by Grey, R. S.
I’m in the auditorium setting up for toddler story time when I hear the door open behind me. The library doesn’t open for another hour. It could be Lenny, the security guard, checking in on me, but he prefers to keep to himself. He’s into watching sports on a little TV at his desk. Sometimes, when his team surges ahead from behind, his whoop of joy carries through the whole building.
Besides, I know it’s not Lenny. I know it the same way I know the sky is blue and the earth is round and day follows night. It’s Ben. It’s Ben walking up behind me and I need to turn to address him now or things are going to get awkward.
I glance over my shoulder, picking a spot on the wall behind us. It assures I don’t make a total fool of myself. “Morning. There’s coffee and bagels over there.”
I point to the side table where I carefully arranged breakfast for us. Now that I’m seeing it from his perspective, it looks a little intense. There are five different types of bagels. Two kinds of spreads. The napkins are fanned.
He smiles. “Oh, I brought bagels too.”
I muster up the courage to look at him, and sure enough, he has a brown paper bag of his own—but that’s not the sight I get hung up on. God, Ben. He’s wearing a pair of dark jeans and a black t-shirt. His hair is mussed up a bit, not quite as perfect as he wears it during the week. His jaw is clean-shaven.
Oh, I’m gawking. He notices, but thankfully, he saves my dignity by holding up the bag.
“But these are special,” he says, waving them. “Apology bagels.”
His mouth is on the brink of a smile.
“Oh really?”
“For Monday.”
I swallow, not wanting to delve into all that again. I turn back to the task at hand and shake my head. “Oh, it’s no problem. It was my fault too for suggesting the stuff about Andy. That was—”
He steps up behind me. “I reached out to him like you asked.”
I squeeze my eyes closed, wishing we could just skip over this whole conversation.
“Sorry, Madison, he—”
“No, it’s fine.”
Why are tears gathering in my eyes?
“He’s hung up on Arianna.”
“I get it. I mean, c’mon—Andy and I weren’t going to date.”
My self-deprecating laugh hurts.
For some insane reason, this feels like a rejection, even though I know with all my heart that’s not the case. I don’t want Andy, but now I know Andy doesn’t want me, and that hurts because why doesn’t Andy want me? I’m not so bad!
“You two weren’t the right fit,” Ben says, like he’s trying to ease my suffering.
If he wants to ease my suffering, he should try putting that paper bag over his head. Cover up some of that charm. Now that would ease my suffering.
“What kind of bagels did you get?” he asks, changing the subject.
“Variety pack. You?”
“Same. Madison?”
“Uh huh?”
His hand hits my shoulder. “There’s a nice guy out there for you. It’s just not Andy.”
He sounds so confident, I actually believe him.
Wow this is embarrassing. I wonder what Andy told him when he brought all this up. If he laughed, I’ll die right here and now.
“Want to eat?” he says gently. He’s scared I’m going to shatter. I refuse to give in to the urge. Instead, I wrap up my hurt as carefully as possible, trying to compartmentalize the pain so I can focus on this moment. I don’t want him to see me like this: pathetic and sad and lonely. So, I take a deep breath and shrug. The smile I aim at him is halfway genuine.
“Sure.”
We eat bagels on the floor of the multipurpose room like it’s a grand picnic. He tells me about his job, why he likes being a lawyer, the thrill of growing his business. I listen intently, not because I care at all about legal proceedings but because of how compelling he is when he talks about his career. Am I this passionate about children’s books? Hilariously enough, I think I am.
After we scarf down as many bagels as we can handle, we finish setting up for a jungle-themed story time. When the kids arrive with their parents, Ben helps me pass out paper masks that turn the kiddos into ferocious lions, tigers, and snakes. Everyone sits in a semicircle and I stand at the front holding up a book, projecting my voice so everyone can hear me. Ben leans against the wall, watching me with a smile, especially when I go for it with the animal sounds. Apparently, I make a very compelling elephant. He tells me so as we’re cleaning up.
