by Lisa Sorbe
“You’re apologizing for enjoying your food?” Ben dips a finger into a near-empty dip cup, swipes it along the side, then sticks it in his mouth. “There. Now we’re both barbarians.”
A smile tugs at my lips.
“Besides,” he says, wiping his hands and proceeding to stuff the empty chip carton back in the takeout bag, “I eat breakfast with you every morning.” He gives me a shit-eating grin. “I already know you’re a complete animal.”
I pretend to act offended. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He places a hand over his chest, arranging his features into a mask of faux seriousness. “I’m just saying it’s nice to see someone appreciate my mad cooking skills with as much, uh, enthusiasm as you do.”
I throw a balled-up napkin at him.
“So,” I ask, sitting back in my seat and unscrewing the lid on my water bottle “what is the deal with you and breakfast?”
Ben shrugs. “It’s the most important meal of the day.”
I take a swig, swallow. “Yeah, but you go out. Like all out. Every single morning.”
He mirrors me, leaning back in his own chair and causally draping his elbows atop the armrests. “So?”
“I’m just saying that it’s a lot of effort, especially on the mornings when we have to be out the door by seven-thirty. Most people don’t take the time for such early extravagance. Hell, most people don’t even eat breakfast. Aside for maybe a candy bar or one of those sodium-laden microwavable breakfast sandwiches.”
Ben smiles, but it seems strained. “Well, I just figure that if I’m going to do something, I might as well do it right. Starting with breakfast.”
I decide to test the waters. Because despite the fact that I still wouldn’t consider us to be close, we have built up a sort of camaraderie these last two weeks, so we’re slightly more than simple roommates sharing a space. This is man that Lenora felt worthy enough of letting into her home, her life, and I’m still trying to decide why.
Yes, he’s handsome, boasting the sort of rugged good looks that would easily give any Marvel superhero a run for his money.
Yes, he’s compassionate, a characteristic that isn’t overtly obvious upon first glance.
Yes, he’s steadfast and sturdy, capable and strong.
And not to mention, he’s a damn fine cook.
But all that aside, this man remains a closed book. And the reluctance with which he shares any personal information only urges me to pry harder.
So I do.
“Lenora used to say the same thing about breakfast. Sounds like you two were a good match.”
Ben’s eyes bore into mine; he knows what I’m doing. There’s resistance, an inner battle that he eventually releases with a sigh. “To be honest, she’s the one who started me on the habit.”
“Oh?” I pick at a spot on my jeans, careful not to show too much interest.
“Breakfast wasn’t really a thing in the houses where I grew up.” He rubs his chin, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. “Nor were dinners, for that matter.”
My fingers stall as my mind catches on one word. “Houses?”
Ben lifts one of his shoulders in a half shrug, his voice nonchalant. “Houses, as in more than one. Multiple.” He looks out the big picture window that faces the backyard; the snow glistens under the full moon and the night is full of stars, a tapestry of lights in the onyx sky. When he looks back and meets my still questioning gaze, he elaborates. “Multiple homes, multiple families, multiple guardians. You know, all the perks that come with foster care.”
That I did not expect. Though, what I did expect, I’m not quite sure. To be honest, I probably wouldn’t have been shocked to find out he just popped into reality one day thanks to spontaneous combustion or something, looking just as he does now, eyes narrowed in that severe way of his and pushing forward, always forward, layering on the weight of the world with each step.
If anyone can hit the ground running, it’s Ben.
“Meals weren’t exactly big in my house, either. At least the sit-down kind. We had a housekeeper who made dinner every day and stuffed it into tupperware containers for us to pick at whenever we wanted. Though no one really did. My mom and sisters were always on diets, so they rarely ate—in front of anyone, that is. And I was hardly about to sit down at the dinner table with Cliff and chat about my day.” I bite that last admission out in a bitter breath, though I don’t mean to. It’s just what happens when I talk about Cliff…or any of my family members. My throat tightens, the words reluctant to leave my mouth.
