“Soup?”
“No, nothing.”
“You have to eat at some point today. Promise me you’ll eat at some point today?”
“Sure,” I say. But I know I won’t. I’m lying. I have no intention of carrying through on that promise. What’s the point of a promise anyway? How can we expect people to stick to their word about anything when the world around us is so arbitrary, unreliable, and senseless?
“You need to go to the funeral home today,” she says. “Want me to call them now?”
I hear her and I nod. That’s all I can do. So it’s what I do.
Ana picks up her phone and calls the funeral home. Apparently, I was supposed to call yesterday. I can hear the receptionist say something about “being behind.” Ana doesn’t dare pass this information along to me, but I can tell by her tone on the phone that they are giving her a hard time. Let them come at me. Just let them. I’d be happy to scream at a group of people profiting from tragedy.
Ana drives me to the office and parks the car in front, on the street. There is a parking garage underneath the building, but it’s $2.50 every fifteen minutes and that’s simply absurd. I refuse to encourage those overpriced assholes by using their service. This has nothing to do with my grief, by the way. I have a lifelong hatred of price gouging. It says on the sign that it’s free with validation from Wright & Sons Funeral Home, but that seems awfully tacky on everyone’s part. “Yes, we would like him embalmed. By the way, could you validate this for me?”
Ana finds a spot on the street easily enough. I check the passenger’s side mirror and realize that my eyes are red and bloodshot. My cheeks are splotched with pink. My eyelashes are squashed together and shiny. Ana hands me her large, dark sunglasses. I put them on and step out of the car. As I catch a glimpse of myself in her mirror one last time, dressed for a meeting with large glasses on my face, I feel like Jackie Kennedy. Maybe there’s a part of every woman that wants to be Jackie Kennedy, but they mean First Lady Jackie Kennedy or Jackie Kennedy Onassis. No one wants to relate to her like this.
Ana runs to the meter and goes to put quarters in but finds herself empty. “Shit! I’m out of quarters. You head in and I’ll take care of this,” she says, heading back into the car.
“No,” I say, reaching into my own wallet. “I have some.” I put the change in the meter. “Besides, I don’t think I can do this without you.” Then I start crying again, blubbering, the tears falling down my face, only visible once they’ve made their way past the huge lenses.
JANUARY
When we got in Ben’s car, he asked if I was up for an adventure and I told him that I was.
“No, I mean, a true adventure.”
“I’m ready!”
“What if this adventure takes us on a road trip to a restaurant over an hour away?”
“As long as you’re driving, it’s fine by me,” I said. “Although, I’m confused about what could possibly require us to drive an hour out of the way.”
“Oh, you just leave that to me,” he said, and he started the car.
“You’re being very cryptic,” I said. He ignored me. He reached over and turned on his radio. “You’re in charge of music and possibly navigation if it comes to that.”
“Fine by me,” I said, as I immediately turned the station to NPR. As the low, monotonous voices started to fill the air, Ben shook his head. “You’re one of those?” he said, smiling.
“I’m one of those,” I said, owning it and not apologizing.
“I should have known. Pretty girl like you had to have some sort of flaw.”
“You don’t like talk radio?”
“I like it, I guess. I mean, I like it the way I like doctors’ appointments. They serve a purpose but they aren’t much fun.”
I laughed, and he looked at me. He looked for just a little too long to be safe.
“Hey! Eyes on the road, Casanova!” I said. Casanova? Who was I? My dad?
Ben immediately turned back and focused on what was in front of us. “Sorry!” he said. “Safety first.”
By the time we hit the freeway, he had turned off the radio.
“That’s enough traffic updates for me,” he said. “We will just have to entertain ourselves the old-fashioned way.”
“Old-fashioned way?”
“Conversation.”
“Ah, right. Conversation.”
“Let’s start with the basics: How long have you lived in L.A.?”
“Five years. I moved right after college. You?”
