by Lia Romeo
“She should have wanted to date you,” I tell him, “whatever your job was. If she didn’t, she wasn’t worth it.”
“I know,” he says, “you’re right.” He sighs. “So what about your boyfriend? What does he do?”
“Oh, he’s, uh—he’s a recruiter,” I tell him.
“Pretty good money in that?” Ben asks.
“Um. Yeah. He does pretty well.”
“I’m thinking this whole layoff thing might be a great excuse for a career change,” Ben says. “Might want to get out of finance altogether. I’ve been thinking about HR actually—recruiting, headhunting, something like that. Maybe your boyfriend and I could chat sometime.”
“Yeah. Um. He’s out of town right now.”
“Well, maybe when he gets back.”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
Just then Nat comes through the door. She’s wearing heavy makeup, and looks as though she’s been at a photo shoot. She stops dead in the entry hall, looking from me, to Ben, then back to me again. Then, without a word, she continues down the hallway to her bedroom.
Ben and I look at each other, then burst into stifled giggles. “Well, that was awkward,” he says once we manage to get our laughter under control, and that sets us off all over again.
“Okay,” I finally manage, as a few last giggles escape me. “I’d better go to bed—Linda wants me in early again tomorrow.” I go over to my closet and grab a couple of pillows and a spare blanket that I keep at the bottom of my bed. “You okay?—you need anything else?”
“Nope,” he says, “I’m all set. Thanks.”
“Okay. There’s a spare key hanging next to the fridge, so you can use that if you need to go out during the day. And I’ll see you after work tomorrow, I guess.”
“Hey,” Ben says. “Give me a hug.” I cross to him and we hug. A wave of nostalgia comes over me, feeling his body, so familiar and yet so strange, in my arms again. I let go quickly. “It’s really great to hang out with you again.”
“Yeah,” I tell him, and I’m surprised to find that I genuinely mean it. “You too.”
– 24 –
THE NEXT NIGHT, Ben tells me he’ll take me out to dinner as a thank you for letting him stay. I feel bad letting him spend money on me, seeing as he’s unemployed, but he insists. We end up going to a nice place, a French bistro on Broadway called Peche, because we’re walking by and he tells me he’s always wanted to try it. It’s rustic-looking and romantic, wood tables, candles, dim lights.
We order an appetizer (steak tartare, which scares me . . . but when I take a bite of the raw beef it’s salty and clean-tasting) and two entrees—sole a la meunière for me, rib-eye for Ben. I tell him I’m way too full for dessert, but he orders a chocolate pot de crème and persuades me to take a bite, and I end up eating at least half of it. He reminds me that this is something I always used to do—when we were dating he made a policy of ordering two of whatever dessert he was having, because he knew I’d end up eating one of them. The bill has got to be astronomical, and I tell him I’ll help him with it when the check comes—especially since he’s unemployed now—but he says it’s the least he can do.
He tells me he spent the day looking for apartments online, and he’s supposed to go see a couple of places tomorrow. When I get home from work the next day I ask him about it, but he says they were both awful—in one, a rat scurried across the living room floor just as the owner was pointing out the original prewar moldings, and in the other, what was touted as a kitchen turned out to actually be a microwave in the corner. “I’ll keep looking tomorrow,” he says. “I promise I’ll find a place and be out of your hair soon.”
Honestly, I’m kind of enjoying having him around. I’m not sure how Nat and Mel feel about it, but I’ve hardly seen them and Ben hasn’t either . . . Nat’s been out and about, and Mel’s been at work all the time. Of course, I’m sure Lewis would have some questions if he got back into town and found my ex-boyfriend sleeping on my couch . . . but he wouldn’t necessarily have to know, since I usually go to his place anyway.
