Fade In

by Mabie, M.

  I don't reply to that one either. Instead, I make plans for a quick bath before the overachieving assistant gets here. The hot soak is just what I need. I turn on my music on, dim the lights, add some bubbles, and bam. I'm good to go.

  Then I think, I should text Ben to go get some stuff so I can buy myself some more time. I send him a message, asking him to go by a bookstore and get me a memoir I want to read about a female comedian I've loved since childhood and some wine. He tells me that he will and to let him know if I think of anything else.

  I soak in the tub for a bit longer than I should and am more raisin-like than pruney when I get out. It takes me some time, but I manage to get the ace bandage back on after inspecting the purple bulge on my side. It isn't as tight as when Ben did it, but it will just have to do.

  I slip on a fresh pair of yoga pants—which I have never done yoga in—and my NYU sweatshirt. I'm ready to relax and possibly get some things done—comfortably—from home.

  I didn't hear him come in, but as I make my way to the kitchen, I overhear Ben talking on the phone. He is holding his cell to his face with his shoulder and putting away a few groceries that he must have picked up on his way here, too.

  “No. I think she's fine,” Ben says, and then he listens to whoever is on the other end for a few seconds. “I know, but I don't want to. Not yet.”

  I'm not sure if he is talking about me or someone else. I don't want to get busted eavesdropping so I make my way to where he can see me and smile.

  “Hey, I'm gonna let you go. I'm at work. I'll call you later,” Ben says, looking straight at me. “Yeah, that sounds good. All right, bye.” He sets the phone down on the island and lays both of his hands down flat, assessing me.

  “Good morning, Ben,” I announce setting forth our typical beginning-of-the-day banter.

  “How do you feel this morning?” He appraises me up and down, looking for any sign of discomfort.

  “I feel much better. Thank you for helping me last night. That sucked.” It did suck. And it still hurts like a bitch, but I don't want him thinking about it. I don't need him assuming he has to be a freaking nurse on top of everything else.

  I see that, in addition to the groceries, he brought a few bottles of wine and a backpack.

  “I thought that since you were going to be here all day we could start on the plans you want to make for Winnie's shower. If you're feeling up to it,” Ben adds at the end, showing that he's not too sure about how I'm feeling with the questioning look on his face.

  “I think that's a great idea. We can do that and then I think I will lounge around. Maybe read, maybe a movie?” Then I think to myself that I hope the planning takes a while because I don't fancy hanging out alone. I know that Winnie and Cooper wouldn't mind coming over and hanging out this evening, but I'd like to avoid being a third wheel again.

  Maybe I'll call Kurt later. I should probably call him either way. We didn't get to talk, and he clearly needs to get some things off his chest.

  “A movie sounds great. I'll help you with the shower thing and then we can veg out and I'll make us dinner. How does shrimp Alfredo sound?”

  “You really like to cook, huh?” I'm interested in this. Where does that come from? Do guys like cooking? I'm going to be asking serious questions today. There's so much more that I'd like to know about him.

  “I do. I cooked a lot at home growing up and I've always enjoyed doing it. Do you cook?”

  “No. I mean, here and there, but not ever really cook cook. You know? I'd like to, but I never really had a reason to. There isn't much point in cooking for one.” God, I sound pathetic.

  Ben busies himself with stocking my cupboards with things he's brought, and I take a seat at the island.

  “You never cooked for Kurt?”

  “No. Our relationship wasn't ever really like that. I mean, we ordered food in a lot and we spent time together, but it wasn't something that we did together.”

  As I listen to myself say these things, I'm reminded about what Kurt said and how I didn't encourage or initiate those types of things with him in our time together.

  “What kind of relationship was it then?” Ben asks and stops to pay attention to my answer.

  I shrug. “It was just different. We spent time together. We took trips together. We went to events and social things with each other. I don't know. Now that I think about it, I suppose it was mostly superficial in the end.” Saying these things out loud sort of brings it home. Makes it real. Kurt and I didn't actually get to know each other. I kept him at arm’s length. He was here, but I never really let him in.

