Meet You in the Middle

by Devon Daniels

  Oh no. No way am I going to allow him to give me that injured bird expression he’s so good at.

  I push my chair out abruptly, dislodging his hand. “I’m going to the restroom,” I announce, then take off without looking at either of them.

  I hide out in the ladies’ room, taking a few minutes to collect myself. I should be used to my mom’s thoughtless disclosures by now; she’s done this my whole life. She’s never cared who knows what—maybe because she never really had a choice—and she’s never understood why I feel differently. It was one of the things I was happiest to leave behind in Tennessee, everyone knowing everything about me. Now people know what I want them to know—except when my mom feels the need to blurt things out, apparently.

  On the way back to the table, I see the two of them conferring intently, heads bent together as if they’re discussing something sensitive. I quicken my pace, but when my mom sees me coming she sits back, her mouth set in a firm line. Ben won’t meet my eyes either. What now?

  “What’d I miss?” I ask as I take my seat, looking from one to the other.

  “Honey, are you walking home alone at night?”

  I nearly get whiplash snapping my head toward Ben. He at least has the grace to look guilty.

  “Seriously? This is what I get for bringing you? You tattled on me?”

  He opens his mouth to answer but my mom gets there first. “Don’t blame him. He said he tries to walk you but you’re very stubborn. You should be thanking him!”

  Oh, Ben is going to live to regret this. Or not live to regret this. “I am a grown woman, and I don’t need a babysitter.”

  “But you’re putting yourself at such unnecessary risk, Katie. Don’t you know how dangerous this city is?”

  “Yes, I hear about it every chance this guy gets. Who may never live to say it again.” I violently spear the last of my chicken.

  “Well, Ben, I appreciate you letting me know how irresponsible she’s being.”

  I throw my fork down. “What is this, the Bev and Ben tag team? You’re both being absurd! Plenty of people walk around this city every day. I don’t appreciate being treated like I’m helpless.” I glare at both of them. “Are we done here?”

  Ben opens his mouth but this time I cut him off. “That was rhetorical for you. I know you’re done here.”

  I give him the cold shoulder on our walk back to my building, rolling my eyes as he and my mom say their goodbyes. She fawns all over him, thanking him for picking up the check and gushing about what a good influence he is on me. If I hadn’t just had such a delicious dinner, I would throw up. When she makes a comment about staying in touch, I get between them.

  “All right, that’s enough.”

  “It was great to meet you, Beverly. Maybe we’ll get to do it again sometime.”

  He gives her a preemptive hug this time, which she returns with gusto. When he steps toward me I watch him hesitate, as if assessing the degree of grievous bodily injury he’ll sustain if he tries to touch me. He must decide it’s worth the risk because he leans in, wrapping me in a hug too.

  “Bye, Katie Cat. Thanks for a lovely evening.” He doesn’t even sound sarcastic.

  I glare at him sourly as he pulls away, which only seems to amuse him. He squeezes my shoulder and waves before strolling across the street. And what is with all this touching?

  As soon as he rounds the corner, my mom drops the smile and turns on me. She’s like Jekyll and Hyde. “Okay, what are you thinking?”

  “What do you mean, what am I thinking? You threw me under the bus back there!”

  “Threw you under the bus? I just assumed you would have told him about your family by now.”

  I huff and throw open the door of my building. “Right, because that’s the first thing I tell my work colleagues. Maybe I should add it as a line item on my résumé: ‘Special talents: I’m a prom souvenir’? ‘I have daddy issues’?” I stalk across the lobby and aggressively stab the elevator button.

  “Do you make eyes at all your ‘work colleagues’?” she asks with exaggerated air quotes.

  “That’s called glaring.” The doors open and I sweep her inside.

  “What are you, blind? The way he was looking at you!” She swoons, falling back against the elevator wall. “To be looked at like that again . . .”

  “Oh please, Mom, men look at you that way all the time. And I do see how he looks at me. With total contempt.”

