“With a . . . bet.” He’s totally making this up as he goes along. I would laugh if I didn’t want to punch his face in.
“How will a bet determine which of us is more open-minded? Will there be a jury deciding?”
His face sparks with sudden inspiration. “No. We’ll decide. I’ll come up with something you have to do that’s outside your comfort zone, and vice versa. It could be an event or a task or . . . I’m not sure what yet, but you get the idea. I think it’ll be pretty obvious who’s more open-minded after that.”
“So you’re going to force me to do something I don’t want to do?”
“It’s not forcing you if you agree. It’s a bet. Those are the terms. Take it or leave it. Of course, if you leave it, you’re forfeiting. I’m automatically the more open-minded one.” His eyes glow with mischief.
I narrow mine in response. I’m no fool. This is clearly a trap, and if I take this bet I’ll be walking right into it. But how can I back down now? He’s painted me into a corner.
“So do we have a bet?”
Beat this guy at his own game. Whatever it takes.
“Fine. In, I guess.”
He reaches out and grabs my hand, giving it a little squeeze-shake. I squeeze back as hard as I can, trying to crush his bones. He smirks at my attempt, his smug grin silently taunting: Like you could ever hurt me.
“I look forward to proving you wrong.”
“I look forward to proving you wrong. Hey, did you order more food?” I point over his shoulder.
“Where?”
When he turns to look, I grab my purse and run.
Chapter 10
On Thursday morning Carol is notified by the subcommittee considering our bill that they’re not recommending it for a floor vote, the unspoken reason being that it doesn’t stand a chance. And just like that, it’s dead. In one brisk email, nine months of my work—of my life—goes poof.
It’s not like you see in the movies. There’s no miraculous Hail Mary into the end zone, no David slaying Goliath, no rushing around at the last minute to get out the vote! Our bill joins the other ninety-six percent of proposed legislation in the crowded graveyard of squandered time and wasted effort. It’s almost comical how little fanfare there is. Or it would be, if I weren’t so devastated.
Adding insult to injury? Ben’s mocking voice is one of the first things I hear after Senator Warner breaks the news.
You’re wasting your time.
That bill is dead in the water.
It’s going nowhere. Surely you must know that.
I can’t even escape him in my own head. I glare across the atrium, then leap out of my chair and yank the blinds closed. That’ll send him a message.
I spend the rest of the day hibernating in my cave-office, practically catatonic with disappointment. Friday is more of the same. I sleepwalk through my tasks in a near trance, and not even Stephen’s usual antics can lift me out of my funk.
Late in the day there’s a knock at my door, rudely disturbing my past half hour’s activity of staring at the wall and frowning. I sigh and swivel my chair around to find Ben in my doorway, a concerned look on his face.
“Hey.”
“Hey.” I spin back so I’m facing the wall again. “If you’re here to say I told you so, please don’t bother.”
There’s a pause. “No, I came to investigate why your blinds have been closed. But I just heard . . .”
“Who even told you?”
“Stephen.” Note to self: Stab Stephen to death later. “But I would’ve hoped to hear it from you.”
“Oh right, I’m so eager to publicize my failure. Especially to you.”
“Kate, there will be other bills. Plenty of them.”
I say nothing.
“You did your best. You can’t control the outcome.”
I don’t know what it is about his presence—that he knows how badly I wanted this, or the gentle, sympathetic tone of his voice—but I’m struggling not to cry. I stare at a crack in the wall, blinking furiously, willing the tight feeling in my chest to dissipate before I break down in front of him.
“It happens to everyone. Pretty soon you’ll be wrapped up in something new and this will be a distant memory.”
“This pep talk is very helpful. What other clichéd gems do you have for me? Should I keep a stiff upper lip? Dust myself off and try again?” I brace a little at my nastiness, but I can’t seem to help it. Being mean to him is my default setting.
