do give it a moment’s thought. But am I that girl? No, I just don’t have the confidence to pull that off.) I shimmy into my underwear from the night before, pull out a New York Mets T-shirt from his drawer, slip it on, then walk out of his bedroom to the kitchen, where Ben is standing at his stove cooking bacon, and wearing nothing but boxers.
Yum. I mean that on so many levels.
I also see the rest of his condo in the light of day for the first time. Ben lives right on the beach. Like, right on the beach. Which means all I can see from his floor-to-ceiling windows is the island of Lanai on one side, the island of Molokai on the other, and nothing but ocean in between. It is stunning.
“Wow,” I nearly gasp. “Last night, I didn’t realize quite how close to the ocean you were.”
“Yeah, the view is what sold me on the place.” He turns to me. “Although right now I’m happy to say it’s only the second-prettiest sight here.”
I smile, walk up to Ben, and wrap my arms around his almost-naked waist. “That smells great. What time is it?”
“Eight. I couldn’t sleep, and I didn’t want to wake you.”
I give him a dubious look. He smiles and corrects himself, “Well, okay, after waking you at five, I wanted to give you a break.” He kisses me lightly, then whispers, “I missed you.”
“I missed you too,” I say, grinning like an idiot. I know Ben has Tuesday off, so I ask him, “Do you want to do anything before I have to get back to Jeff’s?”
“I have some thoughts,” he says seductively, and pulls me into another kiss.
We take so long kissing, the bacon burns.
Soon Ben is putting the overcooked bacon and eggs onto plates while I pour coffee (and learn he takes milk, no sugar), and soon we are sitting at the glass table on his balcony having breakfast, with the Pacific Ocean less than ten feet away, and a money tree he bought yesterday next to my feet.
I close my eyes, inhale a deep breath of salty air, and exhale contentedly. “This feels great,” I say, totally relaxed, and wondering what Zen officially feels like.
“Good,” Ben begins, his tone suddenly a little strained. “So, I need to tell you something. But you have to promise me you won’t freak out.”
I pop open my eyes. Of course he does. “Oh, crap. You have a girlfriend, don’t you?”
Ben points at me and gives me a triumphant “No!”
I glare at him and continue to guess. “Fuck buddy?”
“No.”
“Kids? Fake medical license? Wanted for fraud in seven states?”
“Wow, you’ve dated some losers,” he jokes.
I decide to go with a glare in response.
Ben takes a deep breath. “Okay, it’s not that bad. It’s just that … um … the reason why I was in New York wasn’t just to see my parents. It was also to see my wife.”
My jaw drops ever so slightly. You know how some animals, when they get scared, neither run nor fight, they just play dead? Just call me Ms. Six Feet Under.
Ben continues nervously, his words coming out in starts and stops. “We were planning to file divorce paperwork when I was there, but then she said she wanted to wait a little longer.”
I think I’m still glaring. Mostly, I’m not moving.
Ben keeps filling the silence. “We got married spur of the moment a few years ago; she was the sex I went across the country for. We broke up six months later, and I moved here. But by then she was applying for her green card, she’s Italian.”
Oh my God, am I really hearing this?
“But it wasn’t a green-card thing. I swear. She already had a work visa. She’s a model.”
Fan-fucking-tastic.
“I was in New York for the final two-year green-card interview, and she said she wanted to be the one to file for divorce, but then her boyfriend broke up with her, and she thought maybe we should just stay married and then she’d have a place to stay in Hawaii if she ever modeled here again, and I should have told you last night, but you were so beautiful and I’m really not a dick even though I’m hearing myself talk and I realize I sound like one, and please say something.”
He stops. I stare at him. All I can get out is “How is a wife not a fuck buddy?”
“Clearly you’ve never been married before,” he jokes.
I throw down my napkin and angrily kick back my chair. “Jesus, I’m out of here.”
Ben follows me through his living room, and into his bedroom. “You haven’t let me finish. It’s not a real marriage.”
“They never are,” I deadpan.
“No. This one’s not. I really am getting divorced.”
I cross my arms. “Did you have sex with her when you were in New York?”
Ben looks up and squints his eyes, which is my answer right there.
“I can’t believe I slept with you,” I spit out, angrily throwing off his shirt so I can change back into last night’s clothes.
Ben gently puts his hand on my shoulder. “Can we just talk?”
I pull my shoulder away and turn around as quickly as a snake about to strike. “If you touch me again,” I say with preternatural calm, “you will be in urgent care as a patient. That I promise you.”
Ben puts up the palms of his hands in surrender. He sits on the bed quietly, waiting for me to get dressed, at which time I assume he’ll take me home.
I assume wrong.