  “That's too bad. How long were you two together?” His questions aren't meddling. They just flow, and I'm comfortable answering.

  “That's the strangest part. Two years. What about you? You're single, as I gathered from lunch, but what's your story? Crazy ex-girlfriends? Cheaters? Anything juicy?” I try to make it sound like I'm joking, but I really want to know. I maneuver the conversation's shift to dig up some dirt on him.

  “No. None to speak of. I've never really been in a serious relationship. I mean, I've had girlfriends, just nothing for too long. Either I moved away or they did or things didn't work out. My dating history is pretty boring, honestly.” He's relaxed and doesn't seem bothered by my query.

  “Good. So what did you do before this? You never really said.” Now I'm getting somewhere.

  “I worked in Washington for the government-—the military actually.” He says this quietly and gets back to arranging things.

  “That's interesting. Were you in the military? What branch?” That must be how he got that body. That taut, lean body.

  “Not exactly. It was more of a consulting position. That's why I moved back here. I needed a change. I needed to get away from it.” He reaches his arm up around and behind his neck and rubs at it. He’s becoming uncomfortable. “We should make some calls and see if we can't book a place for this shower. Get it all out of the way.”

  I don’t pry further. I'd rather him tell me things in his own time.

  I agree, and we set up in my office and plan our asses off. Instead of a traditional bridal shower, we opt for a more contemporary couple's shower at The Yard, a great restaurant that has a wonderful outdoor area. It's perfect for a cocktail party.

  We hammer out a guest list and email it to Cooper and Winnie to make sure we haven't missed anyone, and both of them reply saying that it looks great. We even book the place and settle on a menu.

  Ben is shockingly helpful. He gives me a few great choices, which are usually both perfect, and he offers his opinions when I ask for them. In a few short hours, we have the location, the food, and the drinks, and we’ve even contacted a few musicians to perform at the party. It's shaping up to be fantastic.

  Since all of the major details are lined out and set, Ben tells me that he will order invitations and have them ready to mail by next Tuesday, giving three weeks for the guests to RSVP. Even though he wasn't a personal assistant before, this dude is an excellent one.

  True to his word, he cooks us dinner. We drink wine and laugh. I help by making the salad and keeping our glasses full.

  I learn that his love of the oldies also comes from is MooMoo, who was his grandmother on his dad’s side. We talk about his first car, which was a Chevelle, and we tell embarrassing college stories. I tell him about Winnie and Cooper and confess that I selfishly set them up. He asks about the famous people I've met and why I became a writer. It feels so good being with him.

  We do our little flirt thing that comes so naturally, and when it comes time to sit down and watch the movie, I choose Monty Python's The Holy Grail. We sit next to each other on the couch as if we'd done it thousands of times before.

  I forget that he's my assistant when we're like this. It naturally feels like he's something else. Then it hits me. It feels like a date.

  I'm liking him. A lot.

  He's sexy in the most casual way. I'm obsessed with his hands. I keep staring
at them and picturing them touching me. I'm a lusty ho.

  I think about just being honest and telling him that I like him. Then I shut it down. I've only known him for a few days, and Wes's words of not shitting where I eat keep ringing in my head.

  Deciding that I won't say or do anything about it, I keep my mouth shut. But if he makes even the smallest move, I'm going to let him.

  Good help is hard to find.

  It's a real pain in the ass having poor side vision when you're watching a movie and you want to be sneaky and peek at the hot guy next to you. I have to invent different reasons for moving around to get my fix of his face. I have an itch. I have a wedgie. I reach for a drink. It's all very subtle, I'm sure.

  After we finished off two bottles of wine and mocked lines from the movie we know by heart, I'm not feeling too much pain from the rib and I'm genuinely happy.

  Ben turns the television off, and as we are looking at each other, he says, “I know I don't work tomorrow and you're probably busy... Wait. No, you're not, I know your schedule. Isn't that convenient?” He smiles through his tomfoolery. “I still want to see you.”