“Who’s Cliff?” Ben asks, and nothing about his tone gives any indication that he knows anything about my past. Not that there’s a lot to tell, per se, but I’m not sure how much Lenora talked about me during the year she and Ben lived together. I can only imagine I came up once or twice in conversation, though to what extent I can hardly guess. Then again, I never discussed my situation with Lenora. Being so far away, she was never around to observe our family. The few glimpses she was allowed were dished out by me, a shy child turned moody teenager who only spoke when absolutely necessary.
“Cliff is my mother’s husband.”
It feels like a hand is squeezing my throat, blocking my airway.
“So,” Ben says slowly, “your stepdad.”
I swallow hard, past the block, the pressure. “No. He’s not.”
Ben doesn’t push, just nods. And the silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable. There are things neither of us want to talk about, at least not right now, and this brief reprieve in conversation is welcome.
Ben’s phone dings moments later, and after silencing the ringer, he stands. “Time for Rodolfo’s pain injection.” He grabs his stethoscope and pauses by my chair on his way out. “If you want to get your things together, I can run you and Asha home when I’m done.”
I frown. “Run us home? You’re coming back here?”
“I have to. Rodolfo will need another pain injection around twelve thirty so I’ll need to be here for that. Plus, I don’t really like to leave patients in recovery alone overnight. At least, not when I can help it.”
My eyes shift to the old leather couch across the room.
Ben notices and smiles. “It’s more comfortable than it looks.”
“If you say so,” I mumble, hardly convinced. “Just please tell me you’re not going to spend the entire night with your nose buried in charts.” Ben’s first appointment was at eight o’clock this morning and he hasn’t stopped running since.
He just stares at me.
I fold my arms and shoot him a look right back. “Has anyone ever told you that you work too much?”
Ben frowns. “Your grandmother.”
“Well,” I say. “She was right.” I sigh when I see he isn’t going to budge. “Fine, fine. Go check on Rodolfo. I’ll get my things.”
He smirks, a playful arrogance brightening his tired features.
I rise from my seat and follow him to the door, rolling my eyes as he saunters down the hall and around a corner.
Then, I put my plan to work.
When Ben returns ten minutes later, I’ve got everything set up. The matching ottoman is pushed up to the old leather couch and, on top of it, is his laptop, the lid flipped up and the red Netflix logo brightening the screen. I’m curled up on the couch with Asha, her head in my lap, my fingers casually stroking her neck.
Ben frowns, looking annoyed. “What’s this?”
“You,” I say, emphasizing the word, “need some down time.”
He laughs, though it’s the sort of laugh that an amused adult throws at a toddler when it’s being cute but entirely ridiculous. “I do not need down time. What I do need,” he says, gesturing to the ottoman, “is my laptop, so I can get some research done.”
I roll my eyes and mouth wordlessly while patting the couch cushion next to me.
“Real mature, Lenora.” But he drops down onto the couch, gaze pointed and arms folded like a petulant child.
�
�Hmm.” I press my lips together in an effort not to laugh. “It looks like we’re both the epitome of maturity then.”
Ben’s scowl remains firmly in place, though the corners of his lips turn up a notch. “You get thirty minutes. That’s it. Then I’m hauling your ass home so I can get some work done.”
Asha inches across my lap so she can reach Ben, her muzzle touching his thigh. He gives her a quick pet and she grumbles affectionately.
“A hundred-pound lap dog,” I mutter, my voice twisting with sarcasm. “Lovely.”
Ben motions toward the laptop. “Come on. Let’s get this show on the road.”
“Literally, right? This show…” I snort-laugh and nudge him with my elbow, which I barely have to move because he’s sitting so close. This couch is more of a loveseat, something that seemed larger until the three of us sat down on it.
“You’re the biggest dork, Lenora.”
“Said with the utmost of affection, right?” I lean forward and, after scrolling through the options, find the one I’m looking for and press play.
