Fade In

by Mabie, M.

  Our first night is spent going down to the Ferris wheel that's near the ocean and just outside our hotel. The stops raining just long enough for us to ride. I could have skipped it, but being tucked into Ben's side was a nice touch.

  We eat at a wonderful seafood place not far from there and end up at the hotel bar before ten thirty.

  “Are we getting old?” I laugh as I make fun of both of us for being a little more pooped after each leg of our trip. As wonderful as it is, the adventure is slowing us down little by little.

  “No. We’re just smarter,” Ben wisely corrects.

  “Okay? How does partying in the hotel bar in one of the best nightclub cities in the country qualify as smart?” I feel like I'm seventy and Einstein over here thinks it great.

  “Well we can drink all we like and crawl up to our room.” He leans in and says to my ear, “And it will only take about five minutes for me to get inside of you instead of twenty-five or thirty if we'd gone anywhere else.”

  “Agent Ben, it sounds like you are trying to get me drunk.” I pretend to be offended. “That doesn't sound like you at all. Where are your high morals tonight?”

  He laughs. He's drunk more tonight in this bar than he has the whole trip. Usually, when we have drinks, it's a few beers, some wine, or a cocktail. Tonight, he's drinking bourbon and ice. And he's had about five. “What morals? Agent Ben has weak morals. Trust me.” His eyes are far away in thought now.

  I've never seen him like this and it concerns me. But shit. Who doesn't have a bad drunk once in a while? I have them all the time. I respect his space and resign to letting him drink it out.

  In the back of my mind, I wonder why I haven't gotten him drunk before. Maybe he'd clear up some of the mysteries that only every once in a while pop into my head.

  What do they matter now though? What would they change? If I really wanted to know, I could have found out. Right? Obviously, knowing where he came from and why he went to D.C. that weekend are none of my business. If Ben wants me to know, he will tell me. It isn't like he doesn't speak his mind.

  That's probably one of the things that make it so easy to trust him. He just tells me things the way they are.

  I excuse myself to go to the ladies’, and when I'm on my way back to the side of the bar where we've take residence, I see a woman standing rather close to Ben.

  My Ben.

  It takes everything in my body not to sprint the straight shot to him and stake my claim. Not that we've ever labeled what any of this is, but it feels like something. Sure, we haven't swapped class rings or anything, but dammit, we're shirt buddies.

  He's my shirt buddy, bitch.

  I summon the calmness and mental clarity of a saint that I am not. When I walk up behind them, I hear her say, “I don't think she's that into you. I've been staring at you and waving and she doesn't seem to mind. Any woman that doesn't give a fuck if another woman is eye fucking her sexy man isn't that interested.” Her voice is dripping with persuasion.

  “You don't know what you're talking about,” Ben says to her rather shortly.

  “Why don't you ditch her and come up with me? Or I'll give you my extra key and you can stop by later?” Slut. It would have been more subtle for her to write “I'm a sure thing” on her hot pink dress.

  Ben's voice has an edge to it now that's never been present when he’s spoken to me. He snarls, “She couldn't see you. Lucky her. I'm not interested in anything you have to offer.” He looks her straight in her cock-sucker and tells her to fuck off with a shoo-fly hand.

  “She better start paying attention. I hope she keeps you happy. Because if not, one of these days, someone's gonna be a lot luckier than her and me both.”

  She turns to leave and sees me. The tramp winks at me and slides her card onto the bar by his glass. Ben doesn't know I'm there since his back is still to me.

  She walks straight past me, saying under her breath as she passes, “You need to keep your eyes on him.”

  I don't move still, reeling from her gall. Ben knows I'm coming back soon, but I kind of want to see what he does to the card. My brain screams, Get rid of it! My heart prays for a sign that he meant exactly what he just said to her.

  The bartender comes back to stand in front of him. Ben hands him the card and motions for him to pour four fingers instead of the two he'd been ordering.

  I feel relief, but I’m still worried about what is festering in his head.

  I take my seat.

  “Good, you're back. Let's go up to the room.” He tips the almost full tumbler of amber alcohol back and I finish my glass of wine. He pays for our drinks and buys a bottle to take up with us.

  On the way upstairs, I feel a tension that I'm not used to from him. Forfeiting my pride, I ask, “Are you all right?” and squeeze his hand to get his attention.

  The first time I ask, it doesn't make it past his ears.

  “Ben, are you okay?” I say louder and lean around to look at him.

  His eyes are glassed over and hazy. Coming from someone who hides emotions, I can spot it when I see it. I also know that, when someone is feeling as much pain as I see in his eyes, it's a delicate situation and I have to walk lightly so as not to fortify his defenses with questions that he doesn't want to answer.

  He's drunk, but he's also somewhere else and unfortunately isn't letting me go with him.

  “I need a shower. Do you want to join me?” I smile as cheerfully as I can, pretending I'm totally oblivious to the storm he's hosting internally.

  “No. I'm just going to sit outside for a while.” His eyes are still hollow, but he gently kisses my temple.

  Ben goes directly outside, taking the bottle with him, and I fight my gut reaction to follow and pry.

  I shower and think over all the day's conversations. Nothing springs to mind. I can't think of anything that was tumultuous or even instigating much of a debate. We had a great time. It was right after we ate that his mood shifted.

  I just don't know what it is.

  I dry off and lotion myself, trying to choose a path—talk to him or let him work it out on his own. I'm afraid of how it will feel if he doesn't tell me what's going on and what my mind will come up with if left to guessing.

  Ben wouldn't let me be like this though. He would be there. Not prying, but giving me silent support. So that's what I decide to do.

  I put the hotel robe on and go to him on the balcony. I curl up on his lap and wrap myself around him.