And Ben is good company. He’s eager to do me small favors to repay me for having a place to stay: he picks up my dry cleaning, goes to the store to get milk and cereal, calls Verizon to have someone come and figure out why our wireless service keeps flickering on and off (a task we’ve been meaning to get around to, but haven’t, for the past few months). It’s almost like having a very attentive live-in boyfriend, of the kind that he never was when he actually was my live-in boyfriend. And he’s always a sympathetic ear if I want to talk.
Which is what ends up getting me into trouble.
It happens on Friday, the third night he’s staying at my place. It’s been a stressful day at work . . . Kruger’s not happy with the press release we put together for their toaster, so I’ve spent all afternoon going back and forth with Amy Klein, their V.P. of New Product Development. She’s new to the Kruger team and incredibly critical, and I’ve emailed her six drafts which she’s sent back covered with comments, telling me to change certain phrases, then, once I’ve changed them, to change them back to what they were before. Finally, after four hours of this, I swallow my pride and go into Linda’s office to appeal for her help.
“Maybe you could talk to her? I’m sorry, I just—I don’t understand what I’m supposed to do.”
“Just figure it out, Lucy, will you!” she snaps at me. “I’ve got a call with a reporter from Glamour in five minutes. I didn’t give you a raise so I would have to deal with this!”
I blink back my tears and go back into the outer office. Apparently nobody in my life has time to deal with me at the moment. Mel, who’s supposed to be my best friend, certainly doesn’t . . . and Linda, for whom I put in fifty-plus-hour work weeks, obviously doesn’t either.
And neither, apparently, does Lewis . . . he said he’d be back Thursday or Friday, but it’s Friday afternoon and I haven’t heard anything from him yet. Of course, it’s possible his administrative affairs ended up taking longer than he expected, but it seems like he could have found some way to be in touch and let me know. After all, if he’s got armies of miniature demons climbing through people’s windows, he could have sent one of them to climb through mine with a note telling me that he’s thinking about me.
Unless he isn’t thinking about me, of course. Unless he’s realized he prefers being down in Hell and wants to stay there. Unless he’s reconnected with one of his former lovers . . . Mata Hari . . . or Marilyn Monroe . . . now dead, of course, but still beautiful . . . still far more sexy and fascinating than a boring, ordinary PR girl who can’t even get a press release right. By eight p.m., when I finally give up on the press release and go home for the evening, I still haven’t heard anything, and I’ve managed to convince myself that Lewis has probably forgotten about me entirely.
I’m expecting Ben to be out and about, but when I trudge into the apartment, exhausted and dispirited—and also wet, since a slow, steady drizzle has started falling outside—he’s sitting on the couch. On the coffee table in front of him is a bottle of merlot and two plates heaping with Indian takeout. He’s remembered that I like paneer tikka masala and garlic naan.
“You look stressed,” he says. “Come sit down and tell me all about it.”
And I do . . . over the bottle of merlot, and then over glasses of Frangelico, a hazelnut-flavored liqueur for which Ben has always had an inexplicable affection. He’s brought a half-full bottle from his old apartment over in his suitcase. I usually think Frangelico tastes like cough syrup—hazelnut-flavored cough syrup—but after a couple of glasses of wine it’s surprisingly tolerable.
By the time we break out the Frangelico, Ben has resurrected a game we used to play in college. His parents lived in Middlebury, Vermont, and I used to make the five-hour drive with him to visit them at least three or four weekends a year. On the long car rides we’d play a game we made up called “Top Five.” One of us would name a category—“Top Five Love Songs,” or “Top F
ive Museums,” and the other would answer, and then turn it back around.
“Top five worst days at work,” Ben says now, while pouring Frangelico into Mel’s Columbia shot glasses.
I sigh dramatically. “The day I got hired.” We both break into giggles.
“No, seriously,” he says.
I think about it. “Today. And the day I went in even though I had strep. And the day I was eating lunch at my desk and spilled half a bottle of Italian dressing all over my computer. Linda was not happy about that.”
“Did it recover?”