Ben’s forehead wrinkles when he sees the title. “Stranger Things?”
“Yeah,” I say, scooting back and trying not to notice the way Ben’s thigh is pressed up against mine. Not to mention his hip, his shoulder…
I mean, metaphorically, the guy is solid as a rock, a load bearing sentry standing tall against the world’s wrongs. But literally, he’s exactly the same: solid as a rock. And just a few days ago, I saw him easily lift Asha from the raised tub in the back room after giving her a bath. (And yes, seeing Ben give Asha a bath was pretty much the most adorable thing ever.)
Snap out of it, Lenny.
My mind drifts to Daniel, who I haven’t heard a word from since earlier this week. Though if his Instagram feed is any indication, he’s hardly missing me.
Is it possible for people to change overnight? Or does it take a momentary separation like the one Daniel and I are going through to see what was really there all along? Or, more accurately, what was never there? It’s only been a few weeks. What will an entire year turn into?
Location shouldn’t alter who we are. Distance shouldn’t change how we feel.
Maybe I just wanted our relationship to be something it wasn’t so badly that I overlooked the reality of what it actually was.
“Stranger Things,” I say, coming back to the moment, “is strange…but wonderful.” I glance at him. “Tell me you’ve at least heard of it?”
Ben shrugs and his empty expression tells me all I need to know.
“You really have been living under a rock up here all these years, haven’t you?”
“That, California, is a matter of perspective.” Ben leans back, working his shoulders deeper into the couch cushions. The movement along with his weight causes his cushion to sink further into mine, pushing us even closer. He juts his chin at the laptop. “All right. Let’s do this.”
“I’ve always wanted a makeover.”
Mimi beams as she sits in the chair in front of the bathroom mirror, watching me work a buttery mask into her hair from behind. She’s so excited she can barely sit still, wiggling around in her seat like a kid who’s been sitting at a desk for too long. I press the pads of my fingers deeper into her scalp, hoping that the added pressure of the massage might calm her down.
No such luck.
“I’m so happy we have a decent hair stylist in Lost Bay now,” she rambles, changing subjects within the beat of a breath. Just seconds ago she was regaling me with the story of how, last summer, she dated a drummer in Chevy’s band but broke up with him because his hands were too small. And according to Mimi, small hands equal small—
“I always say I’m going to drive into Duluth and go to Pizzazz—it’s this, like, super trendy, amazing salon. Jessica Biel has her hair done there. Well, it was only once, but they have a picture of her sitting in one of the salon chairs with, like, wet hair and everything. It’s on the wall by the front desk, so you totally see it right when you walk in. I mean, she wasn’t as famous at the time as she is now, but still. It’s pretty cool, right?”
I’m about to tell her how my stylist in L.A. has several star clients, but decide against it. Mimi is starstruck and awestruck by anything having to do with famous people. Bringing that up will only supply her with a whole new arsenal of questions to hit me with.
“You do realize,” I say instead, “I’m not actually a hair stylist.” I move to wash my hands and then slide a plastic cap over her head.
“Oh, I know, I know! But you’re just so, like, knowledgeable on the subject. So hip to what’s in right now. Not like Tera Ann over at Clip & Cut.” Mimi shudders and grabs my hand, pulling me in as if what she’s about to confide is so horrible she can only bear to whisper it. “Every time I go in there, she tries to talk me into getting The Rachel. You know, that hair style that Jennifer Anni—”
I cut her off. “Yeah, I’m familiar with the look.” Extracting myself from her grip, I tilt my head toward the door. “Come on. I put a towel in the dryer before we started. I’m going to wrap it around your head to provide some heat for the mask.” I grab my camera, which has been filming this whole time (I’ll edit out most of Mimi’s ramblings later), and keep it rolling as we head downstairs and into the laundry room. Most of this part will be cut out, but since you never know what’s going to happen from one second to the next, I’ve learned it’s best to just shoot everything.