One second, he’s half complimenting, half teasing me, and then the next, he turns and asks casually, “Want to get lunch?”
I hide my shock and offer a casual shrug. “Oh…yeah. That’d be fun.”
And we do get lunch. We order sandwiches to-go at a deli down the street and we take them to the park. It’s our second picnic of the day, but this time, we’ve really mastered it. We pick a nice shady spot and Ben unwraps our food. We replay all the funny moments of the morning while we eat, and when I’m done, I lie back on the grass, staring up at the underbelly of the oak tree stretched over us.
I can feel Ben watching me from where he sits a few feet away. I’m wondering what’s on his mind a moment before he tells me.
“I feel bad the setup with Andy didn’t work out.”
My stomach squeezes tight. I keep my attention on the tree as I hum a noncommittal reply. Please, do we have to talk about this again? Anything else, I beg you.
“Did you really like him?”
I still can’t find words, so I shake my head.
“If you’re willing to take another chance on love,” he continues, a bit teasingly, “I could find you someone else. Just tell me what you’re looking for in a potential boyfriend and we’ll go from there.”
I pop up on my elbows, surprised. “Like physically?”
He smirks. “Sure.”
I’m skeptical. “Why do you want to know?”
He wipes his hands clean of sandwich crumbs and then bends one knee up to his chest so he can prop his arms on it. He’s the poster child for relaxed confidence. “Because if you want me to set you up with someone, I should know what to look out for, don’t you think?”
“Oh, right.”
I lie back down as I think so I can almost pretend he’s not there, listening to me. I can be as honest as I want to be, and right now, the truth seems to want to spill right out of me.
I think of Ben and how to describe what I like about him, how he makes me feel. I can’t just tell him: you. Find someone exactly like you. Find someone who happens to have all the indefinable qualities you have. So, instead, I dig deep and try to think of why I’m so drawn to him.
“I want to feel exhilarated in his presence,” I start. “Like I’m grateful just to be near him.”
He laughs. “That sounds nice, but I need something a little more tangible.”
I close my eyes, imagining him. “Right. Okay, how about this? I’d like him to have brown hair. I’ve always been into guys with brown hair. And tall. Yes, he should be tall.”
“Easy enough.”
“I think I want him to be funny, but not so funny that he always tries to be the center of attention. That could get annoying.”
“Marginally funny, got it.”
“Good dresser. No cargo pants.” I shudder at the thought.
“Does he have to be well-off?”
“Eh, doesn’t matter. I just want him to have a job, any job.”
“What about the teenager who was making our sandwiches earlier? He seemed into you. When you went to the bathroom, he asked me for your number.”
“Hilarious.”
“Okay. Keeping going.”
“He has to enjoy reading.”
“That’s a given.”
“And it’d be nice if he got along with my family.”
He hums then, as if deciding something. “So that rules me out.”
I sit up like I’ve just been zapped back to life. My eyes are wide ope
n. “What do you mean, ‘rules you out’?”
Was he considering himself an option?!
He’s looking away, eyes narrowed as he watches a group of kids playing frisbee. For a second, I think he’s not going to respond to me, but he finally speaks. His profile is all I’ve got, so I stare, wholly absorbed. “Have you ever thought about what could happen between us if we weren’t in this town? If you weren’t the daughter of the police chief and I wasn’t a Rosenberg?”
“What do you mean?”
He shakes his head, reaching down for an acorn so he can dismantle it and toss away the pieces. “Forget it.”
Forget it?! Yeah right! I want to reach over and yank those thoughts straight out of his head. I want to squeeze those chiseled cheeks between my hands, get within an inch of his face, and demand he tell me the truth, but the tone of his voice and his narrowed gaze warn me off of pushing him on the subject. I don’t think I’ll like the answer, but still, I have to know…
“Can I ask you something?”
Even if we’ll never be anything more than what we are in this moment, I’m curious about one thing.
