by Ruthie Knox
“I couldn’t impose,” she managed, after Sensible May stunned Hedonistic May with a punch to the face. “It wouldn’t be—”
“You’re not imposing,” he said. “I’m inviting you.”
He’d perched one hip on the desk, and his head blocked out most of the light. Like talking to a god—distant and difficult to interpret. Did he want to help her, or did he intend to stake her to Mount Olympus?
And if the latter, what happened after the staking?
You wear a gauzy white dress, but it’s all ripped up because the staking has been so vigorous. And he kneels over you, chest heaving from how hard he had to fight you to get you pinned down. He stares at your breasts, naked underneath the thin fabric, and then with no warning, he reaches out and rips the dress open. Those big, scarred hands close over your breasts, his thumbs finding your nipples, and he lowers his head—
“I won’t try anything,” Ben said. “If that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Oh.” The word came out so disappointed, she tried again. “That’s good.”
Ben frowned, a chevron of irritation between his eyebrows. “I just don’t think you should spend a ton of money on some sterile hotel room where you won’t have a computer or a phone or anybody to talk to. You can sleep in my bed, and I’ll take the couch. In the morning, you can hang around until you figure out what to do next. I’ll cook you breakfast.”
She should turn him down. It seemed likely that a dishwasher’s apartment in Hell’s Kitchen would involve a scattering of pizza boxes and a bare mattress pushed into a closet.
Also, roaches.
But if she said no, she’d never see him again, and it felt too soon for that. He was her ally, the only friend she had tonight in this gigantic, alien city.
It’s not safe, Sensible May warned. It’s not smart.
When she tried to imagine telling her mother about it, her cheeks went hot.
Ben leaned even farther in, until his eyes were a few inches from hers. “I promise, I won’t touch you,” he said quietly. “If you want, you can leave a note with Cecily or some random customer who doesn’t know me that says what you’re about to do, and you can tell her to post it to the authorities if I kill you or whatever.”
Damn. Now he was appealing directly to Sensible May, and Sensible May had to admit, it was working. Plus, Hedonist May really liked being so close to his eyes. Those strange light brown eyes of his were starting to grow on her.
“I’m not worried you’re going to kill me,” she said. “Or hurt me.”
“What are you worried I’m going to do? Rob you?”
That made her smile, and he grinned again. A quick flash of lopsided boyishness.
He’s from Ashland, she reminded herself. And we met him at Pulvermacher’s. He’s practically family.
“Okay,” May said. “I’ll come home with you.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Ben’s apartment was twenty-some blocks north, so they took the train. May was grateful for that. Her feet hurt like mad.
They got off at Fiftieth. He led her down a street crowded with five-story redbrick tenement buildings that had shops and restaurants on the first floor. They stopped in front of a Greek tapas restaurant.
“This is me,” he said, pointing to the short flight of steps that led to a scratched and weather-beaten black door. The window above displayed the number 406 in friendly gold and red. Someone had done the trim in red and painted the columns flanking the door an eyecatching sky blue. But whoever that whimsical person was, she’d made the effort a long time ago, and the paint had chipped off in hand-size chunks, revealing the deteriorating cement beneath. “I’m all the way on top.”
May followed Ben inside and up a dark staircase while her stomach sank lower and lower. She fixed her attention on her shoes, which looked about as bedraggled as she felt from the day’s adventures.
Allie had bought her these shoes. They were too girly for May, but she tried to be receptive to gifts. Allie had given them to her because they were girly. You should have beautiful things, she’d said. So May wore them every now and then, even though they made her feel like a giantess lumbering through the Land of the Small People.
The stairs went on and on. By the time they reached the fifth floor, she was short of breath and trying hard not to sound like it. Did he have to climb these stairs all the time? With groceries and everything? Her little ranch house was looking better and better.
Ben led her down a short hallway and unlocked a door. He started flipping on lights, and May stood a few feet inside the threshold, absorbing the view.
The materials were nice—granite countertop in the kitchen, wood floors, deep moldings in the doorways and along the ceiling—but it couldn’t be more than … what, five hundred square feet? It was as though someone had taken Dan’s whole city apartment and shoved it into a shoebox. She had the impression that from where she stood, she could reach out and touch every surface in the place.
To her right, there was a living room—couch, window, entertainment center—and a small nook that contained the kitchen, with a breakfast bar for dining.
To her left, she glimpsed his unmade bed through an open door. It seemed to take up most of the space in the room. Right next to the bedroom was a white-tiled bathroom, barely wider than its doorway.
Ben was looking at her expectantly, and she searched for a compliment. “It’s tidy,” she said finally.
“Yeah, I’m kind of a neat freak. Costs an arm and a leg, but the location’s unbeatable. I’m subletting from my friend Alec while he’s in Spain.”
If this place cost an arm and a leg, Dan’s place in the Meatpacking District must have cost, like, all the limbs. Plus the torso, the head, and three or four other poor suckers, to boot.
“It’s nice,” she said. And then, just to get it out of the way, “I can take the couch.”