  “Oh, right.” When the elevator dings she floats down the hallway, carried away by her own false fairy tale. “I feel so much better knowing you have a man like that looking out for you.”

  “Mom, stop. I don’t feel that way about him.” I don’t think.

  “Don’t even try to tell me you’re not interested in him, it’s written all over your face. You two are the most obvious fakers on the planet. You always were a terrible liar. That’s one of the things I love about you, honey, you’re so pure of heart.” She stops at the door while I fumble for my keys.

  “Mom, try to hear me. Okay?”

  She raises an eyebrow indulgently.

  “Ben and I are not dating. We will not be dating.”

  “And why not? Give me your best excuses.” She crosses her arms.

  “For starters, I’m pretty sure he has a girlfriend.”

  “Oh, hogwash. Fiddle-faddle.”

  I laugh in spite of myself. “It’s not hogwash! Listen to yourself.” I unlock the door and immediately kick off my heels. Yesss. Sayonara, shoes.

  She jerks her thumb over her shoulder. “That guy? The one I just watched stare at you for two hours? The one who chose to spend his Friday night with you and your mother? He does not have a girlfriend.”

  “I’m telling you, he’s seeing someone.” I fill her in on Corinne and she sighs heavily.

  “Well, if he is seeing this other woman, just make him forget about her.” She flicks her wrist like this should be simple, like I’m Venus or Cleopatra or something.

  “You’re acting like he’s confessed his undying love for me and I’ve turned him down, but let me be clear: he has never once displayed romantic interest in me.” I don’t think.

  “Maybe you’re not giving him an opportunity. He probably thinks if he’s honest with you, you’ll bite his head off. You’re very intimidating.” She flops onto the couch and kicks her feet up on my coffee table.

  “He’s had opportunity,” I shoot back before I can censor myself. No way am I telling her about my night of drunken debauchery.

  “I think you’re trying to force your brain to overpower your heart. He may not be who you saw yourself with on paper, but you can’t help who you fall in love with. The heart wants what it wants,” she trills. She’s a poet now.

  “Stop saying I’m in love with him! You barely know him. He could be a serial killer.”

  “Serial killers typically aren’t worried about getting you home safely.”

  I exhale in frustration. “We need a subject change.”

  When I walk past the couch, she tugs me down next to her, forcing me into a hug. I give in to her embrace and take a deep inhale of her peach-scented shampoo, letting the familiar scent wash over me.

  “I just want you to be happy,” she murmurs into my hair. “You seemed . . . all lit up with him. It’s been a long time since I saw you like that. And what are you so afraid of? He seems sweet and supportive and protective. I hardly think that’s someone who’s going to hurt you.” She pulls back, nodding decisively. “I’m rooting for him. I’m Team Ben.”

  “I think what you meant was, you’re Team Kate. You know, your only daughter? And why are you so desperate to pair me off, anyway? I don’t need a man to be happy.”

  “Of course you don’t need a man. You’ve always been enough, all on your own. But we’re not meant to go through life alone.”

  “Sa
ys the woman who never married even though many have tried.”

  She tsks. “I wasn’t alone. I had you. And don’t use me as an excuse to hide.”

  “Hide?”

  “You’re scared of your feelings for this guy. You forget that I know you. Your excuses may work on other people, but they won’t work on me.”

  I shake my head and don’t answer her.

  She smiles, patting me on the leg. “Just promise me one thing.”

  “What’s that?” I ask warily.

  “If he works up the nerve to tell you how he feels, don’t shut him down. Get out of your own way for once.” She doesn’t wait for a response. “Now, let’s talk about this walking-home-alone business. It’s about the stupidest stunt you’ve ever pulled.”

  I blow out a breath. “Jesus, Mom, not you too. I am so tired of getting shit for this.”

  She recoils like I’ve slapped her. “I hope you don’t talk that way in front of Ben. It’s so unbecoming. No man wants a potty mouth, sweetie.”

  Chapter 17

  I don’t think I can be friends with Ben anymore.