“What?” he says, tilting his head so the sun catches his eyes. My stomach swoops.
He has that effect on me with just one glance—imagine what it would be like if he got close enough to kiss me. I suppose I’ll never find out.
“I’m just wondering, if we were in that scenario you just mentioned…just two normal people going about our life. Maybe we meet on the streets of New York or in some coffee shop in Seattle.” I’m picking at grass while I speak. “If you weren’t the last man on earth my dad would ever want me to date and I somehow caught your eye, would you find me…attractive?”
He chuckles then and shakes his head. “I can’t believe you even have to ask.”
That’s all he gives me. No affirmation one way or the other, no piercing gaze locked with mine confirming I’m the most beautiful woman he’s ever laid eyes on.
I want to demand more, but I don’t get the chance.
“Heads up!” someone shouts from across the grassy field just before a bright yellow frisbee flies into my peripheral vision. I yelp as hard plastic collides with my forehead.
* * *
“It’s not so bad,” Mrs. Allen assures me at the library on Monday. “I can hardly see it.”
“That’s because you’re not wearing your glasses.”
“Oh.” She reaches for the beaded lanyard around her neck, positions her glasses in place, and then gasps. “Oh dear! We need to get you to a doctor!” She reaches for the phone. “Let me call 911.”
I hold down the receiver.
“I’ve already been to the doctor, remember? I just told you all about it.”
Ben took me on Saturday even after I insisted I was fine. It was a waste of time. The doctor just confirmed that I knew where I was and then poked and prodded my head a little. It hurt, but I would live. He prescribed ice and rest.
The strangest part about the whole ordeal isn’t the fact that I now look like I have two heads; it’s the way Ben has acted about the whole thing. He insisted I see the doctor and wouldn’t hear of dropping me off around the block from my dad’s house afterward.
He nearly snapped at me when I fought him on it.
“I’m taking you home, Madison. Jesus, you could have a concussion.”
I held the ice pack to my head and kept my mouth shut. If he wanted to deal with my dad, so be it. Turned out, I was worrying for nothing—my dad wasn’t home. Ben pulled up to our empty driveway and shot out of his car to open my door before I could. He wanted to carry me up the front walk, but when I insisted I could do it on my own, he resorted to toting me along like a wounded soldier. My feet barely touched the ground. At the door, he took the keys out of my hand and unlocked it, pushing it open for me.
I stepped inside and he hovered there, toeing the line.
“Do you think you have enough ice packs?” he asked, brows furrowed in concern.
I gestured to the one currently in use on my head and the two others the doctor had given me that would promptly get placed in the freezer.
“Do you have some medicine to take for the headache? The doctor said you could.”
“Yes. Lots.”
His eyes widened. “Don’t overdo it.”
“Ben,” I said, stepping forward and patting his chest to get him to calm down, but then my hand sort of had a mind of its own because his chest was unreal, like a living, breathing brick wall. I pat, pat, patted it, and he didn’t even tell me to stop because I think he assumed my injury had really set in. I wasn’t in control of my actions. I could have declared my love for him right there and he would have blinked and told me to go lie down.
“How many times a week do you work out?”
He shook his head and stepped past me. “That’s it. C’mon, I’m going to help you get set up so you can rest.”
“Ben! Oh my god, you have to get out. What if my dad comes home?!”
I leaped in front of him as he tried to walk down the hall to the kitchen, my ice pack forgotten on the ground. I propped two hands on his chest, dug my heels in, and then pushed him with all my might. Nothing. I groaned and tried again. Worse—he moved me aside.
“Where’s your room?” he asked, walking away from me.
“Not there! That’s the kitchen!”
I was freaking out, scared my dad would stroll in any minute. What would he think if he found me alone with Ben in the house? Oh dear god, I wasn’t prepared to find out.
“My room is up this way!” I shouted, hoping if I was extra compliant, I’d satisfy him enough that he’d leave.