“No, she had to buy me a new one. And I lost a bunch of pretty important files. But really . . .” I try to think of other terrible days in the office, but nothing in particular comes to mind. “That’s pretty much it. It isn’t the perfect job . . . and I know I complain a lot . . . but I’m pretty happy.”
“Cheers to that,” Ben says, and we clink our glasses together and drink.
“What about you?” I ask him.
“Well,” he says, “the day I got laid off.”
“Yeah.”
“But also every day for a long time before that. I loved Lerner Locke at first, but honestly, it had been really tedious for a really long time.”
“So maybe losing the job is a blessing in disguise?”
“I think so,” he says. “If nothing else, because it’s given us the chance to reconnect and be friends again.” He pours more Frangelico into our shot glasses, and we drink. “Okay,” he says, “your turn.”
“Top five . . . let’s see . . . um.” It’s been a while since I’ve played this game. “Top five . . . sandwiches.”
“I don’t think I’ve eaten any particularly memorable sandwiches recently,” he says, “let alone five of them. Have you?”
I think about it. “No, I guess not. Sorry, that was a dumb one.”
“Yeah, you’re rusty at this.”
“Fine, you do one.”
“Okay,” he says. “Top five most romantic nights.”
“Like ever, with anyone?”
“Yeah.”
“Um.” This seems like a dangerous thing to be talking about with my ex-boyfriend. “I need a minute to think about it.”
“Okay,” he says, “I’ll go first. The night we broke into the auditorium.”
I’d worked as a costume assistant for one of the school plays, so I’d had the code to the school auditorium, and in the spring of freshman year we’d decided one night that we should go hook up there. I’d punched in the code on the side door, fingers trembling, half-expecting giant spotlights to come out of the sky and transfix us. But they hadn’t, and kissing on the giant stage had been amazing, looking out at the rows of red velvet seats, all the way up to the stained glass windows at the top of the balcony.
“Yeah. That was fun.”
“Cheers,” he says, and we clink glasses and drink. “The night we went out in the canoe.”
That had been junior year, in the fall. Ben’s roommate Kyle had been into canoeing, and one night we’d borrowed his canoe and taken it down to the lake. We’d been apart all summer—Ben had been working as a camp counselor in Connecticut, and I’d been back home, folding clothes at a department store and counting the days until school started. That night we’d held hands, looking out at the dark water, and laughed at the simple wonder of being together again.
“The night of my twenty-third birthday,” he continues. That had been when we were living together in the city. I’d spent over a thousand dollars to rent out the back room of Mangia e Beve, one of our favorite Italian restaurants. “Our first night in our own apartment together.” We’d made love on a bare mattress, since we hadn’t bought sheets yet. “And the night we first met and stayed up talking until the sun rose. Cheers.” He raises his glass to mine again.
“Um. What about—what about Kelly?”
“Nope,” he says. “All of mine were with you.” He drinks, and to avoid meeting his eyes I drink too. “Even if you totally fall for someone later, there’s something about first love, you know?”
I do know. I remember constantly wanting to talk to him, touch him, tell him everything I was thinking. I remember underlining passages in my books to read to him later. And when I wasn’t talking to him, I was talking about him, almost incessantly. For a moment I feel more charitable towards Nat and Mel . . . it’s really a wonder they didn’t get sick of me back then.
And then suddenly I notice that Ben’s hand is on top of mine, and our faces are very close, almost touching. He puts his other hand on the back of my head and draws my face towards his, and then somehow we’re kissing. His lips are so familiar—I’ve kissed them so many times—that kissing him feels automatic, natural, like slipping into water.
We’ve been kissing for almost a minute when I suddenly realize I’m cheating on my boyfriend.
I pull away. “I can’t.”
He cups my face in his hands. “Look. Luce. I know you’re seeing somebody.”
“Yeah. I am. And I really—” I’m about to say that I really like him, but I’m overcome by a sudden wave of nausea from the knowledge of what I’ve done. I jump up and run down the hall into the bathroom.
