“I even picked North Carolina for college because I thought living closer to him would . . . Actually, I don’t know what I thought it would do. Isn’t that pathetic?” I laugh bitterly. “Anyway, spoiler alert: He didn’t come back. He married Melanie ten years ago and started poppin’ out some babies. My new siblings. So, do-over! New family. Looks like he got the one he wanted this time.”
When I brave a glance at Ben, he looks so startled that I’m instantly mortified. I’ve said way too much. He had no idea his questions would rip the Band-Aid off a decades-old wound.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I love my little sisters. I don’t know . . .”
“You don’t need to apologize,” he assures me.
“No, I shouldn’t be complaining. I sound ungrateful and, really, I’m not. God knows my mom could have made a different choice. And I had two sets of grandparents helping. I had authority figures coming out of my ears! There are so many people who have it worse than I did.”
He looks almost angry. “Would you stop trying to brush this off? Of course you can complain. Everyone deserves two parents.”
It could be the way he says it, so matter-of-fact and sure, or maybe it’s that he’s giving me permission to do something I never do. Whatever the reason, the floodgates open and I break down completely. And these aren’t dainty lady tears. This is ugly crying.
When he sees my face crumple, his eyes widen in that panicked look all men get when any female within a ten-foot radius is crying. He springs from his chair and kneels beside me, pulling me into a hug.
And I let him.
He strokes my hair while I bury my face in his shoulder and fall apart. He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t shush me or tell me it’s going to be okay; he doesn’t offer advice like men are so wont to do. He just lets me cry. He’s just there.
When I start to wind down, embarrassment taking the place of heartache, he pulls back, giving me a tentative smile. He passes me my napkin, and when I pull it away from my face, it’s streaked with mascara.
“I’m ruining your napkin,” I say between shuddery breaths. “And it’s so nice that you have them. I’m sorry.”
“I can wash it.”
“And I made a mess of your shirt.”
“Fuck the shirt.”
I laugh in spite of myself, then swipe under my eyes again, likely in vain. I am not a pretty crier. I don’t need a mirror to tell me I look awful, all red and blotchy.
“Aren’t you so glad you asked that question? Hot Mess Express over here,” I say, trying to make light of yet another cringe-worthy breakdown Ben’s witnessed.
“Honestly? I am glad I asked because it explains a lot about you. But I’m sorry I upset you.”
I wave away his apology. How can I tell him I’m glad he pushed me? It’s been a long time since I’ve talked to anyone about my dad—years, maybe—and it’s cathartic. All this time I’ve been keeping things from Ben, I never would have guessed he was the one I should have confided in all along.
He goes quiet and I register just how close we are, his face level with mine, his hand resting protectively on the small of my back. I can’t help but think how easy it would be to lean forward and kiss him.
I don’t think he’s thinking the same thing, though. His face radiates concern, and here it comes: his patented injured bird expression. Nothing like a little snot to kill the vibe.
“Well, your friend Jess was right.”
Not what I was expecting.
“What do you mean?” I pull back a little, needing to put some space between us.
“You didn’t miss much with the road trips.”
I let out a laugh-sob through my sniffling. When he pats my back a final time and stands, I feel his absence acutely.
“I’m serious. Family road trips are the worst. All we did was fight. My parents wanted to murder us. And I would get carsick. I ate a lot back then, too, so you can imagine.” He grimaces as he retakes his seat. “It wasn’t pretty.”
I’m laughing even harder now. “Your poor mother.”
“She’s a saint,” he agrees.
“She seems very sweet.”
“She liked you.”
“She could tell that from the whole two minutes we chatted, huh?” I force a smile.
“That, and maybe a few other things I’ve told her.” He winks.
When he starts eating again he focuses studiously on his plate, and I know he’s giving me space to collect myself. When I’ve recovered some, I break the silence.
“Ben?”
“Hmm?”
“Thank you.”
“For making you cry? Anytime. Bringing women to tears is one of my many talents.” He huffs on his fingertips and polishes them against his chest.
I’m laughing again. “I know what you’re doing.”
“Do you now?”
I nod.
“Is it working?”
I don’t even have to think about it. “Yes.”
Chapter 20
This must be what hell feels like.
More specifically, the volcanic pit of sexual frustration in which I’m currently burning alive.
Last night when Ben took me home—the one-minute walk next door apparently deemed too dangerous for me to navigate on my own—I’d somehow convinced myself he was going to kiss me good night. I psyched myself up for it and everything. I was minty fresh. I was ready.
But he just squeezed my hand and told me he’d see me tomorrow.
I wallowed in crushing disappointment on the lonely elevator ride up to my apartment. Then I chased that disappointment with hours of tossing and turning. Does Ben not feel the sexual tension between us? Is he that oblivious?
Or worse—is it completely one-sided?
I’m on system overload here. It’s saturating my bloodstream. Clogging my lungs. Steaming from my pores. “Friends without benefits” is all fun and games until you’re lying awake, heartsick and horny.