“Nine years. I moved here to go to college. Looks like we graduated the same year. Where did you go to school?”
“Oh,” I said. “Ithaca. My parents both went to Cornell and made me take a tour, but when I got there, Ithaca seemed a better fit. I was originally premed, but that lasted about two months before I realized I had absolutely no desire to be a doctor.”
“Why did you think you wanted to be a doctor?” We were speeding up the freeway at this point. The driving was taking up less of his attention.
“Both of my parents are doctors. My mother is the chief of staff at the hospital in my hometown, and my dad is a neurosurgeon there.”
“A neurosurgeon? That’s intimidating,” Ben added.
“He’s an intimidating guy. My mom’s not easy either. They were not happy when I changed my major.”
“Oh, that kind of family? The pressuring kind? Overachievers?”
“They are definitely overachievers. The thing is, I’m just not like that. I’m a work-to-live not a live-to-work type of person. I like to put in my forty hours and then go have my life.”
“But that doesn’t sit well with them?”
I shrugged. “They believe that life is work. It’s not about joy. It’s not about laughter. It’s not about love, really, I don’t think, for them. It’s about work. I don’t think my dad likes saving lives as much as he likes being at the top of a field that is constantly growing and changing. I think it’s about progress for them. Library science isn’t exactly cutting edge. But I mean, there isn’t much they can do. My parents weren’t really very engaged parents, you know? So, I think when I changed my major it was, like, this moment of . . . It was a break for all of us. They no longer needed to pretend that they understood me. I no longer needed to pretend I wanted what they had.”
I hadn’t ever told anyone my real feelings about that before. But I didn’t see any reason to tell Ben anything but the entire truth. I was somewhat embarrassed after I said it all. I realized just how vulnerable that was. I turned and looked out my window. The traffic in the opposite direction was relentless, and yet, we were flying through town.
“That’s really sad,” he said.
“It is and it isn’t. My parents and I aren’t close. But they are happy in their way and I am happy in mine. I think that’s what matters.”
He nodded. “You’re absolutely right. Smart and right.”
I laughed. “How about you? How are your parents?”
Ben blew air out of his chest but kept his eyes forward and on the road. He spoke somberly.
“My father passed away three years ago.”
“Oh, my. I’m so sorry to hear that.”
“Thanks.” He looked at me briefly and then returned his eyes to the road. “He died of cancer and it was a long battle so we all knew it was coming; we were prepared for it.”
“I don’t know if that’s good or bad.”
Ben let out a brief puff of air. “I don’t either. Anyway, my mom is doing well. As well as you can when you’ve lost the person you love, you know?”
“I can’t even imagine.”
“No, I can’t either. I’ve lost a father and I know how hard that can be, but I can’t even imagine losing your best friend, your soul mate. I worry about her, although she insists she’s okay.”
“I’m sure you can’t help but worry. Do you have any brothers or sisters?” I asked.
Ben shook his head. “You?”
“No, sir.
” I rarely met other only children. It was nice to hear that Ben was one. When I would tell people I was an only child, I felt like I was either being pitied for not having had siblings or being judged as petulant even if I hadn’t proven to be.
“Awesome! Two only children! I knew I liked you.” He high-fived me sloppily as he kept one hand on the wheel.
“Do I get any hints about where we are going yet?” I asked, as he merged from one freeway onto the next.
“It’s Mexican” was all I could get out of him.
After two games of Twenty Questions and one game of I Spy, we finally made it to our destination. It was a shack. Quite literally. It was a shack in the middle of the road called Cactus Tacos. I was underwhelmed, but Ben’s face lit up.
“We’re here!” he said as he flicked off his seat belt and opened his car door. I gathered my things, and he came around to my side. He opened the door for me before I could open it for myself.
“Why, thank you!” I said over the dinging of his car, reminding us that the door needed to be closed.
“Certainly.”
I crawled out and stood next to him.
“So this is the place, huh?” I said. He shut the door behind me and the dinging relented.