“Well . . .” He hesitates. “I do have some ideas about how you could resurrect this, if you come at it—”
I whirl back around, and this time, I’m pissed. “Can we save the postmortem, please? That’s not what I need right now.” I blow out an angry breath. Better angry than weepy, I guess. I just want him to leave. Why won’t he take the hint?
“Sure.” He shoves his hands in his pockets, but that stupid piteous look is still on his face and it is killing me. He thinks I’m pathetic. The balance of power between us is totally lopsided and I hate it. “What do you need right now?”
I stare at him dumbly.
“Is there anything I can do for you?” he repeats. “What are you doing tonight?”
I can’t handle this fake, nice Ben. I want to be left alone to wallow, not listen to him talk to me like I’m some injured bird. I wish he would just insult me already so our equilibrium could be restored.
“I have plans.”
I lay it at his feet like a tribal offering; it’s a golden opportunity to roast me about Donkey Date. He doesn’t bite, though. He shifts his feet—it must be killing him not to make a meal of this—but he says nothing. Exasperating. Guess I’ll have to try harder.
“My friends are taking me out.” I say friends with extra emphasis, my tone letting him know: You are not my friend, and I don’t need anything from you.
That works. His eyes shadow for a moment before he dips his head in a brisk nod.
“Have a good time with your friends, then.” He turns to leave, shutting the door quietly behind him.
I thought I’d be relieved when he left, but as I stare at the closed door, I feel even more bereft than before he showed up.
* * *
Here’s the funny thing: I actually do have a Donkey Date tonight. I wish I were kidding.
Tessa kept her promise from the bar and set up my LeftField profile, and apparently at warp speed, because by the next day she giddily shared that I’d matched with Ian, an admittedly great-looking lawyer who lives in Adams Morgan. I agreed to meet him for dinner on Friday night, figuring his career outside my immediate political bubble was a point in his favor. Of course, this was before I got news of the bill, and when I told Tessa and Stephen I needed to back out, they flat-out refused to let me. Literally—they changed the app password and locked me out of the account.
As an apology for their “tough love” (their expression, not mine—I used some other choice words), they offered to take me out for a drink before my date to “pump me up.” I make sure to order the priciest glass of wine on the menu in retribution.
I’ve got to hand it to my friends—they’re doing their best to be my hype squad and laugh me out of this, but I’m a lost cause tonight. They keep trying to one-up each other with increasingly pathetic toasts:
“To failure!” Cheers!
“To losers and haters!” Clink!
“To wasting our lives trying to make the world a better place!” Fizz.
“To supersize men who come by to rub your nose in your own pain and disappointment!” I add gamely, raising my glass.
They both stare at me. What, too far?
“Seriously? Ben kicked you while you’re down?” Tessa says, incredulous. “I swear to God, I don’t care how big he is, I will take that guy out.”
Stephen’s eyeing me skeptically.
“You know, I spoke to him, and it didn’t seem like he was gloating.”
Under the table, I kick his shin as hard as I can with my pointy-toed heel.
“Ow!”
“That’s for telling him about the bill. Stop talking to him about me. In fact, stop talking to him, period,” I snap.
“Reeeeer,” he hisses, curling his fingers into cat claws. “He seemed concerned about you, is all I’m saying.”
I make a face as Tessa breaks in, holding up her phone.
“You guys will have to finish this later. It’s seven fifteen and Ian’ll be here any minute.”
They leave me with a flurry of hugs and kisses and good lucks, and I move from the bar to a table, settling in to wait for my date to arrive.
And wait.
And wait.
Three more glasses of wine, one untouched plate of food, and more than an hour later, I’m still waiting. When it becomes obvious the guy isn’t going to show, I spend most of that time mentally drafting the hateful review I plan to leave on his profile—but I can’t even get the satisfaction of posting it since I’m still locked out of the damn account. I delete the app off my phone in a fit of pique.
So much for Donkey Date.
