by Phoebe Fox
“Oh! Okay, that’s good—let’s do that. What’s not freaking you out about this?”
“Christmas,” she said immediately. “Having a kid around at Christmas—with all you guys—but also…Okay, this sounds stupid, but I picture Christmases years from now—or whatever, Thanksgiving, Easter, you name it—when this kid is an adult, and he comes home to me and Stu for the holidays and…we have a family. My own family.”
Sasha sounded forceful on that last line, and a pang shot through me. When we were kids she spent most of her time at our house, like my parents’ honorary third child. But at holidays, only-child Sasha had to stay home in her silent, angry household where her parents seemed to barely tolerate each other, and when they finally—blessedly—divorced, she spent holidays shuttling back and forth between them, crushed every year at having to miss the time with me and Stu and our parents.
I squeezed her leg. “That sounds nice. Promise you’ll let me come for Christmas.”
“Are you kidding? You and your family are Christmas. That’s the best thing about all this.”
I smiled. “What else?”
Her face softened. “Having a teeny Stu. You remember what a cute little bastard he was when he was a kid?”
“You’re half right, anyway—he was a little bastard.” But my words lacked any sting. I was too happy that for the first time, the prospect of impending motherhood was putting a graceful smile on my friend’s face instead of pulling it tight with fear.
“What else?” I asked.
Her smile vanished like clouds chasing away sunshine. “I don’t know, Brook. That’s all I’ve got in the plus column. Really. Why do you think I’m so scared?”
“Okay. We can work with this.” I leaned forward over her legs and took another sip of my lemonade. In the silence between us I could hear birds arguing in the live oaks in my backyard, the shushing sound of passing cars on Winkler.
“That’s it?” Sasha said, paddling her legs in my lap. “You’re finished?”
“Sash, I’ve been rubbing for like fifteen minutes.”
“Not that, bonehead. My life. I thought you were going to fix it.”
“Oh. Right. Let me give it some thought and figure out a plan.” I set down my glass, turned to face her, and gave her my best Wise Therapist expression. “Don’t worry about a thing.”
My phone beeped with a text just as I pulled into Ben’s neighborhood to return Jake: Running a little bit late from work, but left you the key.
Dammit. After talking things out with Sasha, I was hoping another conversation would yield some answers about how serious things were with Perfect Pamela. I couldn’t put off making a decision about Michael forever.
But as I let myself into Ben’s dark house with the key I’d found just where he’d said it would be—under one of the stepping-stones to the backyard—Jake happily trotting in ahead, Sasha’s words about figuring out a way to scope out the private areas of his house came back to me.
What better chance could I ask for?
Flipping on the entryway light just inside the front door, I glanced around in its modest spill of illumination. With Sasha’s instructions in mind I took a long inhale through my nose. The house didn’t smell “feminine” that I could tell—just of something clean, like bleach or Febreze—underneath the barely detectable scent I always associated with Ben: cedar and citrus, a fresh smell like cut grass. And the barest musk of eau de Jake.
I walked over to the lamp on a table beside Ben’s sofa, clicking it on. There were no definitive clues in the living room—a single half-drunk glass of water on the cocktail table, the remote beside it. A throw blanket cast over the arm of the sofa—maybe Ben had pulled it over himself and Perfect Pamela as they snuggled in front of the TV late one night…or maybe he’d just flung it there out of the way.
Sasha’s words still playing in my head, I headed into the kitchen, but the refrigerator offered no clues.
I walked over to his bedroom door and glanced inside as Jake came and sat beside me, looking into the room as if he were a spectator to some mysterious sport that would unfold before us. The bed was made, no frilly pillows or stuffed animals on it. (I did register, on some level, that I was ascribing to Perfect Pamela the habits of a prepubescent girl.) There were no women’s slippers lined up at the foot of the bed beside the pile of castoff shoes that Ben always let accumulate there.
But Sasha said the bathroom would tell the real story.
