I start bustling around the kitchen, keeping my back to him as I talk. “I should warn you, the cleanup on this meal is steep. We’re probably going to use every pot and pan you have.” I open his lower cabinets and they’re practically empty. “Which apparently won’t be too hard.” I drag out his two lonely pans and set them on the stove.
“I’ll clean, so don’t worry about that.”
He rolls up his sleeves and I have to avert my eyes. It’s such a routine male gesture, but the way my body reacts you’d think he was doing a striptease.
When he holds up his hands and says, “Okay, put me to work,” I nearly break into hysterical laughter. The kind of work I want him to do would make a hooker blush.
I set him up chopping the onion instead while I quickly assemble the queso and get it in the oven. Working side by side in his kitchen is a challenge—it’s a small space, and since he’s not a small guy, I find myself constantly brushing against him. Every graze of his shirt-clad arm sears me like a drop of hot oil. I need to simmer down. I need to bite down on a strip of leather and scream.
“Do I get to find out what we’re having yet?” His voice pulls me out of my stupor.
“Sure. Pulled chicken and pulled pork tacos.” I laugh when his face lights up. “You look like a kid on Christmas morning.”
“I feel like a kid on Christmas morning.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere.”
“But will it get me another home-cooked meal?” He arches a brow.
“How about you let me finish this one first?”
“Ugh, fine.” He puts his knife down. “Done. What’s next?”
My phone dings, but I can’t check it because my hands are covered in meat product. “Can you see who’s texting me?”
He cranes his neck. “Mom: Don’t forget it’s your grandmother’s birthday tomorrow.”
“Ooh, good reminder.” I wash my hands so I can text her back.
“Do you think it says something about us that the only people who call us are our moms?” Ben muses.
“Says something about you, maybe.” I finish my text and toss the phone down. “My mom says hi. And she’s sending you heart-eyes emojis.” I make a retching noise and shudder.
“Please tell Bev I said hi. In fact . . .”
He wipes his hands on a towel, then grabs my phone, fingers flying. I don’t even want to know what the two of them are talking about.
Okay, I do. I’ll check later.
“So you’re into cougars, then?” I ask innocently as I set some garlic and avocados on the cutting board for him.
“Ha. No, I just needed to taunt her about Words with Friends. I’ve beaten her three times in a row.”
I stare at him. “Did I just hallucinate, or did you say you’re playing Words with Friends with my mother?”
“Uh, yeah,” he says in a Valley girl voice, like I should know this.
“I cannot even. I have lost my ability to even.”
He smirks and starts peeling the garlic, as if the revelation that he’s been in contact with my mother warrants no further explanation. I beg to differ.
“So your grandparents are still alive, then?”
“Yep. Actually, all four are still alive.”
His eyebrows jump in surprise and I could kick myself. Great, I’ve piqued his interest.
“Wow, really? You’re lucky.”
“Yep.”
I load both pans of meat into the oven and set the timer. When I turn back, he’s watching me.
“What’d I say?”
God, he’s like a bomb-sniffing dog. “Nothing.”
“You are the worst liar. Absolutely no poker face.”
My heart rate ticks up but I keep my face neutral. I’m not in the mood for this conversation tonight. I think I know something that’ll distract him.
“Queso’s ready!”
I pull it from the oven and set it up on his countertop alongside some chips I’ve poured into a bowl. “Now remember, if you fill up on queso, you won’t be hungry for the tacos.”
He gives me a look.
“I’m sorry, I forgot who I was talking to. Queso away.”
He loads up a chip and one-bites it, then moans. “How do you do it?”
“I know, I’m good at everything. It’s my cross to bear.”
We banter back and forth until the oven dings, then I shoo him out of the kitchen so I can build the tacos. This is my favorite part: It’s all in the presentation, and since I’m usually only cooking for one, I don’t have a reason to make it pretty. I take my time sprinkling the cotija cheese and drizzling the chipotle mayo, adding a wedge of lime and painstakingly arranging the avocado, setting up his plate as artfully as if we were at a restaurant. When it’s finally ready, he ushers me to a dining table he’s diligently set with place mats and cloth napkins. Cloth napkins. What single man owns table linens? Is he trying to make me swoon?
When he takes his first bite, his eyes widen, then close.
“What do you think? Good?”
He holds up a finger, chewing. When he swallows, he locks eyes with me. “I think . . . will you marry me?”
I’ve just taken a sip of my drink and I immediately start choking, margarita spraying everywhere.
“Jesus, I’m sorry. I was just kidding. Are you okay?” He’s out of his chair instantly, crossing to my side of the table and thumping me on the back.
“Yes, yes,” I splutter, grabbing for my water glass and gulping some down. “I’m okay.” I cough a few times. “Funny guy.”
“For what it’s worth, I wasn’t really kidding,” he says as he returns to his chair. “Maybe we can work something out. Your cooking skills in exchange for a twenty-four/seven security detail.”
“You can be my muscle.”
“I’m telling you, it’s a solid trade.”