While I’m sure I’ll end up laughing about this someday, if I start now I’m pretty sure it’ll spiral into hysterical sobbing. I consider texting Tessa and Stephen to commiserate, but frankly I’m pissed at them for getting me into this mess to begin with. Besides, I can’t stomach any more of their rah-rah, chin-up pep talks tonight—or worse, their pity.
I should’ve expected this—the date deserter, the bill failure, all of it. Hasn’t the sum total of my life experiences taught me anything? Each and every time I get my hopes up, they eventually come crashing down in a fiery blaze of wreckage. And since bad things always happen in threes, God only knows what’s coming next. With my luck, I’ll get into a car accident on my Uber ride home.
To escape the pitying looks of my well-meaning but nosy server, I pay my check and wander out—then wander into the place next door, sidle up to the bar, and order a martini. Why not? Getting drunk alone is a fitting end to my worst week ever.
I take in my surroundings as I wait on my cocktail. Whereas Invisible Ian’s restaurant of choice was a trendy hotspot, this place has an old-school boys’ club vibe. Deep leather booths with patinaed nailhead trim line the perimeter while dark wood floors stretch across the dimly lit space. Shiny brass and leather stools are bolted to the floor underneath a long, gleaming wooden bar. It’s the type of place where I imagine clandestine CIA activity going down in a shadowy corner booth.
My phone buzzes with a text.
Ben: I really am sorry about your bill. I know how much it meant to you.
I snort. I’ll just bet he’s sorry. Not.
I text back:
Me: You win some, you lose some.
Or at least, that’s what I meant to text. When I look at the phone after I send it, it reads:
Me: YOur winsssome yuu lonesome
I squint at the screen. That isn’t right. Oh well, I’m sure he’ll get the point.
Another buzz.
Ben: Are you okay?
I sigh and toss the phone on the bar, picking up my drink and taking a big swig. Or rather, I try to take a swig, but the glass is empty. I peer into it, trying to decipher how it got that way.
“What are you drinking?” A swarthy-looking man who kind of resembles Rhett Butler slides onto the stool next to me and motions to the bartender.
“Dirty martini.”
I laugh at how I sound, like I’m straight out of one of those classic black-and-white films I sometimes catch on AMC. Dirty martini, straight up. Extra dirty. I giggle, then hiccup.
Swarthy Guy orders one, then smiles at me. “So, what’s your name?”
I’m just about to answer when my phone starts chirping. Another text. No, not a text. A call.
Ben is calling me.
Up until a moment ago, I’ve never heard from him via text or call, and now both? How did he even get my phone number? Syncing our watches was surely my worst mistake ever.
I slide my finger across the screen. “Hello?”
“Kate? Are you okay?” His deep voice reaches across the line, settling over my skin like a shroud.
“Oh, Benjy, I’m fine. I am super fine.” Except it comes out like shooper fine.
There’s a pause. “Where are you?”
“I am at an establishment for eating and drinking.” I’m proud of myself for how clearly I say it. “Although I never did eat any food.” I think about that. Huh. Now I’m hungry.
“Is someone there with you? Your friends?”
“My friends left, but I stayed. I made a new friend, though.” I lean over to not–Rhett Butler, who’s making no effort to disguise his eavesdropping. “What’s your name?” It comes out like Wasser name?
I hear Ben swear under his breath. “Kate, what’s the name of the restaurant you’re at?”
“You know, I’m not sure. It has tables and booths. The booths are leather. They look like your crossbody bag.” I giggle. Crossbody is a funny word.
“Is there a bartender nearby?” His voice holds an edge.
“Not near enough, if you ask me.” I snicker.
“Can you get their attention, please?”
“Sure.” I wave my arms above my head, dropping the phone in the process. “Bartender! Bartender!”
The bartender’s in his midfifties and dressed like an old-timey saloon barback with a vest, armband, and string necktie knotted at his throat. All he’s missing is a greasy curlicue mustache. His expression is aggrieved as he makes his way over.
“Yes?” he asks, eyeing me warily. I hold the phone out to him wordlessly.