“Hey, wait a minute!” Ben blurts out. “I just realized something: I had not met you the last time I slept with her, which was before I left New York, when you didn’t even exist to me yet. I met you in the bar after I said good-bye to her and got into a cab. You, on the other hand, have slept with at least one guy since we met—the guy you flew halfway around the world to have sex with. So, if anything, I should
be the one mad at you right now, not the other way around.”
I take a moment to consider his point. It does seem to have some validity.
Which I absolutely refuse to acknowledge. “I had sex with him. I didn’t marry him!”
“And I haven’t married or had sex with anyone since I met you,” Ben argues. “Therefore, you should be apologizing to me.”
I furrow my brow, confounded that he could make such a stupid argument. “In the first place, you have not been able to legally marry someone since you met me because … Let’s see, why is that?… Oh, yeah … because you’re already married! And how do I know you haven’t had sex with anyone since we met?”
“I just told you. And technically I have not lied to you since we met.”
I am going to need Botox after this conversation. “Technically?”
Ben takes a deep breath and shrugs self-consciously, “Well, in a few minutes, you’ll probably think to argue that my not telling you about my marriage was a lie of omission, so I figured I’d nip that in the bud.”
I throw my arms up in the air in exasperation and walk out of the room.
Of course Ben follows me. “You know, really, if you think about it, if this is the worst fight we ever have—”
“Oh, this is the worst fight we’re ever going to have,” I assure him. “Because I’m never seeing you again.”
“Hold on,” Ben continues, his voice calm. “Listen. I like you. You’re only here for a few weeks, and my wife is an ocean and a continent away. I could have easily hidden my marriage. I didn’t. I told you the truth. I will continue to tell you the truth. Ask me anything you want. And, at the end of the conversation, if you want to leave, I’ll take you home.”
Ben and I stare at each other for several moments, both saying nothing.
The weird thing is, my gut tells me he’s a decent guy. He’s right, he could have hidden this from me, but he didn’t. And I really would like to see him again while I’m still in town. Finally I ask, “When are you planning to file for divorce?”
I watch his breath catch. He pauses, debates an answer. Finally he admits, “I have no idea.”
I raise an eyebrow at him. “So you’ll take me home now?”
Ben sighs and nods slightly. “Yup.”
* * *
When Ben drove me home, the silence was deafening. When he pulled up to Jeff’s driveway, I took a moment to get out of the car. In my mind, I was desperately trying to find a way for this to work out. I kept trying to think of what he could say to keep me there, something about Christmas trees or money trees or “Fell in love for an hour” six-word memoirs. But I knew nothing could fix this.
I remember when Nic was pregnant, she said she would rack her brain for hours on end, trying to figure out a way for her baby to come out without a huge head sliding through a small hole, presumably stretching and tearing and ripping to shreds everything in its path, or having her stomach and its layers upon layers of muscle and fat slit open with a knife to pull the baby out. No matter how much she tried to find a solution, the facts were what they were, and in the end it was going to be painful.
Just like this.
“I know you’re really mad right now,” Ben begins. “But if you can think of a way I can make it up to you, let me know.”
I turn to him as I open my car door. “I’ve got a better idea. If you can think of a way to make it up to me, let me know.” And then I walk out of his car and out of his life.
The moment I unlock the door and walk into Jeff’s house, I start to feel better. Even if I am greeted with a gleeful “Slut!” from my disabled roommate watching TV on the couch.
“He’s married,” I angrily tell him as I throw my stuff down at his door and head over to him for a much-needed hug.
“Aw … sweetie.”
“He’s a fuckhead,” I state unequivocally. “We will never speak of this dark day again.” I gently sit next to Jeff and put my head lightly on his chest. “How’s your foot?”
“Better actually. You know, you’ve had a hard night. Why don’t you get some rest. I can probably hobble around the bar okay.”
“Absolutely not. You’re still injured. Besides, I could use the distraction.”
“Of a bunch of happily married newlyweds?’
“No. Of learning how to be a bartender. I had fun Saturday. And I’m not going to let one bad date ruin my vacation.” I stand up. “Give me an hour. I need to get in a quick run and a shower, then we’ll head out.”
Jeff nods approvingly. “Good for you. Moving forward like that. So you’re feeling empowered?”
“Oh, God, no. Not even vaguely. I feel like eating a pound of chocolate-chip cookie dough and washing it down with two bottles of chardonnay while watching hours upon hours of reality shows. But I’m going for a run instead.”
As I head to my room to change into running clothes, I hear Jeff say, “That’s my girl. Oh, by the way, an apartment manager called me this morning, wanted to know how long you’ve worked at my bar.”
I stop in my tracks. “Damn.” I wince and turn to Jeff. “I’m sorry, I just didn’t want to give him my school in Los Angeles. I wanted to look local.”