  Yawning, I start to stretch and wince when I pull at my tender side muscles. “You're going to get sick of me. You'll see.”

  Ben's brow furrows, and he does this funny head tilt move that I've come to learn is really his body language for, “Shut up, Tatum.”

  “I'm fine. Really. You don't have to babysit me.”

  Ignoring the jab I take at both of us, he states, “Your rib will probably still be sore as hell, but I thought we could take a drive. I want to take you somewhere.”

  I have to bite my tongue so that the rebound to that comment doesn't actually come out. I'd let him take me anywhere. The bedroom. The tub. This couch—right now. If he could read my thoughts, he would surely take me to an asylum.

  I'm a little buzzed. That wine was good.

  The only safe thing I can say is, “Where?”

  “Just somewhere I think you'll like.” Does this man ever all-the-way answer a question?

  “Well, I'm not going unless you tell me.” That ought to up the ante.

  His green eyes flare at my resistance and he sucks the corner of his bottom lip into his mouth to think. “What can I do to convince you to go? Without telling you.” He flirts just as much as I do.

  My need to know more about him is driving me nuts, so compromising with myself, I counter with, “Tell me five things about yourself that no one else knows and I'll think about it.”

  “Five things? You want to know five things about my life that no one else knows?” Ben is stalling, tapping his deft fingers on his bottom lip in contemplation. He needs to leave that lip alone or I'm going to jump him. His head bobs. I think he is counting them off in his head.

  “Well, it's that or I'm staying here and you're taking the day to yourself.” I am a stubborn mule-bitch.

  “All right, all right.” His hands come up in surrender. My threats are actually doing their job. “I don't like fudge. I've tried. I just can't do it.”

  “Fudge? That's what you're giving me? You're ridiculous.”

  “Hey, that's useful information.” He thinks about the next thing and smiles. “I lost my virginity in my bedroom while my parents were home and I got caught. By them.” He laughs at the memory.

  I'm laughing too. “Jesus, how old were you?”

  “Does that count as one of my things?”

  “It might if no one knew, and considering your parents knew about your romantic getaway for two in their house, that one really shouldn't count either. You know rules are rules.”

  He considers this. “I was nineteen.”

  “Wow. Late bloomer? Were you ugly back then? Have an aversion to deodorant? That seems a little old.” We both laugh.

  “It's not that old. We lived in a smaller town. I was a good boy.” He holds his head up, defending himself. “I waited.”

  “Until?”

  “Until I found a girl I didn't find to be absolutely crazy. And one I thought was interesting.”

  “Okay. I'll accept that. Was she ugly?” I tease.

  “Hideous.” He's playing me. “She had big teeth and stringy hair. She farted when she coughed. All the good stuff.”

  We're both trying not to laugh, but I can't help myself when he says that she had congestion-related gas. I laugh so hard my rid throbs, but it is so worth it. I think quickly about how I could use that in a bit at work.

  Ben gets up and walks over to my mantle, where I've put some framed pictures. He studies each one, picking one up, smiling, and setting it back down for another.

  “I like your smile in this one. What's going on in this picture?”

  I stand to see which one it is. It's my favorite one of me and Winnie. “That is the day that Winnie and I graduated from college. We were out to have drinks with family. I think Cooper took it. I can't remember. Winnie gave it to me as a condo-warming present, saying that I should have a picture of her in my home.”

  “You look beautiful.” He places it back where it belongs and points to one of me, my brother, and our parents.

  “Those are The Hippies. Pat and Cola Elliot.” He's sure to find this entertaining.

  “They're hippies?” he asks.

  “Cooper and I always joke about them being hippies. I don't know if they are official hippies, like if they've gotten memberships to the hippie club or anything.”

  His expression is cute. He eyes me skeptically and patiently waits for me to go on.

  “They are all vegan. They make soap. They live in an RV now and travel all year round. The Hippies are minimalists and we suspect nudists when we aren't around,” I say only half joking. It wouldn't surprise me in the least if they were.