“Not a chance.” He ducked behind her and closed the door, which she’d left gaping open. When he turned the lock, the spearing sound of the bolt moving into place did a funny thing to her insides.
Locked in. Locked in this tiny apartment with a stranger. Maybe this hadn’t been her smartest move ever.
“You want a glass of wine?”
“No, thanks.” Best to stay sober so she could berate herself properly for getting into this situation.
“Have a seat.”
Ben went into the kitchen and pulled a bottle down from one of the cabinets. He opened it and poured a glass, then joined her on the couch. Which was pink.
“So you want to take a shower?”
“No.”
Ben leaned forward, squinting at her face. “You look really freaked out.”
“It’s been kind of a long day.”
“I bet. Sure I can’t get you some wine? Might help you unwind.”
That’s what I’m afraid of.
He’d already unlaced his shoes and left them by the door, and now he unzipped his hoodie to reveal a gray T-shirt underneath.
Socks and a T-shirt. Lounging on his pink couch, he should have looked like Ken relaxing at the Barbie Dream House. Instead, he looked disreputable. A standing lamp cast a pool of light around him, and the exposed bricks behind him gave the scene a rugged feel. The T-shirt stretched tight across his chest, hinting at an even better build than she’d guessed.
She could see him exactly like this on a catalog page. Slap a faded Packers T-shirt on him, put some other bodies in the frame, and with the wineglass in his hand and the unzipped jacket, the scene would say, I’m just lounging around in my urban apartment among my metropolitan friends, drinking wine and eating canapés and being hipper than you.
He would sell so many clothes.
“You should be a model,” she said.
He made a deeply cynical face.
“What? You’d be great for catalogs. It probably pays better than washing dishes.”
Oops. That had been a rude thing to say. She really was nervous, if she was forgetting t
he social niceties so thoroughly.
“You think I’m a dishwasher?”
“Aren’t you?”
“No.”
“Oh. So what are you, then?”
Ben sipped his wine, and the silence drew out between them. She couldn’t read his expression—bemused, bewildered? Finally, he said, “I guess I’m a beekeeper.”
Of May’s mental list of all the things he might have said, I’m a beekeeper was way, way down toward the bottom. So far down, she couldn’t think of a response. Finally, she came up with “This is New York.”
The quirky little smile. “I know that.”
“Where are the bees?”
He pointed up, and like an idiot, May looked toward the ceiling, searching for buzzing insects. “On the roof,” he clarified.
“So that’s …” A job? “That’s a surprise.”
“I’ll bet. I keep hives on the roof. They’re not my bees, actually, they’re Alec’s. He gives me a break on the rent in exchange for taking care of his bees. But I’ve got a bunch more hives all over the city.”
“Why?”
“For the honey,” he said. “And because I like it.”
“You sell the honey?” She was still trying to figure out where the viable career was in all this.
“Yep. And some of the bees are leased to rooftop gardeners, so I get paid to make sure their crops get pollinated. I do some of that, too.”
“Some of what?”
“Gardening. That’s what I do for Cecily and Sam—I guess you didn’t see their menu, but a lot of the produce at the restaurant comes from a garden up on their roof. I’m in charge of the garden.”
“And their bees.”
“Right.”
“So when you said, ‘Best honey in New York’ …”
“I was bragging. That was spring honey from the hives on their roof.”
“Your honey.”
“My honey.”
“I think I would like some wine after all,” she said, and he grinned. Which just made her want the wine even more.
He was a farmer. In New York City. It figured, didn’t it? Only May would leave Wisconsin behind, move to New Jersey, stumble her way into a total life meltdown, and then pick a Wisconsin bee farmer to go home with.
A Wisconsin bee farmer who looked like a male model in disguise.
And didn’t want to get in her pants.
He got up to pour her a glass just as his phone began to ring from the countertop where he had left it. “Why don’t you get that?” he asked. “It’s probably for you.”
May retrieved the phone. “Hello?”
“May! It’s Anya! Are you okay? What’s going on?”
“I’m all right. Thanks for calling back.”
“We were worried about you! I saw the video—oh my goodness!”
“Yeah.” She heard music blaring in the background. “Where are you?”
“We’re all in Green Bay for Teeny’s bachelorette. I didn’t see your message until right now.”
“That’s okay. I was … I lost my purse, and I can’t get in touch with Allie or my parents because they’re at the cabin.”
“That sucks! And you and Dan …”
“We broke up.”
“Oh, May. Oh no.” The background noise died down. Anya must have decided she needed to take the conversation somewhere more private. “I guess you were mad at him. For that proposal.”
“I guess I was.”
“So you just …”
“Yeah.”
“When?”
“This afternoon.”
“Honey, I’m so sorry. Maybe if you take a breather, he’ll pull his head out of his ass. I know you guys are meant to be together. I mean, how long has it been?”
“Four years.”
“And this whole year long-distance from Wisconsin to New Jersey—you guys did so well. I thought you were totally back on track.”
Separated by two flights, they’d been the perfect couple. It was only when May had started spending all her days with Dan that she’d begun to recognize what a profound gulf separated them, and how tiring it was to be responsible for bridging it.