If only I were the type who could be friends with benefits. I never could engage in meaningless hookups, even in college; it’s just not my style. It’s a shame, too, because I bet I could get him to bite. He’d suggested it himself, hadn’t he? Scratching the itch, he’d called it.
“Hate sex isn’t my style.”
“It’s not mine either, but for you I’d make an exception.”
Ben’s clearly my exception, too. A mouthwatering exception to all my carefully crafted rules. A handsome devil in a well-tailored suit, holding out a big, juicy apple.
Is it such a bad thing to want something that isn’t good for you? Can’t I just allow myself this one little indulgence? It’s like eating that extra piece of dark chocolate. Staying up an extra hour to finish your book. Skipping your morning spin class to go to brunch instead.
Ben could be my extra piece of chocolate.
The thought plagues me as I dress for work the next morning. I need to quash these cravings, but it’s easier said than done. Ben’s dominating my thoughts like the president dominates the news cycle.
It’s impossible to focus on work with my mind this scrambled. In a bit of Monday morning quarterbacking, I want to kick myself for retreating in his kitchen last night. Why couldn’t I have just swallowed my pride and asked him if he’s available?
A lightbulb blazes on and I jerk upright in my desk chair. Duh, Kate! It’s time to do something I should’ve done a long time ago.
I peek across the atrium; his office is dark. Even so, I creep toward my window like a criminal and slap my blinds shut, like he’s going to appear out of thin air and scold me. I grab my laptop and pull up Facebook, mentally calculating just how long it’s been since I logged on. This past election murdered any desire I had to ever go on Facebook again, but this is an extenuating circumstance. A Benmergency.
Relationship
s leave a digital footprint. It’s a truth as undeniable as death and taxes. If Ben is dating Corinne—or anyone else, for that matter—Facebook will prove more historically valuable than the National Archives.
I type his name into the search bar. There are plenty of results for Ben Mackenzies, but the second listing is the one I’m looking for: there’s his smiling picture and underneath it, Washington, DC. We have six mutual friends. I click on it, pulse racing.
The gods are smiling on me—his page is public, though I quickly realize it’s because he’s rarely, if ever, posted on it. Crap. Most of the entries on his timeline are random photos he’s been tagged in, which I soon realize is a blessing in disguise—I’m able to get an unfiltered look at his history this way.
My breath catches when I see the most recent post: Ben in a tux (gasp!) in a group picture from one of the inaugural balls (groan). He’s beaming, the pride and elation on his face practically glowing out of the picture. I stare at it until my eyes blur, recalling how depressed I was that night. I scroll on with a heavy heart.
I surf past shots of Ben in a tropical location, nattily dressed in a linen suit as part of a groom’s party; Ben at an outdoor concert, looking happily sunburnt in Wayfarer sunglasses. I gorge myself on information, reading every comment and noting each like, poring over his Friends list like the stalker I am. I don’t learn much I don’t already know—Ben likes to tailgate, Ben goes on annual fishing trips with a group of outdoorsy, sweaty-hot men. There are women in some of the photos, but I can’t tell if he’s actually with any of them. I’d guess not, based on the absence of any cheek-to-cheek, coupley posed shots. More importantly: no Corinne.
I scroll and scroll, then scroll some more. Before I know it I’m four years back, so deep in his profile I’m terrified of inadvertently hitting the LIKE button. I start to sweat, focusing on my mouse movements with rabid precision. I’m Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible, contorting my body to avoid the laser labyrinth, and one wrong move will trip the alarm bells. I imagine Ben receiving notifications in triplicate on his watch, phone, and laptop that scream: Kate Adams liked your photo from 2013. And in case you weren’t aware, she’s stalking you!
There’s a knock on my door and I stifle a scream.
“Yes?” I call out, clicking frantically to X out my screen. Just my luck, it would be Ben in one of his unannounced drop-ins.
The door clicks open and Stephen pokes his head in. Thank God. My breath rushes out in a gale-force whoosh. He takes one look at my paranoia-laced posture and narrows his eyes.
“Am I interrupting something?”
“No! Not at all.”
“Whatever you’re doing—and I don’t want to know—just remember, there are eyes everywhere.” He points to the ceiling and mouths, Big Brother.
I roll my eyes. “Did you need something?”
“Obviously.” He shuts the door behind him and takes the chair across from me, crossing his legs primly. “I need to hear about your date last night, of course.”
“It was not a date. And it went . . . fine. Kinda.” If you can call me crying on Ben’s shoulder fine. I’d classify that somewhere between terrible and call your therapist.
“A fine, kinda non-date. Sounds fun.” He emits a loud snoring noise.
“What do you expect me to say?”
“That passion finally overtook you and you got busy on his floor.”
“Not this time. Sorry to disappoint.”
“So next time, then? I’m counting on you to let me know what’s underneath those Ralph Lauren suits.”
In an unexpected twist, Ben and Stephen have become friends, a development that seems to make zero and perfect sense at the same time. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised—both of them could make friends with a tree—but after their inauspicious beginning, I was caught off guard one day when I spotted them in the midst of an animated discussion in line at the servery. When I asked Stephen about it later, all he’d say was they’d “buried the hatchet.”