  After my mom left on Sunday night, the anxiety I’d been keeping at bay started creeping over me like rising floodwaters. Between the awkward family feud he witnessed and my mom’s blunt analysis of our relationship, I hardly know how to behave around him anymore. It’s as though with dinner, we’ve crossed some invisible red line.

  I’d be lying if I said I looked at Ben as just another friend. I actually lay in bed on Friday night re-creating all the ways and places he touched me: back graze, knee grab, bear hug, shoulder squeeze. It’s a new dance move: the Mack-arena. My body’s a color-coded Ben heat map at this point.

  But another part of me is desperate to starve this attraction, bury it so deep you’d need an excavator and a miracle to find it. Ben and I are opponents; rivals in every sense of the word. There’s no world in which a nonplatonic relationship between us would end in anything but mutual destruction.

  I wake up Monday with fresh resolve. This is lust, plain and simple. It’s his fault for carrying me home and awakening antiquated cavewoman urges I didn’t even know I had. As an evolved, feminist woman, I cannot allow these primal instincts to prevail.

  But my newfound willpower lasts about as long as my commute. When I get back from a Monday all-hands and sift through the mail stack on my desk, a flyer catches my eye—and all my plans to avoid Ben fly right out the window. It’s perfect. I nearly cackle with evil glee.

  I crane my neck to see if he’s in his office. Sure enough, he’s on the phone, pacing a hole in the carpet. I watch him for a minute, admiring one of my favorite looks on him: jacket off, sleeves rolled up. Business Casual Ben. He stops with his back to me, but his arms must be crossed because even from here I can see the shirt fabric stretched taut across his shoulders. I let my gaze drift down, eyes lingering on his tight—

  Absolutely not. I shake myself. Where was I going with this? Right—the flyer.

  I wait until he’s returned to his desk, then shoot him a text.

  Me: I have BIG news.

  Ben: Do tell.

  Me: I have to show you.

  Ben: How cryptic. Tell me about it over lunch?

  I glance out the window and find him watching me, head tilted as if in challenge.

  Challenge accepted.

  * * *

  Since Ben’s coming from a meeting, we agree to meet at the downstairs Dirksen Servery. I get there first and snag us a table, and as I’m unzipping my cooler I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn and see John Conrad.

  I greet him with a hug. “You’re back! How was it?”

  As Senator Maxwell’s chief of staff, John frequently travels with him around Maryland to attend to state business, and he’d been gone all last week during the recess.

  “It was good, but there’s a ton to catch up on, as always. I’m spent.”

  You wouldn’t know it to look at him—he’s as eager and energetic as ever, his perfectly coiffed hair glossy as an oil slick. I smooth my own mane self-consciously.

  “Thanks for sending me those briefing notes, by the way. I was actually wondering if you wanted to grab a drink some night this week? Catch me up properly?”

  “Of course! Just name the day.”

  “Great.” He beams, gesturing to the empty seat across from me. “Want some company? I was just grabbing something before our two o’clock. Can I get you anything?”

  “She’s all taken care of.”

  Ben shoulders between us, claiming the empty seat and setting down a tray piled with a veritable mountain of food. From where I’m standing I see a sandwich, a container of yogurt, a banana and an apple, a massive chocolate chip cookie, and two water bottles. He slides one over to me and starts unwrapping his sandwich, ignoring John entirely.

  “John, do you know Ben Mackenzie?” I blurt, trying to compensate for Ben’s rudeness.

  John flashes Ben his practiced politician’s smile and holds out a hand. “I think we’ve met before. At Riordan’s retirement lunch last year?”

  Ben’s eyes flick to me. “Sounds about right.” He shakes John’s proffered hand and I watch John wince a little.

  “You were at that lunch too?” I say to Ben in surprise. “Huh, so was I.”

  “I’m pretty sure the entire district was at that lunch.” His eyes land on John’s lapel pin and he snorts under his breath. He picks up his sandwich and takes a massive bite, effectively eliminating his ability to converse.

  I narrow my eyes at him. Whatever happened to I don’t choose my friends based on party affiliation?