We lapse into silence for a bit as we eat—or rather, I eat while Ben shovels. He powers down three tacos in the time it takes me to get through one. So much for those leftovers.
When he finally comes up for air, he clears his throat. “Okay. Twenty questions.”
“That sounds like a bad idea.”
“Come on, I’ll keep it aboveboard.”
“Fine. But we alternate the question asking. And we both have to answer each question,” I add as an afterthought. He’s not going to slip any gotcha questions in on me.
“Deal. Okay, I’ll start.” He thinks for a second. “Have you ever pictured me naked?”
I drop my fork and it clatters onto my plate.
“That was a joke. Just warming you up.” His eyes are twinkling. “Let’s see. Favorite food.”
I blink a couple of times, still recovering. “Um, that’s easy. Da—”
“Dark chocolate,” he answers before I can get the words out.
I pause. “How’d you know that?”
“I pay attention.” He winks. “My favorite food is what I’m currently eating. And I need a reload. Your turn.” He stands and heads for the kitchen.
“What do you really think of the president?”
“No comment,” he calls out. When he gets back to the table, he pauses. “No work questions.”
“Fine.” Probably for the best. “If I looked at your cable history, what would I find?”
“Fox Business, ESPN, reruns of The Office.”
Of course he says The Office. I wonder if we’re watching the same episodes from our apartments every night. The thought makes my heart smile.
“What about you?”
“Too many to count.” He needs to ask the next question before I blurt out that we’re Office soul mates. I’m one margarita away from asking him to be the Jim to my Pam. “Your turn.”
He grins. “Least favorite thing about me.”
“I can on
ly pick one? Your party affiliation,” I say, holding my nose. “How about me?”
“Don’t have one.”
I guffaw. “Nice try.”
“What? I’m trying to earn more dinners here.” He drains the last of his margarita and holds it up in a cheers gesture. “This was really good.”
“Thanks.” I pick up my own glass and swirl it around. “What’s in the file with my name on it?”
He freezes, and I have to stifle my laugh. I don’t think he thought this game through.
“Papers,” he finally answers.
“Papers? Seriously?”
“Best I can do.” He leans in, voice lowered. “I’m afraid you don’t have high enough security clearance.”
“Nice try. And your shifty behavior’s just making me more curious, by the way.” He shrugs, unrepentant. “Fine, since you ducked that question, I get another one. Where do you see yourself in ten years?”
He rocks back in his chair, patting his abdomen. “Let’s see. Forty.” He widens his eyes in a faux-panicked expression. “Hopefully married with some kids, not working in government anymore.”
I smile at the thought of Ben as a dad. He’ll be an amazing father—I know it with a rare, soul-deep certainty. The realization startles me. Are these the thoughts lurking in my subconscious?
He’s giving me a funny look. I’ve been quiet too long.
“You want to get out of politics?” I ask quickly, latching onto the second part of his statement. The idea of Ben not working down the hall is . . . strangely depressing.
He nods. “How about you?”
I think for a minute. “Thirty-seven. Hopefully still doing similar work, but getting paid a lot more. Maybe married, maybe kids. I don’t like to put that pressure on myself.”
His eyes search my face with interest until my skin heats. “Your turn,” I note pointedly.
“What was the fight with your mom about?”
This time, I’m the one who freezes. “Pass.”
“Come on, I think I’ve shown serious restraint not asking you about this.”
“Is that what this little game was about? Trying to sneak this one in?” I grab my water and guzzle the whole glass.
“No. But your reaction just makes me more curious.”
I make a face.
“If you want, you can ask me something about my family first,” he offers.
“Oh please, what would I need to ask you? You have ‘nuclear family’ written all over you.”
I should’ve known he wouldn’t let this go. When a week passed without it coming up, I assumed he was doing the gentlemanly thing and pretending that whole scene never happened. Guess there’s only so much chivalry he’s got in the tank and the table linens tapped him out.
“Just tell me, what am I missing?”
I blow out a breath. “Fine. So my parents were high school sweethearts and they had a very romantic time at prom apparently, because my mom ended up pregnant with me. They got a lifetime souvenir out of a high school dance. My dad went off to college and we stayed back.” There. That’s it in a nutshell. Hopefully, conversation over.
Unlike me, Ben has an excellent poker face. His expression doesn’t waver during my confession. He doesn’t even crack a smile at my prom souvenir line, and that one’s usually a crowd-pleaser.
“So what happened when he came back from college?” Argh.
I squirm in my seat. “He didn’t really come back, per se. I didn’t see him a whole lot growing up. Like a few times a year, maybe, when he would come home from college on breaks, and then after . . . he just wasn’t ready to be a parent. Until I was twelve, at least.”
“Until you were twelve? What happened when you were twelve?”
“He decided he wanted to be a dad. Funny how that happens. He turned thirty and realized, ‘Oh wait’”—I slap my forehead—“‘I have a kid!’”
Ben’s eyes sharpen and I immediately regret my sarcasm. I sound bitter, and that’s a dead giveaway I’m more affected by this than I’m letting on. After nearly thirty years I’ve learned: deflect, play it off, light jokes, wrap it up. It’s the surest way to avoid being pitied.
