Meet You in the Middle

by Devon Daniels

  I wrench the door open, the message crystal clear: Get the hell out of my life.

  Ben stands there as several silent seconds tick by, then grabs his phone and wallet off my coffee table and brushes past me without looking back. I slam the door behind him.

  Chapter 14

  I’m so fired up after he leaves, I end up prowling my apartment like a caged tiger. There’s enough adrenaline coursing through my system to power a tractor-trailer. I’m dropping so many mental f-bombs, someone should call a SWAT team.

  I can’t believe I ever thought he was considerate. I can’t believe I let him in my apartment. How could I have been softening toward him? How could I have thought we were friends? The fact that I contemplated kissing him makes me physically ill.

  I spend the rest of the day plotting his demise in a variety of provocative ways. Sending him anthrax-laced mail would be too painless. I imagine firing a poisonous dart across the atrium. Drowning him in the Reflecting Pool. Blinding him with the Mace that, ironically, he’s given me.

  I’ve probably been watching too much Scandal.

  I’m not exonerating myself—I know I behaved badly—but I also know our fight wasn’t all my fault. Maybe I was a sloppy drunk, but he didn’t need to rub my nose in it. Aren’t we all entitled to a bad night? In the face of my obvious mortification, he was needlessly cruel. Is that what a friend would do?

  But by Sunday morning, with my temper cooled and the sting of his words faded, shame and regret start to eat away at me. As more of my transgressions come into focus, I’m forced to face an inconvenient truth: I’m in the wrong on this one.

  I set off this chain reaction by questioning Ben’s integrity—something he clearly values above all else. So what if he clapped back? Washing out my barf bucket surely earned him a snarky comment or two. He put himself out for me—way out—and I haven’t exactly shown him the same kindness.

  As I lie in bed—my pillow smelling of him in its own twisted form of psychological torture—I remember all the ways he took care of me. The concern in his eyes when he tied my hair back. His compassion when I melted down about my bill. The fact that he made me breakfast—even though he doesn’t cook.

  That is what a friend would do.

  I’m the one who owes him an apology this time, but frankly, I’m too chicken to do it. Is there even a socially acceptable way to say, I’m sorry for sexually harassing you, puking on you, then insulting you? Not sure Emily Post covers this one. I should send him one of those inedible arrangements, those baskets of hard fruit shaped like flowers. They’re terrifying and gross, but since it’s food, he’d probably love it.

  Instead, I decide to do . . . nothing at all, rationalizing that it’s best if we make a clean break and go our separate ways. To assuage my guilt, I come up with a grab bag of excuses for absolving myself: our pseudo-friendship was always headed for a fiery end; the world is too fractured and polarized for bipartisan camaraderie; I’m better off without his mockery and mind games; after our showdown, there’s no way he’s interested in hearing from me anyway.

  Ben and I were never meant to be friends in the first place.

  * * *

  And so begins our period of silence. I ignore Ben; he ignores me. I keep my blinds closed, and so does he. It’s almost like we never met, and none of this ever happened.

  Almost.

  It’s when I’m alone—and only when I’m alone—that I allow myself to wallow in my hurt feelings. I hadn’t realized just how large a space I’d let Ben take up in my head, and his sudden absence makes me feel . . . I don’t know, bored? Lonely? I can’t quite figure it out.

  I suppose our office antics provided a break from the drudgery. Since the election, life’s been pretty dreary for those of us on the losing side. It’s hit after hit with no end in sight. Our mail shenanigans were something silly and fun to look forward to in an otherwise depressing existence. Every opportunity to annoy Ben charged me up like a battery pack. It gave my days some zip, and honestly? He made me see our Republican opponents as human again.

  Now the days are back to feeling interminable. Stress is high and I have no outlet. The excited hopefulness of the bill is gone and I’m reminded why hope is my enduring enemy. Hope. Pah. It’s just as offensive as other four-letter words I don’t allow myself to say.

  I throw myself into the job, barely coming up for air, but even that doesn’t work like it usually does. Stephen and Tessa know something’s up, though mercifully they don’t force me to discuss it, probably because they’re still eating crow after the LeftField debacle. Besides, what could I even say? I’m still so upset about the bill’s failure that relating the story of my drunken misbehavior is a bridge too far for me right now.

  Still, I’m able to convince myself I’m doing fine until Tessa and I walk into a midweek lunch briefing and I immediately spot Ben, across the room and piling his plate with food. I’m so thrown by his presence that I freeze in the doorway—and he chooses that moment to glance up, as if he can feel me watching, feel the weight of my indecision. And somewhere in that flash of recognition, after we lock eyes but before he looks away coolly, I realize something shocking.

  I miss him.

  Or maybe it’s our fledgling friendship that I miss. The constant drive to one-up him kept me sharp and engaged at work. Our mail mischief was an entertaining distraction from the daily grind. Our banter-filled runs were way more fun than exercising alone. I finally found a worthy competitor, someone I’d (grudgingly) begun to respect.

  I even miss the arguing, of all things. His words from the bar replay in my head on an endless loop: I’d rather argue with you than get along with anyone else.

  I think I have Stockholm syndrome.