As I took a step inside, Jake leaned his head into my thighs, impeding my forward movement.
And this was the point at which I once again became a rational adult.
What was I doing? The last time I’d snooped around someone’s place was right after Kendall had summarily dumped me via text message, and I’d let myself into his condo, determined to find proof of another woman.
I hadn’t, but my rooting through his things had turned out to be the first loose rock in my avalanching sanity. And we all knew how that turned out.
I was not going to go down that road again. More than that, I wasn’t going to betray Ben. He’d given me his dog to care for, a key to his house. How could I meet his renewed trust with an immediate breach of it—whether he ever knew about it or not?
As Sasha said, everything that was happening between us lately was a good sign. I’d try to have faith in that.
I bent to pet Jake, who still sat leaning into my leg in the doorway, as if anchoring me to reality. “Thanks, buddy,” I said, stroking his soft head. “Thanks for saving me from myself.”
Jake just wagged his tail and jabbed his nose into my eye, blissfully unconcerned with the ridiculous affairs of humans.
I fed Jake—it was nearly seven, past his usual dinnertime—and we were standing together in the backyard for his usual postprandial poop when the dog cometed over to the side of the yard, barking joyously and doing his bunny-bounce—Ben was home. My heart did the bunny-bounce too.
I coaxed the dog around to the back door, and we were waiting in the kitchen by the time Ben came in from the garage. Jake streaked over to where he stood carrying a fifty-pound bag of dog food in one hand and a paper sack in the other.
“Hi, buddy!” he said to Jake, setting the sack on the breakfast bar so he could pet Jake’s bouncing head. He looked up to catch my eye. “I was hoping I’d catch you.”
My heart fluttered. “Me too. I went ahead and fed him…since it’s a little late.”
“Thanks.” He carried the dog food over to the pantry. “So what’d the vet have to say?”
I leaned back against the counter, hands braced behind me, letting myself enjoy watching the muscles in his strong, tanned arms work as he opened the bag and poured the food into the big plastic container he kept it in. I cleared my throat. “Um…Jake’s lonely.”
Ben straightened, facing me.
“What?”
“Your codependent dog is lonely.”
“That’s what the vet said?”
“No—she’s a vet, not a mental health professional. That’s my analysis.”
Ben cocked an eyebrow at me with a corner of his mouth lifting, then retrieved a six-pack from the paper sack, popped the caps on two bottles, and stepped closer. His green Millennium Homes shirt was smudged with something dark, and underneath his usual clean scent was the faint hint of dried sweat—musky but not unpleasant. Actually, I reflected, remembering studies of pheromones in men’s sweat and how they affected women’s sex hormone receptors, slightly a turn-on. Ben never simply delegated to the men on his company’s build sites—he got in there with them and did the work. It was one of so many things I liked about him.
“And why do you think that, Madam Therapist?” He handed me one of the beers.
I shrugged, hoping my quickening pulse at the implied intimacy of the casual offer—one we’
d played out so many times when we were dating—didn’t show beneath my skin. “My guess is he was taken from his mother too soon.”
He laughed. “No, I mean what makes you say that?”
“Oh…Well, the vet said his health is fine—perfect, actually. But I told her how you said he’d been acting—lethargic, low appetite. The doctor asked if anything had changed or there had been any stress in Jake’s life lately, and all I could think of was that your mom is out of town and he usually stays with her during the day.” And also that Ben had recently brought an interloper into their lives, and it was very likely that Jake was making his disapproval known. But I’d kept that theory to myself then, and deemed it politic to do so again now. “She said that suddenly being alone a lot could be enough with a needier dog to bring on a mild depression. And I think we can agree Jake is on the needier side.”
Ben sighed, leaning back against the counter perpendicular to the one supporting me. Inches away. “I should never have gotten a dog, with my schedule. It’s not fair to Jake.”