I took the stairs two at a time and pushed the door open at the end of the hall. There she was in all her glory, my childhood-bedroom-turned-adult-hideout.
Sure, I updated my comforter from the zebra print to a nice neutral blue a few years back, but the bed itself is still baby pink, and the ceilings are still bordered by a thin row of colorful daisies. I’ve been meaning to do something about all those old posters on the wall, but it was too late because Ben was there, right behind me, staring at them and judging my love for the Backstreet Boys.
Or maybe not. He swept his gaze across the space with near indifference until his attention settled on my bed. Did it meet his standards? Did he sleep with women on queen-sized mattresses or was his lovemaking so rambunctious that only king-sized would do?
“C’mon. Take your shoes off,” he said, pushing me toward my unmade bed.
“Huh, I always thought my first time would be more romantic than this.”
My attempt at humor was lost on him.
“Sit down. Socks too.” He pushed me down to sit on the edge and kneeled to peel off my boots and socks. In the process, his finger pad ran along the bottom of my foot and goose bumps bloomed down my spine.
“I take back what I just said about this not being romantic—that was downright erotic. Put my socks back on and take them off again.”
His mouth stayed right smack dab between a smile and a frown. He wasn’t going to give in to my delirium.
“Lie back,” he insisted, pushing to stand and lifting my legs up onto the bed for me.
I had a bump on my head, but to him, it was like my entire body had stopped working. I wasn’t even trying to play it up as a terrible injury or anything; he’d come to that conclusion all on his own. I think it was because he blamed himself for the frisbee hitting me in the first place, as if he should have been standing guard like a sentry or something.
“Do you want anything from downstairs?” he asked, moving to the door. “I’m going to get you some water.”
“You don’t have to tend to me. I’m fine, I swear.”
After ignoring me, he returned five minutes later with some water, a bottle of Advil, an apple, and a bag of pretzels. He must have raided my bathroom cabinet and the pantry.
“Are you feeling okay?” he asked, passing me a pill and the water.
I d
owned it and smiled, tugging the blankets to my chin. “Peachy. How do I look?”
I fluttered my lashes and he frowned. “You’ll heal up. Do you want me to stay? I could find a show or—” His gaze swept to the paperback on my nightstand. “Read to you.”
My hand reached out for his arm, gripping it so tightly I likely cut off circulation. He had to stop. Was he trying to send me to an early grave?
“I’m fine. I promise.”
He nodded and stood up. His hand got dragged through his hair for the hundredth time since the frisbee smacked into my skull. “Right. Well, I’m only a phone call away if you need something.”
“All right, when my glass of water gets low, I’ll give you a call,” I teased.
He finally cracked a hint of a smile and then bent down to gently brush the side of my forehead. “I’m sorry our picnic ended this way.”
Not sorrier than me.
Sunday, Ben texted me twice, once in the morning—just before my dad noticed my bump and I had to feed him a lie about how I’d tripped at the library—and once at night to check in on me and make sure I hadn’t taken a turn for the worse. He thought I was on my deathbed. From an errant frisbee. My life is just not that interesting, sorry dude.
Back in the library on Monday morning, Mrs. Allen says since I won’t let her call the police (she means an ambulance), she has a great olive oil I can rub on my head to help it heal quicker.
“Do you mean an essential oil?”
“They’re the same, I think. This one’s extra virgin.”
Oh good, extra virgin—just like me.
Then she leaves me alone at my desk with Katy. We just had a new shipment of board books arrive and we’re adding them to the library’s system. Obviously, by that, I mean I’m adding them and Katy is mostly scrolling through Instagram.
She cracks up at something, ignoring me when I ask her to hand me a book.
“Katy.”
Nothing.
I try again. “Katy.”
She groans like I’m a pain in her ass, and I recall the conversation I had with my boss earlier where I tried to insist Katy be fired or moved to a different department far, far away from me. “No can do,” was his response. Apparently, we get a small grant from the city for taking on interns like her and I’m the only dummy willing to put up with her.