“Hello?” he says, leaning a hip against the bar. He listens for a moment before his face shifts into a hard mask. “Look, buddy, I only served her one drink. I can’t help it if she came in here already loaded.”
I snort—who says loaded? Men who wear saloon costumes, apparently.
He shoots me a dirty look but is quiet as he listens to whatever Ben is waxing on about. He glances at me, his face relaxing a little. Then he says, “Clive’s on K Street. Yep, no problem.”
He hands me back my phone. “You’re cut off, honey.”
What? How dare he! “Ben!” I scream into the phone. “You’re not the boss of me!”
But nothing’s there but dead air. He’s already hung up.
* * *
Ten minutes later and I’m learning a lot about my new friend Damian, who works on the Hill as a pharmaceutical lobbyist. He’s also giving me sips of his drink whenever Bartender Buzzkill isn’t looking. That’s my clever new nickname for him, which I find hilarious. He does not. It might be because I keep trying to order a whiskey sling and sarsaparilla, but whatever. You’d think someone dressed for the Wild West would have a better sense of humor.
Damian is really funny. So funny, in fact, that when I laugh and go to punch him playfully on the arm, I lose my balance and slide off my stool. I feel, rather than see, the large hand that grabs me from behind and steadies me, and then a massive form steps between Damian and me. I watch as Damian shrinks back, eyes wide as he takes in the behemoth before him.
A new buzzkill is here. Buzzkill Ben.
“Benjy!” I shout gleefully, throwing my arms around him from behind. I’ve always been an energetic drunk.
He doesn’t turn to look at me or acknowledge my outburst. He towers over Damian, an intimidating brick wall suddenly erected between us.
“Leave. Now.”
His voice is low and menacing and brooks no debate. I wish I could see what his face looks like—though judging by Damian’s expression, it’s very scary indeed. It’s like I’m witnessing a live-action Nation
al Geographic special: Observe the alpha male as he picks off the weakest of the pack.
Somewhere in the deep recesses of my brain it occurs to me that I should be upset that Ben is scaring off a potential suitor, but I’m so riveted by the scene unfolding before me that it barely registers. I watch in fascination as Damian gets up off the stool and mutters an apology—to me or to Ben, I’m not sure whom—then slinks off, disappearing out the door.
I’m so disappointed in Damian. What a wimp. Why are all the guys who like me such wusses?
“Well, well, well. Buzzkill Benjamin Mackenzie is here!” I giggle at my cleverness. “Does everyone always do exactly as you say?”
“Not everyone,” he answers curtly.
He sounds mad. I crane my neck to get a better view of him but he’s looking past me to find the bartender, his eyes unreadable. A muscle pulses in his neck.
“What are you even doing here?”
He finally turns and acknowledges me, but when I see the expression on his face, I almost wish he hadn’t. The look he casts me is so full of pity and contempt that I physically recoil. And I thought his injured bird look was bad.
What, am I not allowed to go out drinking? I’m a grown woman. I hardly think that qualifies me for a public shaming by Mr. Rogers over here. I shoot him a glare and stew in righteous indignation.
Meanwhile, Ben’s finally gotten the bartender’s attention and motioned him over. He approaches Ben slowly, trepidation written all over his face. Jesus, is every male scared of Ben? How disappointing.
“Is she paid out?” Ben asks. He is all brisk efficiency.
Bartender Buzzkill nods and hands him my credit card and receipt, flicking his eyes toward me apologetically. What is the collective noun for a group of buzzkills? A brood of buzzkills? A band of buzzkills? I snort at my own hilarity.
“Thanks.” Ben pockets my card and receipt, then turns toward me, hooking his arm around my waist and effortlessly lifting me off the stool with his superhuman strength.
“Hey, hey. I can walk by myself,” I say crossly, swatting at him. Before the words are even out of my mouth, I stumble in my four-inch stilettos and nearly face-plant onto the shiny mahogany floor. It’s in a herringbone pattern. How chic.
Meet You in the Middle Page 9