“Are you kidding? Look at him. That’s a happy dog.” We both glanced down to where Jake was now lying between us on his back, wiggling his body this way and that like a bear scratching against a tree, his tongue lolling out almost to the floor.
Ben gave a wry smile. “That’s just because he’s been spending time with you.”
I wanted to take that as a thinly veiled statement of Ben’s own feelings, but I suspected he just meant Jake had had a warm body and available petting fingers nearby all day.
“When does your mom come back?” I asked.
Ben sighed. “Not ’til next Monday. Poor Jakie. Hang in there, buddy,” he said, gently rubbing his belly with the side of one workbooted foot.
I took a sip of my beer, playing out the words in my head to see if it was a good idea to say them, considering that I still had no clear idea about the Pamela situation. “Well, why don’t I take him during the days ’til Adelaide gets back?” I said before I’d actually made up my mind.
Whoops, now it was out there.
I’d expected Ben to protest that it was too much trouble, but to my surprise he seemed to be considering it. “Really?”
I gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Sure. I’d love to have him.”
His face eased into that warm smile I loved. “That would be great. I can drop him off in the mornings and pick him on the way home.”
I took a long sip of my beer, my heart quickening its pace. That meant we’d be seeing a lot more of each other—twice a day, for a week. “Or I can bring him to you at night. Either way.”
Ben held his bottle up to mine. “You’re a lifesaver, Brook—thanks.”
I clinked with him, then took a long swig, trying to cool the flush of guilt heating my face.
When my phone rang as I was getting ready for bed, I was surprised at the way my heart lifted at Michael’s name on the caller ID. I hadn’t heard from him since Friday, and I’d begun to think he might have left town at my ambiguous response to his wanting something more. Michael wasn’t a “let’s be friends” kind of guy—it was all or nothing with him. But there was a part of me that had hoped he wouldn’t give up so easily.
“Hey,” I blurted. “I wondered why you hadn’t called.”
“I wasn’t sure if I should,” he said. “You told me to wait.”
“I…Yeah, well, I’m glad you did. Call, I mean.”
It was the truth—but I still had no idea what to say to him. I didn’t want Michael to keep trying to win me over until I knew what it was I actually wanted—but I also didn’t want him to stop. I kicked off my jeans and pulled on cotton boxers, my usual sleepwear, as I listened to him breathing on the other end of the line. I wasn’t used to this awkwardness between us, the weight of things left unsaid.
“So, what do you think…?” he said finally, and my breath hitched. “Do you want to get together? Sometime?” he asked, as I unhooked my bra and let it drop to the closet floor.
I crossed my arms over my bare chest at the naked earnestness in his tone, my stomach lurching like a faulty elevator.
I wanted to see him—I couldn’t deny that. But that stubborn flame of hope with Ben refused to go out. It wasn’t the only thing keeping me on the fence with Michael, but it was the one clamoring the loudest. Now that I’d be seeing a lot more of Ben for a while, I couldn’t rule out the possibility that that door might still be open.
But even though I knew it wasn’t fair of me…I wasn’t ready to let this one close.
“I don’t know, Michael,” I said finally, wanting to offer him at least partial honesty. “I’m sorry, I…I still don’t have an answer for you.”
There was a beat, and then: “Okay. Well, I’ve been working on some ideas to show you for your business. How about if we meet to talk about them?”
Business. That was my comfort zone—I could keep things on a professional level for now with Michael while we got to know each other again…and at the same time not close off any possibilities with Ben. The best of both worlds.
I was meeting tomorrow with Sasha, so Michael and I made plans to get together Wednesday evening at a seafood restaurant we used to like near downtown, on the river.
After we hung up I lay awake in the dark for a long time, Michael’s soft, “Good night, Brook,” thrusting me back to the hundreds of times he’d crawled into bed beside me after a gig and murmured the same phrase sleepily in my ear before gathering me close in the night.