  John’s gaze slides back to me, his signature smile a little strained. “I’ll see you at two, then?”

  “Absolutely.”

  I inject as much warmth into my voice as possible in an attempt to defuse this weird tension. He nods at me, shooting Ben a dark look as he heads off to join the lunch line.

  I sink into my chair and level a glare at Ben. “What was that all about?”

  He frowns, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “What was what all about?”

  “Are you PMSing or something? You were so rude to him.”

  “I don’t have time to make small talk with every Tom, Dick, and Harry who wants to stand over you and drool.”

  “He wasn’t drooling,” I hiss, glancing anxiously toward the line. I think John’s pretending not to watch us. “He’s my colleague. Kind of like how you’re my colleague?”

  He makes a face. “He’s such a politician.” He says politician like others might say Satan.

  “Um, hello? We work for politicians.”

  “We might work for them, but that doesn’t mean I’d want to date one.”

  Whoa. “Who said anything about dating him? He’s my coworker.”

  “Pretty sure I just heard you agree to go out with him.”

  “That’s to catch up on work. He’s been out of town.” I don’t know why I feel the need to justify this. “Anyway, moving on.”

  “So what’s your big news?” he asks, munching on his apple now.

  I thought you’d never ask. “I know what you’re doing for our bet!”

  “You actually going to follow through this time?” he taunts, and I make a face.

  Over the past couple of weeks, I’ve tossed out a number of potential bets designed to make any dyed-in-the-wool conservative squirm: an immigration rally, an LGBTQ+ Pride parade, a climate change seminar. The only problem is, every time I propose something, Ben agrees readily, even acting excited about going. Maybe he’s bluffing, but since the reaction I’m going for is more extreme pain than enthusiasm, I keep demurring at the last second. Even more vexing is that he’s playing coy about his plans for me, saying only that “he’ll know when he’s hit on it” and “you can’t rush genius.” Eye roll.

  “
Well, don’t keep me in suspense. What will I be doing?”

  I pluck the flyer from my purse and slap it down on the table. “Oscar Vega is holding a fundraiser, and we’re going.”

  His food shoveling pauses momentarily. “Representative Vega? The socialist?”

  “The Democratic Socialist, yes.”

  He resumes chewing, keeping his face carefully blank. “No problem, Princess. I can make it through a fundraiser, especially if there’s free food involved.”

  “It’s really more of a seminar. It’s not plated. But I think you’ll enjoy the keynote.” I point to a spot midway down the page.

  He reads it aloud. “How Taxing the Rich Can Pay for Universal Healthcare.” He looks up at me. “Seriously?”

  “I know, doesn’t it sound fascinating?”

  He pushes the flyer back toward me. “You know I can’t be seen at an event like this.”

  I feign ignorance. “Whyever not?”

  “As an architect of the tax plan, I can’t attend an event attacking the tax plan.”

  “‘As an architect of the tax plan’? Do you even hear yourself? You sound like one of those celebrities who says, ‘Don’t you know who I am?’ while they’re getting arrested.”

  He crosses his arms. “I’d prefer not to get fired over a bet.”

  “Hey, this whole thing was your idea. But if you’d like to forfeit, just say the word.” I smile with all my teeth.

  His eyes narrow, and we stay locked in a silent standoff until he exhales, shaking his head. “Fine, I’ll figure something out. But if you expect me to sit there and listen to some quack disregard centuries of evidence as to why a socialist system doesn’t work, then I’m cashing in my dinner invitation.”

  “What dinner invitation?”

  “You promised me a home-cooked meal.” There’s a glint in his eye. “And I’m collecting.”

  I feel my face flame. He’s breaking the cardinal rule.

  As if by tacit agreement, neither of us ever mentions my night of drunk and disorderly conduct. I don’t know if it’s out of respect for me or if he’s just as disturbed by that whole fiasco as I am—maybe both—but we avoid the subject like Stephen avoids carbs. It’s like the Voldemort of events: the Night That Must Not Be Named.