We pass Ben in the kitchen on the way to the laundry room, and my body temp increases a good hundred (not really) degrees when we lock eyes over his coffee mug. It’s Sunday, just over a week after Rodolfo’s surgery, after we sat together watching Stranger Things…just over a week since we fell asleep halfway through the first damn episode only to wake up hours later to the sound of Ben’s alarm, a snippet of some AC/DC song, letting him know it was time for Rodolfo’s pain injection. I can still feel the heat from where our bodies touched as we slept, our sides smushed together, my forehead pressed against his neck, his head atop mine. Like little pulses of electricity throbbing in my muscles, tingling along my skin.
And I remember the grimace on his face as we disentangled ourselves, the polite distance that’s spanned every one of our interactions since that night.
Now he’s leaning against the kitchen counter, one foot crossed over the other, the picture of casual indifference. He lifts his mug in greeting as we pass, and I nod back while Mimi wiggles her fingers in a wave.
“So,” Mimi says once we’re out of earshot. “What’s it like living with Ben?”
“It’s fine.”
She shoots me a look, which I ignore.
We turn into the laundry room and I shut off the dryer. Sticking my hand in, I snag the towel and hold it out to Mimi. But one look at her face tells me the subject isn’t dropped.
I sigh, reading her expression. “What?”
She bends over, flinging the towel over her head and wrapping it like a turban. When she stands up, she throws me a knowing grin. “Come on, Lenny. You live with Ben Sloane. Ben Sloane! He sleeps right across the hall from you!”
I open my mouth to say so what, but Mimi’s enthusiasm for the topic is so overwhelming that she doesn’t give me a chance to speak.
“Have you seen him in his underwear yet? Or like, you know, naked with just a towel?” Her eyes glaze over, her expression dreamy. “Still wet from the shower, with little drops of water dripping down his chest…”
I’d snap my fingers in front of her face to yank her out of her reverie…if, that is, she hadn’t already pulled me in right along with her.
Mimi sighs at the thought, and I sigh inwardly before huffing. “Um, no, I haven’t seen Ben in his underwear. And, quite frankly, I have no desire to.”
Mimi raises a brow, obviously doubting my honesty.
So, in order to cover my fib more fully, I lie some more. “I have a boyfriend, you know.”
Daniel and I broke up five days ago.
Okay, so it
’s not so much as we broke up, but we’re taking a break.
Supposedly, there’s a difference.
It was something we both agreed would be best, considering the circumstances. Which really aren’t all that extenuating, if you think about it. He couldn’t wait one year for me, which means he couldn’t have loved me very much.
And I didn’t spend more than a few minutes feeling empty after hanging up from our call, which means I couldn’t have loved him at all.
Still, we agreed to revisit the situation in May, when I fly back to L.A. to pack up my apartment. Kendra managed to find another roommate, but she won’t be able to move in until, conveniently, June—when my half of the lease is up. I don’t have much, but what I do have, I’ll be sending here, to Lost Bay, to Lenora’s house, which is now my house, my home, the only home I have.
As for next year, when my time is up in Minnesota?
I haven’t thought that far ahead yet.
Mimi waves her hand dramatically. “Oh, I know! And I totally respect that. I didn’t mean to imply you would do anything.” She stabs me with a look. “But it’s hard not to sneak a peek, right? I mean, seriously. Tell me you don’t think Ben is hot.”
I examine the towel on her head, tucking the ends into the turban so it stays put and then lift a shoulder. “Yeah, I guess. In a sort of rugged, rough-around-the-edges way.” And then, because we’re on the topic, I ask, “So, how well do you know him, anyway?”
Mimi frowns. “Know who?”
I raise my eyes to the ceiling, give my head a little shake, and practically shout, “Ben!”
A distance “what?” comes from somewhere on the main floor, and I realize that Ben probably heard me and thought I was calling his name.