Ben dropped Jake off early the next morning—he had to leave Fort Myers by six a.m. to make it to his Marco Island build site by seven. I’d offered to come pick the dog up, to save him at least a little time dropping by my house, but he said he was already inconveniencing me enough. “Although that’s pretty early,” he’d said last night as we discussed the logistics of the week. “If you’d rather, I can—”
“No, it’s fine, actually,” I said quickly. “I’m a really early riser.” Not exactly a lie, as I did get up at four thirty a.m. to do my radio show on KXAR Monday mornings, but it wasn’t like I was habitually conscious and perky at sunrise.
But damn skippy I was this morning, rising at my radio time so I could be showered, dressed, with hair and makeup carefully done by the time Ben arrived. I’d brewed extra coffee, and I met him at the door with a travel mug of it.
Ben’s face brightened when he saw it. Or maybe when he saw me? Either way, I smiled back. “One sugar, no cream. Have a good day,” I said, waving him off as he grinned and toasted me with the plastic mug. “See you tonight!” I called, trying (and failing) not to feel too giddy at the lovely intimacy of it all.
Jake had always been a crowd pleaser in my practice—most clients were delighted at the presence of the big friendly dog, and in some cases I swore that he helped loosen their tongues—and their emotions.
Sitting and stroking his soft fur as he lolled orgiastically at their feet seemed to calm churning hearts, and it gave people something to focus on in those moments when naked vulnerability made it hard for them to meet my eye.
When my last client left at six, I quickly let Jake into the backyard to pee before heading to Sasha’s. I could have dropped him off at Ben’s on the way over—he said he’d be working late again—but if I left him here instead and came back for the dog afterward, I’d reasoned, I’d get face time.
I had a finite window of opportunity for it. I wasn’t going to waste a second.
Time was obviously of the essence with Sasha too, but I knew I had to start slowly. Stu had agreed to stay at his own place when I suggested to Sash that we work one-on-one at her apartment for this, and tonight I was unveiling step one in what I was calling “Operation Bring It On.”
While she put together a tray of appetizers for us—now wasn’t the time to work on her maternity diet and address what passed for sna
cks to Sasha, which was generally crudité and air—I sat on her pristine red velvet sofa and opened the carry-on bag I’d packed with supplies, setting it so that the open top rested upright against the arm and concealed the bag’s contents from Sasha’s chair. Part of this strategy relied on the element of surprise.
But I was the one who was surprised when she came back into the living room with a tray bearing the expected raw veggies, along with sliced cheese and what looked like hummus.
I raised my eyebrows. “Wow. Calories.”
She shrugged. “Protein.”
The simple exchange pleased me all out of proportion. Sasha adjusting her diet was an excellent sign—but I knew better than to make an issue of it. Besides, the offerings suited my purpose admirably.
I leaned forward for a glass of orange juice she’d poured—another welcome sign. “So…I thought we’d start small,” I began. “You said you were afraid of the mess of a baby. Poop, spit-up, that kind of thing.”
She shuddered. “Please. I’m eating.”
I ignored her. “So in behavioral therapy with phobias, there’s a conditioning technique called systematic desensitization—you’ve probably heard of it.”
“You mean like working on my fear of kids by taking me to that observation-room thingie in the hospital where they keep all the crates of babies?”
“Cradles,” I corrected her.
She waved a hand. “Same difference.”
Maybe her maternal instincts were a bit more buried than I’d thought. “We wouldn’t start there—that’s too much.” I reached for a carrot stick and scooped up a blob of hummus. “Desensitization involves having the person with the phobia face the least anxiety-provoking stimulus related to the thing they fear. So if someone is afraid of spiders, let’s say, we’d start with a picture of a spider, then when they could tolerate that, perhaps a rubber spider, and so on, up to the real thing, until the anxiety has been dealt with successfully.” As I finished talking, I deliberately brought the carrot down to the seat of the sofa and, never taking my eyes off hers, smeared the glop of hummus against the velvet nap.