“So when he did start coming around more, what happened?” He’s like a dog with a bone.
“Well, I was twelve—it wasn’t like he could just swoop in and pick up where he left off. Anyway, it didn’t last long because he ended up moving to North Carolina for his job shortly after that.” I trail my finger through the condensation on my water glass.
“What’s he like?”
I sigh. “Why do you want to know all this? It’s so . . . untoward.”
“I want to know you.”
The look on his face is so kind, words start spilling out before I can stop them.
“My dad is . . . well, he’s funny and smart. Everyone who meets him likes him. My mom tells me he was very popular in high school. He was an athlete. The running, I get that from him. He played basketball in college. I used to watch him on TV.”
I feel a lump in my throat and pause for a second to shove it back down into my stomach where it belongs.
“My nose is my dad’s, and my stumpy thumbs. He’s more serious while my mom is flighty. As you saw.” I smile halfheartedly. “I was a teenager when I realized my personality is actually more like my dad’s than my mom’s, and I was so angry about that at the time. I didn’t want to be anything like him. Can’t fight nature, I guess.”
I pause for breath. The whole time I’ve been rambling, Ben’s expression has stayed inscrutable. God only knows what he’s thinking.
“Hmm,” he says, reaching for his water. Helpful.
“Hmm? What does hmm mean? I’m out on a limb here, telling you all this.”
He shakes his head, swallowing. “Sorry, I’m just trying to wrap my mind around it. You and your mom must have been such an adorable pair. I can’t imagine how any man could walk away from that.”
His words hit me like a punch to the gut. Emotion squeezes my throat.
“What’s your relationship like with him now?”
I feel like I’m in a therapy session. “It’s . . . fine, I guess. I don’t know. We’ll never be close in the way my mom and I are, but it’s not acrimonious, at least. It’s important to me that I know my sisters, so I’ll always make the effort.”
“It must be hard to watch him with his new family.”
I can only give him a small nod. I don’t trust my voice right now.
“I can’t pretend to understand what it must have been like for you, but I think it’s pretty incredible you were able to forgive him enough to have a relationship at all.” He gives me a small, sympathetic smile, oblivious to my near meltdown. “Now. Why did you think you couldn’t tell me this?”
“Oh . . .” I look down and swallow. Then swallow again. Darn this lump. “It’s not you. I just don’t like talking about it, to anyone. People make judgments.”
He opens his mouth and I rush to intercept him. “I’m not saying you would. It’s just when you say teenage pregnancy people automatically assume you grew up in a trailer park, that sort of thing. I prefer not to let it define me.”
He looks thoughtful. “I think it might define you in other ways.”
“What do you mean?”
He smiles gently. “Might this be why you do the work you do?”
“Oh. Yes, maybe in part. Kids in single-parent households deserve as much help as we can give them. Parents too. But it’s more than that.”
“What is it about, then? For you?”
I think about how to articulate the persistent ache in my soul. “It’s just that people don’t realize all the ways coming from a broken home affects kids. It’s a lot of subconscious stuff I bet you’ve never even thought about. Like . . .” I trail off. “I feel silly saying some of this out loud.”
“Nothing you’ve said has sounded silly.”
Something about his quiet encouragement makes me want to open up in a way I almost never do.
“Well, for example, I used to dream about going on a family road trip like my friend Jess’s family would do every summer. She would complain about it, of course, whining about how she hated being in the car that long and how annoying her siblings were. But all I could think about was how desperately I wanted to go on a road trip like that with my mom and dad and imaginary siblings. I used to hope and wish and pray so hard for it.” I look down at my plate. “But hoping doesn’t make things happen.”
Awareness dawns on his face. “Ahh.”
“What is ahh?” I say, exasperated. I definitely don’t know his noises.
“Ahh, now I understand a comment you made . . . before.” From his sheepish look, I know he means the Night That Must Not Be Named. “When you said you knew better than to hope for things that aren’t going to happen. I . . . wasn’t sure what you were referring to.”
I open my mouth, then close it. I’m feeling the strangest compulsion to keep talking, to say things I’ve never said aloud. What I was once desperate to keep from him, I’m now desperate to divulge.
What is happening to me?
“What is it?”
He’s watching me so closely, and with so much concern, I have to look away.
“Tell me.”
It’s his voice, so steady and authoritative, that pushes me over the cliff.
“I used to think my dad would come back. I had this whole fantasy scenario in my head where he would finish college and come home and say he did it all for us. And then when that didn’t happen, I thought once he made some money, he’d come back and then we’d be a family.”
I’m zoning out as I talk and suddenly I’m seven years old again, a lonely kid crying in her bed, wishing her daddy would come in and kiss her good night. Behaving like a perfect angel at school because surely if she’s polite and obedient, he’ll want to come back. Wishing on every set of birthday candles for her dad to come home. Praying at church, harder than any kid should ever be praying, for God to just send her dad back.
When I come to, I realize I’m crying. I brush the tears away with the back of my hand.
Meet You in the Middle Page 17