“I know it doesn’t look like much. But you said you were up for an adventure and these are honestly the best tacos I’ve ever had in my life. Do you like horchata?”
“What is horchata?”
“It’s rice milk with cinnamon. Just—trust me. You gotta try one.” As we walked toward the taco stand, he put his hand on the small of my back, guiding me ever so gently. It felt so comforting and so natural that it made me want to turn around into his arms. It made me want to touch more of him with more of me. Instead, I stood and stared at the menu.
“If it’s okay,” Ben said, moving his hand up my back and now onto my shoulder, “I’ll order for you. I fully respect your right to order for yourself. It’s just that I’ve been here many, many times and I know everything on this menu.”
“Be my guest,” I said.
“Do you like chicken, steak, pork?”
“No pork,” I said.
“No pork?” Ben said, incredulous. “I’m kidding. I don’t like pork either. All right!” He rubbed his hands together eagerly.
“Perdón?” he said through the window to the man behind the counter. “Queria cuatro tacos tinga de pollo y cuatro tacos carne asada, por favor? Queso extra en todos. Ah, y dos horchatas, por favor.”
The man showed him the size of the horchatas with a look that said, “Are you sure you want two of these?” and Ben nodded. “Sí, sí, lo sé. Dos. Por favor.”
I don’t know what it was exactly that made Ben seem so irresistible at that moment. I don’t know if it was because he seemed so knowledgeable about something I knew nothing about (Spanish), or whether it was because any time a man spoke another language it was inherently sexy to me (because that was also true). I don’t know. I just know that as I stood there, unable to understand what was being communicated around me, I thought Ben Ross was the sexiest man I’d ever seen. He was so secure in himself, so sure that this would all turn out okay. That’s what it was. It was the confidence. He spoke Spanish to the man at the taco stand like it never occurred to him he might sound like a complete idiot. And that was exactly why he did not sound like a complete idiot.
“Wow,” I said, as he handed me my horchata. “That’s impressive.”
“I swear that’s about the extent of my knowledge,” he said as he unwrapped a straw and put it in my drink. “But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t hoping to impress you.”
“Well, so far, so good.” I took a sip of the drink. It was sweet and cold, creamy and yet easy to drink in big gulps. “Wow, this is great too.”
Ben smiled as he took a sip of his own. “I’m doing okay?” he asked.
“You’re doing great,” I told him. I was overwhelmed, to be honest. It had been so long since I’d had a crush on someone I’d forgotten how exciting it makes everything you do.
When our tacos were ready, Ben grabbed them from the window. They came stuffed in red and white checkered cartons. He grabbed all of them and balanced them over his forearms and in his hands.
There were no places to sit at Cactus Tacos, and so Ben suggested we sit on the hood of his car.
“These tacos look messy. I’ll spill pico de gallo all over your car.”
“It’s a ten-year-old Honda. I’m not exactly precious about it.”
“Fine. But I feel like you should know that I’m very clumsy and messy.”
“And you forget your keys a lot.”
“Well, I forget everything a lot.”
“So far, it’s all good by me.”
We sat on his hood and we talked about our jobs and if we liked living in Los Angeles, and sure enough, I dripped taco grease onto his bumper. Ben just smiled at me. Ana called me as I was feebly attempting to clean it up and I put her through to voice mail. Ben and I talked long after the tacos were gone.
Eventually, Ben asked me if I wanted dessert.
“You have somewhere else in mind?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “I thought it would be lady’s choice.”
“Oh,” I said. I was somewhat at a loss as to what to suggest. I had no idea where we were, no idea what was around us. “Actually,” I said. “Are you up for another adventure?”
“Absolutely!” he said as he hopped off the hood of the car. He put out his hand for me to grab. “Where to?”
“East L.A.?” I asked, gently. While I wasn’t sure where we were, I knew we were at least an hour from my place, and East L.A. was at least thirty minutes past my apartment in the opposite direction.