Ben nudged her shoulder and held out the wineglass. She took it and held the phone a few inches away from her ear. Anya was talking too loud, which she did when she was drunk, and far too much, which she did most of the time. You could probably hear it in the bathroom. Ben had to be catching every word.
He lifted his wineglass in her direction and mouthed, Cheers.
May gave him a faint smile and knocked back half the glass in one go.
Meant to be together, Anya had said.
She’d heard that before. From her mother. From Dan up on that stage, when he was telling his version of their love story to three hundred strangers and she was realizing with horror that Dan’s version of their love story sucked. That the woman he was describing wasn’t her—not deep down—and she’d suffocate if she married him.
She hadn’t forked him on purpose. Not with malice aforethought. The fork itself had been an accident, a bit of flotsam she’d nervously clutched in her hand when she’d been sitting at a table in the audience and had realized that he was talking about her instead of giving the speech she’d come to watch him deliver.
She’d carried the fork to the stage accidentally, and it wasn’t until she got halfway up the steps that she’d seen it glinting in her hand and thought, May, you idiot.
Then he’d said all those things. Given that speech that was supposed to be wonderful but instead had pierced right through her shield of illusion and deflated the bubble of her romantic hopes.
Dan had dropped to one knee and pried open the lid of the jewelry box, inside of which was a very big diamond. “I’ve known for a long time that we’d end up here, May,” he’d said. “You keep me centered, and you make me a better man than I’d ever be without you. Coach was right—you’re the kind of woman I need in my life. Will you let me do the right thing and make an honest woman out of you?”
May had glanced at Dan’s hand, joined with hers.
She’d looked at the diamond, winking under the lights.
And she’d finally gotten angry. So angry.
If Dan was a Viking god, in that moment May had become a Valkyrie: the tallest woman in the room, dressed to the nines, her shoulders rounded and her biceps toned from endless stress-relieving laps in the pool.
“You dick,” she’d hissed.
And then without thinking—without weighing the consequences—without even hesitating, she’d gone for him. Sweet, polite, innocent May Fredericks had stabbed her boyfriend in the meat of his thumb with a shrimp fork, and it had felt great.
She finished her wine. Ben sauntered over and poured her another glass. Anya was still talking.
“—so romantic, when you two are together. And you look good together, too, with all that blond hair, and so tall. I always thought you’d have the most beautiful children, and—”
“Sweetie?” May said, interrupting. “It’s all right.”
“You’re so brave.”
May put the wineglass between her eyes and rolled it back and forth. The cool, smooth pressure felt good. “Can we leave the subject of Dan for the moment and talk about why I called?”
“Of course! What do you need? You know we’re here for you.”
“If I could borrow a credit card number, that would be great. Just in case. I have a room for tonight, but I’m not sure what it’s going to take to get home … I’ll pay you back, I promise.”
“I know you’re good for it. Hold on, let me go get my purse. I left it with Beth.”
The background noise got louder again, and then after a few moments Anya said, “Have you got a pen?”
“Wait a sec.”
Ben was already up, rummaging through a kitchen drawer. He returned with a take-out menu and a Bic.
“I’m ready,” she said.
“Okay, here goes.” Anya rattled off the numbers, and May wro
te them down. It took a few more minutes for her to assure her friend that everything was fine, and then another few to get her off the phone.
It didn’t occur to Anya to ask her where she was staying. But everyone she’d left a message with would be at the bachelorette party, and Anya would definitely tell them all what had happened.
“What’s wrong?” Ben asked.
“She’s going to tell everybody I know. And then they’re all going to call. Drunk.”
He plucked the phone from her hand and turned it off. “Problem solved.”
“I’ll have to face the music sooner or later.”
“You don’t have to face anything you don’t want to tonight.”
She thought of her friends calling and getting no answer. Her family up at the cabin, wondering how she was doing. Or possibly upset with her for not calling yesterday afternoon or this morning. For hiding out with her phone turned off.
It had seemed better, more fitting, to encase herself in silence. To lie awake most of the night next to Dan, wondering what she’d done and what she was about to do.
“They’ll worry about me.”
“Not your problem.”
An intriguing thought. She lifted her glass. “I’ll drink to that.”
When their goblets clinked together, his toast back at Pulvermacher’s came to her. Cheers, then. I can’t fucking stand Einarsson.
How liberating it must be to be able to say whatever you wanted that way. To be rude without guilt—without even obvious awareness. How did someone get to be that way? If she asked him, would he teach her?
He settled back into the couch, and she kicked her shoes off and tucked her feet under her butt, leaning her head on the cushion as the wine wove its way into her bloodstream. Her toes were cold, her blood warm, her hair tangled from walking so many blocks today in the wind. She felt gritty and sleepy, but somehow cocooned from having to worry too deeply about it. Ben had turned off the phone and absolved her of responsibility for one night.
“Why bees?” she asked.
“Why not bees?”
“Oh, I can think of some reasons why not.”
He sipped his wine, which was disappearing at a much more reasonable rate than hers. She wondered if she was guzzling something precious and expensive.