  I need to stop obsessing over this. To snap out of it, I force myself to list all the negative things about him: Politically undesirable. Arrogant. Bossy. Condescending. Physically intimidating. Eyes unfairly pretty.

  Even the worst things make my stomach hurt.

  * * *

  Almost a week into our stalemate, I’m home making dinner, glass of wine in hand, an episode of The Office playing in the background. There’s very little a dose of Michael Scott can’t fix. When my phone dings with a text, I lean over to look at it, my hands covered in chickeny goo.

  Stephen: Check out our two favorite people working overtime.

  There’s a video attached, and I hit PLAY with my elbow—but when I see it’s Ben and Corinne, I screech and knock the phone to the floor.

  Thank God there are no witnesses, because my reaction would expose me instantly. I stand there frozen, my mind racing in time with my heart. I quickly wash my shaking hands and mute Jim and Pam’s playful banter and nauseating heart eyes, then pick up the phone like it’s a ticking time bomb. My stomach churns as I hit PLAY.

  The video’s a little grainy—Stephen’s clearly zoomed in some—but I could no sooner mistake Ben than Bigfoot. He’s sitting in a booth, his head bent toward Corinne, a glass of wine on the table between them. She’s wearing a skirted business suit and heels, her long brown hair cascading down her back. I can’t see her face from this angle, but I can see Ben’s perfectly—he’s focused on her with rapt attention, their conversation earnest and animated. Near the end of the twelve-second video he laughs, she pokes her fork at him playfully, and then they both laugh.

  This is no first date.

  I wonder if Corinne is his picture-perfect future wife who ticks every box on his imaginary, magical list of attributes. I’m sure they agree on everything. I imagine they’re laughing about the social safety net programs they plan to cut. They’ll probably attend a gun rally after dinner. Maybe they’ll stop and change into matching shirts that say PRACTICE SAFE SEX: DATE A REPUBLICAN.

  I want to hate her, but even I have to admit they make a striking pair. I imagine their eventual Christmas cards: They’re strolling down a Nantucket b
each dressed in matching chambray, tanned and laughing at nothing as they clasp the hands of their Amazonian, athletically superior brunette children.

  To torture myself, I watch the video a couple more times before forcing myself to stop.

  Me: Interesting. They look good together.

  Stephen: . . . You okay?

  I’m on the verge of tears, actually, Stephen, thanks for asking.

  Me: Just peachy.

  I return to my dinner prep, smashing the garlic cloves with renewed vigor. I focus all my energy on making this meal a culinary masterpiece, but when I sit down to eat, I find I’ve lost my appetite.

  I give in and watch the video one last time. It’s as if Ben and Corinne are taunting me. Even after I banish my phone between the couch cushions, the flirtatious forking plays in my mind like one of those insufferable Instagram boomerangs. I’ll stab her with that stupid fork if she doesn’t vacate my thoughts.

  I’m unsettled for the rest of the night—and the fact that I’m upset at all just makes me more upset. Why am I so worked up over this? Corinne all but said they were dating; none of this should be a surprise.

  But I guess I feel betrayed. Why would he come to my rescue on Friday night if he had a girlfriend? Surely Corinne would never agree to him carrying me home from a bar and spending the night in my bed—not that he reciprocated any of my clumsy attempts at seduction. I recall his derision at my “pawing” him and blush anew. No wonder he was so disgusted by my behavior.

  I shake my head, trying to jog myself loose from this downward spiral. Why do I care who Ben dates?

  You don’t, I tell myself.

  But there’s a nagging voice in the back of my head I’m having a really hard time ignoring. The voice sounds something like this:

  You loved it when he carried you. You analyze how he looks at you. You dream about that shirt-sweater. Suddenly you’re adding cinnamon to everything. You sneak peeks at his office window thirty-seven times a day.

  You miss him.

  I sigh. Why does it I feel like I’ve lost something I never even had?

  Chapter 15

  It’s Friday evening and I’m packing up to head home. I’ve just turned off my light when George, my favorite night-duty police officer, pokes his head in the main door. When he sees me exiting my office, he makes a dramatic show of checking his watch.

  “Why am I not surprised you’re still here?”

  “Because we have this same conversation every night around this time.”

  He laughs as he holds the door open for me. “I know I’m old-school, but I’m going to tell you the same thing I tell my grandkids: Nothing good happens after hours. And what are you doing hanging out in a dark and deserted old building, anyway? It’s Friday night. You young people should be out having fun, not burning the midnight oil. The country will still be standing on Monday.” George’s age and impending retirement are his favorite topics of conversation.

  “Yeah, yeah, save your judgment. We can’t all have the rip-roaring social life you do.”

  He snorts. “Rip-roaring, right. Said to the old man on the graveyard shift.”

  The two-way radio at his hip crackles with feedback as he walks me to the elevator. “So where’s your young man tonight?”

  “Great question,” I joke, playing along. “If you stumble across any eligible bachelors, will you let me know?”

  He looks confused. “Did you break up, then?”

  “Break up?”

  “With your young man.”

  Now I’m confused. “My young man?”