  “That must have been a fun childhood. What did they do for jobs?”

  “My father was a librarian and novelist and my mom was a photographer for a magazine. They were pretty successful. They are both retired from ‘the real world,’ as they call it. Now, my mom freelances for state parks and museums. You know, pamphlet stuff. My dad still writes from the road.” I'm actually pretty proud of them.

  “They sound really great.” His admonishing tone suggests that I need to ease up on teasing them.

  “They are,” I confess shyly, “in small doses. Don't get me wrong. I wouldn't trade them in or anything, but they can be flighty. However, they love each other and that was nice to be around growing up. Winnies’ parents divorced when we were at NYU and it was vicious. I love my mom and dad, but they are hippies.”

  He almost gets away without finishing our terms for his secret road trip.

  “You're doing well at distracting me from your five things. Care to share number three?” I put my arms on my hips, not leaving room for argument.

  “I don't like storms. No, let me be clear. I'm a pussy when it comes to storms. Tornadoes. Typhoons,” he lists. Then in a smaller voice, he adds, “Thunderstorms.”

  “You are scared of storms?! That's priceless. What do you do when it storms out then?” I pretend to be sympathetic and place my hand on his arm. “Do you cry?”

  “No. I don't cry. I usually just put my earbuds in and go to bed. I've never liked them. I was in a tornado once when I was a kid at camp. It scared the shit out of me. I haven't been right since.” Ben's smile shows his embarrassment. It's endearing and my favorite secret so far.

  “What else? Two more. You're almost there. I'm almost totally yours for the day.”

  Ben's eyes catch fire at the mention of me being his but it's fleeting. “Just for one day, huh?” His face sobers, and I realize that my hand is still touching his bicep. I look at it and feel it flex under my grip. Something in the way he said his last words changed the air around us.

  “You know what I mean.” I retract my hand and steadily say, “I'll go with you tomorrow. No questions. Two more.”

  He steps up to me. “I left Washington because my best friend, Keith, committed suicide and I couldn't st
ay. I couldn't be there anymore.”

  I don't know how to react to that one. I've never felt maternal or nurturing. I've never had reasons to. But hearing him actually tell me something like that almost knocks the wind out of me. I heart feels pained for him.

  “I'm sorry. I'll go with you tomorrow. You don't have to tell me anything else. It was a stupid game.” I move to start cleaning up the wine glasses and straighten up the couch pillows.

  I feel almost trapped. I want to comfort him and haven't the slightest inkling about how. So I do the Tatum thing and get out of the situation.

  When I reach the kitchen, I turn to see Ben still standing in front of the mantle, both of his large hands bracing himself and his head bowed. He's breathing so heavily that I can see the rise and fall of his shoulders from here.

  He collects himself and joins me in the kitchen, gathering his things and acting like he's about to pull the ripcord on our evening and bolt. It is a bit relieving, honestly. I never know what to say in times like this.

  “Ben, I'll walk you to the elevator,” I offer, needing to at least make some sort of gesture that says I care. I care.

  He nods. His mood is sullen. I hate feeling responsible for prodding for information. I was just trying to be playful while getting details on this man who has my life on view in front of him on a daily basis. I should tell him that.

  It's quiet on the way to the elevators. When we get there and he's pushed for down button, I begin my plight. “Benny, I apologize for prying. I simply want to know you better and thought it was a good way to pull at your particulars.” Benny? Where did that come from? I fidget with my fingers. “I would have gone with you anyway. I trust you. I know it will be fun.”

  He smiles, and the acid I felt in the pit of my stomach drains away. “Don't feel like that. I'm sorry I slipped away like that.” He leans in and kisses my cheek. “I would have answered ten.”

  The door to the elevator rings its arrival, and I step back as he moves forward. “You only answered four.”

  When he turns, his grin is still spread unashamedly across his beautiful face. “Number five. I like you calling me Benny.”