“I told him the truth. I said you’ve been with me for years.”
I wait for a barrage of questions or, worse, a lecture. Instead, Jeff blows me a kiss and goes back to his program.
I love him for that.
FIFTY
Later, the two of us head to Male ‘Ana for a lesson in bartending.
Jeff is seated behind the bar in a chair, trying not to let his foot bother him, while I am standing behind the bar, waiting to be inspired by his tutelage.
Jeff picks up the soda gun from his end of the bar while I stare at the one in my hand. “As you know from Saturday,” Jeff begins, “this is your soda gun, which shoots out Pepsi, Diet Pepsi, 7UP, ginger ale, orange juice, soda water, tonic water, and plain water.”
I’m already feeling overwhelmed. “Looks complicated,” I am forced to admit, seeing the letters L, C, T, Q, G, and O on six different buttons, in addition to two larger buttons marked SODA and WATER, and mildly panicking.
“So was Coulomb’s law constant the first time you saw it, but I’ll bet you mastered that.”
“I love a man who can use Coulomb’s law constant in a bar,” I flirt.
Jeff smiles at me. “Okay, L stands for lemon-lime soda, which in our case is 7UP; C should mean Coke, but we use Pepsi here.”
“So why don’t you get a button that says P?”
Jeff smiles brightly. “Why did Albert Ghiorso name the ninty-ninth element einsteinium instead of marilyn monroeium?”
I think about the question for a moment. I’m embarrassed to have to admit, “I don’t know.”
“Which is the same as my answer to your P question,” he says, shrugging. “I have no idea.”
He goes through the rest of the buttons, and soon it’s as easy as the Pythagorean theorem.
So began my not-quite-one hour of unofficial bartender training. I learned some interesting stuff during those fifty-eight minutes, such as that calling the liquor well, call, and top-shelf works better because the terms cheap-ass, doable, and trying too hard never quite took off, and that chatting up customers is the main trick to getting good tips and good word of mouth.
Jeff ends his lecture with “Remember, if a customer is here drinking alone, ask if everything is okay without being too nosy. And always remember, our main clientele is the shiny-ring set. So ask them about everything wedding related.”
“Shiny-ring? You mean the newlyweds?”
“Yeah. I started calling them the shiny-ring set when I realized none of their rings had been dinged up yet, there’s no patina. Anyway, most bartenders have to deal with slightly depressed clients who want to get drunk and tell you all about their problems. Here, most of our clients want to tell you about how he proposed, what she wore to the wedding, the worst wedding gift they got, and maybe give a funny anecdote ab
out his new mother-in-law’s twenty-four-year-old boyfriend.”
I nod. “Got it. Like being a bridesmaid all over again.”
“Kind of, yes. Except, in this case, you’re genuinely happy for them. Just remember, we’re not really selling cocktails, we’re selling dreams. These people just got married, they’re thinking about how perfect their lives are going to be, how many children they’ll have, cuddling up at Christmastime to a roaring fire, moving to a new home. And whatever the dream is, we get to be a part of that. So it’s actually pretty cool.”
“Okay,” I say, smiling, although the idea of cuddling up at Christmastime makes me a little sad at this moment.
“Why the look? Are you sure you’re up to doing this today?”
At that, my shoulders tense up in outrage. “I’ve known the guy for a total of about thirty-six hours. If I’m not fine, something’s wrong with me.”
Jeff jokes, “And by that you mean you’re not fine.”
I smile and say lightly, “And something’s wrong with me. Yes.”
Jeff smiles. “I like your style.”
In that moment I realize, “You know, I’m starting to like my style too.”
Because for the first time in my life, I am not obsessing over this breakup. I’m not wondering what I did wrong, not worrying about if I was too fat for him, or not smart enough for him, or not successful enough for him. That’s beta-dog thinking: How will the other dogs in the pack feel? Let me adjust how I feel accordingly.
No. I’m going alpha the whole way and only care about how I feel.
Leilani charges in, a woman on a mission. “Why is it all men are the same?”
“We’re not,” Jeff assures her. “The ones you’re choosing are always the same.”
“Seriously, what is wrong with men?” she says, tossing her phone and purse on the bar, grabbing an apron, and tying it around her waist.
“Honey, customers start coming in only half an hour,” Jeff gently reminds her. “We don’t have that kind of time. Just tell me what happened.”
She lifts up her phone for Jeff to read. He visibly winces. “Oh, swing and a miss.”
“Can I see?” I timidly ask.
Leilani shows me her screen. It’s the classic three words that rile up any woman (well, at least when she’s sober):
Keep Calm and Carry a Big Drink Page 28