“You probably stand a better chance of finding out what’s underneath those suits than I do.”
“Are you telling me that you went over to his apartment, cooked him dinner—which I assume included alcohol—and still nothing happened?”
“There was a moment . . .” I trail off. “But I just don’t think it’s like that between us.”
Saying the words aloud breaks my heart a little, because of course what I mean is, it’s not like that for him. I am currently shipwrecked on Infatuation Island, population: one.
“Oh, please. The sexual tension between you two is giving me blue balls! I can only imagine how a guy with that much testosterone is holding up.”
Talking about this so openly is having a strange effect on me. My fragile emotions, already simmering below the surface, are threatening to boil over. I swivel my chair to face the window and take a couple of cleansing breaths.
“What’s wrong?”
I don’t answer. I can’t answer.
There’s a pregnant pause. “Oh my God.”
“There’s no oh my God necessary, okay? I’m just tired.” My voice, thick with unshed tears, betrays the lie.
“How did I miss this? You’re smitten! You’re a smitten kitten!”
“Stephen, stop. And lower your voice.” I glance uneasily at my closed blinds, as if Ben might be huddled there, listening.
“You love him! You want to have all his babies! Honey, I don’t blame you. It’s a natural instinct in the presence of so much raw masculinity. Your ovaries are probably exploding anytime he’s around. Frankly, I’m surprised you haven’t gotten pregnant from the looks he gives you.”
The laugh that bubbles out of me is laced with hysteria. “I need you to take it from a ten to a three. Please? I’m hanging on by a thread here.”
He studies me as I rub my eyes. Even after an ocean’s worth of eye drops, they’re still raw from last night’s cryfest.
“When did this happen? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Why do you think? You and Tessa have been all over me about this! And please don’t say anything to her, okay? I don’t need her judgment on top of everything else.”
“Okay, first of all, I never told you not to date this guy. If you like him, you should date him. It shouldn’t matter what I or Tessa or anyone else thinks.”
“You know how it would go over around here.”
He’s unfazed. “So people will gossip for a while. Who cares? You’re not really going to let that stop you, are you?”
“It’s not just about what other people will think,” I admit. “It’s about what I think.”
He sighs. “You can’t get past it.”
“I can’t!”
He props his elbows on my desk, regarding me seriously. “Why not?”
“Why not? Because we’re polar opposites! Because our belief systems are totally incompatible. Because . . . that!” I fling my arm in the direction of my muted TV, where Senator Hammond is currently being interviewed. “He’s defending gun rights right now, Stephen. Gun rights. And I’ll give you one guess as to who wrote those talking points.”
“That’s his job,” Stephen says gently. “You know as well as I do that the job doesn’t define you.”
“So you would date a Republican, then?”
He pauses. “That depends. Does he look like Ben?”
I throw up my hands. “You’re not helping! I need you to tell me how to move on from this . . . crush I seem to have developed.”
“Well, you’ve come to the wrong place, because I am way too invested in hooking you guys up.” He claps his hands gleefully. “Project! Okay, first things first. Are you sending him any signals that you’re interested? Meaningful glances, lingering touches, risqué comments? Anything?”
I shoot him a frosty glare.
“That’s not your idea of a su
ggestive glance, is it? No wonder nothing’s happened.”
“What do you expect me to do? Pass him a note in study hall that says, Do you like me, check yes or no? Drape myself across his desk and say, ‘Take me’?”
He purses his lips. “Either of those would probably work.”
I groan and bury my face in my hands.
He snaps his fingers. “Wait, why don’t I drop some hints? I can be your middleman. Your wingman. Your fixer!”
“You clearly have no idea what a fixer does, Olivia Pope. And don’t you dare.”
His eyes spark with mischief. “You could do something to make him notice. Something not even he could miss.”
I hold up a hand. “I know where you’re going with this, and you can stop right there. I’m not going commando or braless. No accidental nudity. No nip slips.” I know how Stephen’s twisted mind works, and I need to cover every base. “Besides, if anything is going to happen here—and I’m not saying it will—he has to make the first move. I can’t be the one to put myself out there this time. Not with him.”
I heave myself out of my chair and cross to the window to peek out the blinds. Ben’s office still sits dark and empty and I’m irrationally disappointed.
As hard as it is to admit it, I think it’s time Stephen and I acknowledged the uncomfortable truth we’ve both been dancing around:
Ben Mackenzie is just not that into me.
* * *
I hear his voice before I see him, laughing with Stephen just outside my office. My stomach’s twisting before Ben even pokes his head in the door.
“Lunch? I’ve got thirty minutes.” He raises his eyebrows expectantly.
“Lost my appetite.” I nod at the TV.
Right on cue, Senator Hammond’s voice pierces the air between us: “This isn’t commonsense gun reform. This legislation infringes on the Second Amendment rights of law-abiding gun owners, and that’s why it got defeated today.” The same sound bite they’ve been running all morning.
“Universal background checks go too far, huh?”
Meet You in the Middle Page 18