  “You know, the big guy. Also works late?” George holds his hand above his head in the universal sign for tall.

  “Are you talking about the guy who works across the way?” I point across the atrium. “Ben?”

  “That’s the one. I thought he was your boyfriend.”

  “My boyfriend? Whyever would you think that?”

  “I just assumed when he asked me to keep an eye on you that—”

  “Asked you to keep an eye on me?”

  George’s eyebrows shoot up. “A few days ago he asked me to check in on you when you were working late. It seemed like an innocent request.” He looks puzzled. “The way he said it, I thought you and he . . .”

  “No.”

  I steal a glance at Ben’s office window. His blinds are still closed, though light shines out the edges. Of course he’s there. He’s always there.

  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have made that assumption. Us old men, we see what we want to see.” He winks at me. “But you can never be too careful, right? Nice that you have friends looking out for you.”

  I force a smile. “Yes, it’s very . . . nice of him. Thanks, George. Have a good weekend.”

  “You too.”

  He ambles off down the hall at the same time the elevator doors in front of me snap open. I stare into the empty space, feet rooted to the spot.

  I can’t believe it. Ben is still watching out for me. Even after everything that’s happened.

  The guilt I’ve managed to keep at bay comes roaring back, and this time it looms larger than my pride. There’s no excuse I can hide behind now—I have to apologize. This undeserved act of kindness has forced my hand.

  When the doors slide shut I’m spurred into action, advancing toward his office with a determined stride. Our standoff has gone on long enough. He apologized to me once; I should be brave enough to do the same.

  When I get to his door, it’s slightly ajar and the sound of his voice wafts out; he’s on a phone call. I take a deep breath, swallow my pride, and knock lightly, nudging the door open a little.

  When he glances over and sees it’s me, he stops midpace. I point to one of his desk chairs with raised eyebrows, but instead of answering he turns away, circuiting to the window and continuing his conversation. Very mature. I sigh and enter, giving myself permission to snoop around his office a bit while he finishes his call.

  In one corner there’s a small round table with a bunch of newspapers and financial magazines littering the top. A muted TV playing the Fox Business channel rests atop a bookshelf crammed with hardbacks and three-ring binders. Framed UVA diplomas adorn the walls. As usual, stacks of paper cover every square inch of available desk space. Those piles give me hives.

  I casually scan his desk, searching for proof of Corinne as Serious Girlfriend—a framed photo, a handwritten note, some ticket stubs, perhaps—but the only personal items I see are a picture of a group of guys holding up some glistening, just-caught fish, and a bobblehead of a Washington Nationals baseball player.

  “He thinks going to the press will give him leverage, but he’s wasting his time. He has no choice here.” I have no idea what Ben’s discussing, but his body language screams irritation.

  I make a face at the conversation and move to take a seat at the desk. It’s by sheer divine intervention that my eyes land on a file peeking out from underneath his laptop. The tab on it is simply marked, KATE.

  I freeze midsquat. My thighs burn. I snap my eyes to Ben but his back is still to me, his line of sight trained out across the atrium. He’s totally oblivious to my discovery.

  Why does Ben have a file with my name on it?

  I reach across his desk as stealthily as possible, determined not to rustle anything and alert him to my clandestine activity. It’s the highest-stakes game of Jenga I’ll ever play. I pinch the file in my fingertips and slide it out as silently as I can. I almost have it free when wham!

  Ben’s hand slams down on the file and I jump about a foot in the air. He whisks it away, depositing it in one of his desk drawers and slamming it shut with a bang.

  The hell?

  I gape at him but he goes back to ignoring me, turning away again but standing sentinel in front of the drawers like a guard at Buckingham Palace.

 
“I’ll call over there and talk to Dean. I’m sure he’s not happy with the grandstanding.” A pause. “I’m not worried about it. It’ll be over by tomorrow’s news cycle.” Another pause. “Yeah, that’s fine. I agree. Thanks, Bill.”

  He hangs up, facing the window for an extra beat. Eventually he turns, tosses his phone on the desk, and sits, scooching in his chair. Only once he’s all settled does he look at me.

  “What can I do for you, Ms. Adams?” His tone is coolly professional.

  Is he serious?

  “Why do you have a file with my name on it?” I demand.

  “Why are you here?”

  “What’s in that file?”

  “What file?”

  “Are you seriously going to pretend I didn’t just see you hide it?”

  He rolls his eyes and turns his attention to his computer, clicking his mouse and tapping a few keys. I stare at him, incredulous, but he goes right on ignoring me. I guess he is.

  Remember why you’re here. I take a deep breath and give the elephant in the room a backbreaking shove. “Fine, I came by to talk to you.”

  “About?” He frowns at his screen, clicking absently.

  About how annoyed I am that I miss you. Can we go back to the way things were?

  The glow from the monitor slants across his face and I find myself studying his profile, my memory summoning images of his sleeping form and my late-night hand creepage. His five-o’clock—or, technically, seven-o’clock—shadow is visible and I gulp as I remember how it felt beneath my fingertips.

  Get back on track, Kate.

  “Um, about . . . this standoff we have going on.”

  He doesn’t reply, just clicks around, glaring at his screen.