I think I might need to throw up, but I don’t, I just sit on the tile floor in front of the toilet for a couple of minutes. Once the nausea has passed, I get to my feet, splashing water on my face and staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. How did I let myself get into this situation? I’ve never cheated on anyone—never even thought about cheating on anyone—before.
When I come back into the living room, Ben is still sitting on the couch, looking concerned. “Are you okay?” he asks me.
“Yeah—I—I don’t know what I’m doing—I—”
“Come sit down,” he says. I hesitate, and he scoots over to the other end of the couch. “I’ll sit over here. I won’t try to kiss you again, or—or anything. Let’s just talk.”
“Okay.” I sit down on the opposite end of the couch, leaning my head against the arm. Suddenly I want nothing more than to go to sleep. For about a million years.
“So I know you’re seeing somebody,” Ben says. “But I . . . I made a mistake.”
“Yeah. This was a big mistake.” I’m relieved that at least we’re on the same page about that.
“Not this,” he says. “I made a mistake when I let you go. I miss you.”
Oh, God. I’m starting to feel nauseous again.
“I want you back,” he says. “I realized it as soon as Kelly left me. You’d never have done something like that—broke up with me just because I lost my job. Would you?”
“No, but . . .”
He puts up a hand to stop me. “In fact,” he continues with a sheepish smile, “I have a confession to make.”
I’m not at all sure I want to hear this. “Yeah?”
“I didn’t actually lose my apartment. I just said that because I knew you’d let me stay.”
I sit bolt upright. “What?”
Ben actually has the nerve to look pleased with himself. “I did lose my job—that part was true—but I’ve got savings. I’ll be able to pay my rent for another six months at least.”
I think back to the single suitcase, the fact that he always had plenty of cash to pay for expensive dinners. I stand and cross the living room to the front door, which I hold open. “Get out,” I tell him.
“What?”
“Leave. Go home. And don’t ever come back again.”
“But Luce, what about . . . I mean, we have to talk about this. About us.”
“There is no this. There is no us.”
“But we shared something tonight!” he says. He reaches out to touch my arm and I shake him away angrily.
“We did not share something. You lied to me and took advantage of me, and now I’d like you to get out of my apartment.”
“You don’t—you wouldn’t think about taking me back?”
“No!”
“Really?”
How c
ocky is he? “Are you going to put your suitcase outside in the hall, or should I?”
Ben hangs his head, goes into the living room, and begins packing his clothes into his suitcase. I watch him, without saying a word, until he zips it and drags it through the front door, and then I lock and bolt the door behind him, collapse onto the couch, and start to cry.
– 25 –
I PRACTICALLY sleepwalk through Saturday. I go into work for a few hours and attempt to continue revising the press release, but all I can think about is what happened last night. When I find myself typing “tongue” instead of “toaster,” I realize it’s time to go home.
Saturday night my friend Candace from high school is having a party at a bar to celebrate her twenty-seventh birthday. Candace and I were close in high school because we shared a stand in the orchestra’s first violin section, but she went to the University of Central Florida, and we didn’t really keep in touch. We met for coffee once when she first moved to the city after college, and I invited her out with my friends a couple of times, but she was working as a paralegal at a law firm and quickly made her own set of friends there, and our contact since has been limited to the occasional Evite.
So I wasn’t necessarily planning on going to her party . . . but come eight-thirty p.m., I’m desperately in need of distraction. I’m curled up on my bed trying to read Sense and Sensibility—one of the few classics we never actually got to in my Cornell English classes—and I’ve been on page forty-three for the past half hour. My progress isn’t helped by the fact that I’m checking my phone every two minutes, terrified that it’s going to ring and it’s going to be Lewis. I haven’t figured out what—if anything—I’m going to tell him.
So I get up and change out of my sweats and into dark jeans, boots, and a black tank top, and tie my hair back with Lewis’ scarf. If nothing else, maybe being around people will provide a few hours of distraction.