“East L.A. it is, my fair maiden.” He helped me off the car and opened my door for me.
“Such a gentleman,” I pronounced as I positioned myself to sit down.
“Wait,” he said. He grabbed me around the waist and pulled me to him. “Is this okay?”
My face was up against his. I could smell his breath. It smelled like cilantro and onions. It smelled sweet, somehow. My heart started beating faster.
“Yeah,” I said. “This is okay.”
“I want to kiss you,” he said. “But I want to make sure you won’t be embarrassed in front of the taco stand man.”
I smiled at him and looked over his shoulder. The taco stand man was staring. I was, in fact, slightly embarrassed. But it was just enough to make the situation thrilling and not enough to ruin it.
“Go for it,” I said to him. He did.
As he kissed me against the car, my body pushed in toward him. My arms made their way into the crooks on either side of his neck and my hands grazed the stubble on the back of his head at the hairline. His hair felt soft and oily in my hands. I felt his chest and torso push me further against the car.
He pulled away, and I looked sheepishly at the man at the taco stand. Still staring. Ben caught my eye and looked back. The taco stand man turned away, and Ben started to laugh, conspiratorially.
“We should get out of here,” I said.
“I told you you’d be embarrassed,” he said as he ran around to the driver’s side.
Once we’d made our way back onto the freeway, I texted Ana, letting her know that I’d call her tomorrow. She texted back asking what on earth I was doing that I couldn’t talk to her. I told her the truth.
“I’m on a daylong date. It’s going really well so I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Ana tried to call me after that and I put her through to voice mail again. I realized that me being on a date probably seemed a bit odd to her. I had just seen her yesterday morning for breakfast with no plans to date anyone, let alone date them all day.
Ben and I hit traffic. The stop and go of the freeway was made even more maddening by the sweat and exhaust from all of the cars. We had been stuck on the same stretch of road for twenty minutes when Ben asked a question I had been avoiding.
“When do
es this mystery place close?” he asked.
“Eh . . . ” I said, embarrassed to tell him we were almost certainly not going to make it.
“It’s soon, isn’t it?” he asked.
“It’s soon. It closes at six. We’ve only got about a half hour. We don’t need to go. I can take you some other time.”
It just slipped out, the “some other time.” I didn’t mean to make it clear that I wanted to see him again. I mean, in my brain I assumed we would be seeing each other again, but I also wanted to maintain some sense of mystery about the whole thing. I didn’t want to show my cards that soon. I turned a little red.
Ben smiled. He knew what I’d done and decided not to press it. He just took the compliment and let it alone. “Still,” he said. “I want you to get whatever it is.”
“Gelato,” I said.
“Gelato?” he said, somewhat disbelieving. “We’re racing across town for gelato?”
I hit him in the chest with my hand. “Hey! You said you wanted to do something. It’s good gelato!”
“I’m just teasing you. I love gelato. Come hell or high water I’m getting you that goddamn gelato.”
As traffic started to move slightly, he veered the car onto the shoulder, flew past the rest of the cars, and got in line to get off the freeway.
“Wow,” I said. “Way to take control.”
“Total asshole move,” he said. “But this situation is dire.”
He sped through back roads and dangerously ran yellow lights. He cut a few people off and honked at them as he drove by to apologize. I directed him under unfamiliar overpasses, found unheard-of drives and lanes for him to traverse, and when we finally parked the car in front of Scoops Gelato Shop, it was 6:01 p.m. Ben ran to the door just as they were locking it.
He pounded on it politely. “Please,” he said, “just . . . can you open the door?”
A young Korean girl came to the door and pointed to the Closed sign. She shook her head.
Ben put his hands together in a prayer position, and she shrugged at him.
“Elsie, do me a favor, would you?”
“Hmm?” I said. I was hanging further back on the sidewalk.
“Would you turn around?”
Forever, Interrupted Page 5