  At first, he doesn't move to hold me, but I softly say, “I'm here. Whatever it is that's messing with you, let it go. I'm here.” I kiss his neck and ear. “I meant what I said the other night. I do want all of you, too.”

  Ben's arms embrace me and he buries his face in the crook of my neck. I only know he's crying when I feel the tears land on my arm and run down my elbow. He stays like that for a long while. Silent and fighting to hold on to his emotions.

  “Shhh. Benny,” I whisper and slowly rock us, trying to calm us both at this point. I'm almost crying myself. I'm a sympathy crier. Almost all of the tears I've cried over the last ten years were because I saw other people crying first.

  When he does speak, it's slurred. He says, “I'll fix it, Tatum. I have to fix it.”

  Whatever it is, I believe he will.

  Today, we've done all the touristy things. We hit record shops and went to museums. He took me to see the market where they throw the stinky fish and we rode up the Space Needle to have an early dinner.

  Ben's bad mood disappeared in his sleep. When he woke up, it was like it had never been there at all.

  Since tonight is our last night before we fly out tomorrow afternoon to Florida, we're going out.

  “I owe you a better night than last night. I'm sorry I drank so much,” he apologizes for the third or fourth time, and he looks at me regretfully.

  “Don't worry about it. And yes. You will take me out tonight. See what happens when we act old?” I bump his shoulder with mine as we walk back to the
Four Seasons. “Besides, I have a dress that I haven't gotten to wear yet and I haven't seen you in a tie in, like, weeks. That's too long.”

  “Oh we'll do it up right then tonight. All you have to do is ask for what you want, remember?” His thumb runs over my knuckles, just how I like it, as we walk into the hotel.

  “Oh that's right. Ben, please take me out tonight and free my pretty pucci print from its garment bag.”

  “What the hell is a poochy?” he says, laughing outright. The way he says “poochy” is too funny not to laugh at. It does sort of sound a bit nasty.

  “It's a fabulous fabric print. Good enough for you?” I smile and add, “I want to dance with you tonight.”

  “All you have to do is ask.”

  “Will you kiss me?”

  Ben abruptly stops in the middle of the sidewalk and my feet leave the ground. He nails me with a deep one on me right there at the intersection of Union Street and First Avenue. When he finally plants me on my feet again, I'm a little less surefooted. Not quick to let go, he holds me around my waist and smiles down at me.

  “What else will you do?” My wild eyes and pervy grin show him my true colors and hint to my sordid thoughts.

  “Anything,” he answers. “Now let’s go clean me up for this night out.”

  We shower together and I show him how to shave my legs. He does a great job, and I think I'll add that to his list of work duties when we return home. Shaving is considered a chore, right?

  I'm buckling my pretty black gladiator heels when he comes out of the bathroom straightening his lapels. His hair is combed over neatly and he looks like he rules the world in that charcoal suit. No tie. Top button undone on his dress shirt. He's a king. His suit swagger exudes power. It's so fucking sexy that I contemplate scratching the whole night out and letting him fuck me against every surface in this place.

  The concierge arranges for us a car and a table at an amazing restaurant that has live music and dancing. I have to hand it to Ben. For as short of a notice as this trip was, it's all come together like he'd planned it for months.

  The Pier, the restaurant we go to, is lovely. Tables float across the back of a spacious room, and the dining area is located perfectly distanced from the band to allow for conversation. Just past the white linen tables is a bar area and the dance floor. Each table has fresh hydrangeas, and the room smells like heaven.

  Ben orders us a bottle of their offered red and approves of the taste he's given.

  “I never understood that. What do you do if you don't like it? You think they just throw it away?” I wonder.

  A smart-ass grin cracks across his lips. “I think they fill by-the-glass orders from those bottles.” He chuckles quietly, unfolding his white napkin. “They'd have to be real bastards to waste it.”

  “Bastards,” I confirm, wrinkling my nose.

  The room is filled with couples and groups laughing and talking. The crowd is nicely dressed, and to say this place is classy would be an understatement. I bet there's a lady in the bathroom right this second waiting to give me a mint or a spritz of some stinky designer-impostor perfume.

  My gaze wanders from table to table, playing my story game by myself. At a table not far from ours, there are two pretty girls. They look to be in their younger twenties. I imagine that they are celebrating a job offer or a promotion.

  I fabricate that the girl in the blue dress is in a committed relationship and her friend, the girl in the teal pencil skirt, is in love with blue-dress girl. She's prayed that her friend will dump the rich, big-dicked boyfriend and confess her mutual same-sex feelings.

  Of course, I laugh to myself when I hit ‘big-dicked’ in my head and Ben busts me.

  “Are you making up lies about strangers again?” he teases and runs his foot up my leg as he crosses his under the table.

  “That's what I do. Are you ready to give it another shot? You have to get good at this. It's mandatory for my next boyfriend.” I look to the sky as if reading a checklist written in the empty air in front of me. “Must play my game with me.” I check it off. “Yup, it's on the list.”

  “Next boyfriend?” he croons.

  “Yeah, the next boyfriend I have will play this exact game. It's a deal breaker.”

  “I guess your current boyfriend needs to get his act together then.”

  My heart leaps into my throat at hearing what he just said. I put a pin in it for now, but can't help the overwhelming pride his self-titled position gives me.

  Ben says, looking around the vast room for a specimen, “The waiter?” He clears his throat like he's giving a speech. “He's thinking that he's only got three more hours until he can go home and look at porn on the Internet. He loves the job, but looking down into all this cleavage every night is giving him calluses and draining his bank account from purchasing so much of extra tissue.” When he stops, he shows me his perfectly straight teeth in the cheesiest grin.

  “Ben, that's better!” He's either been practicing or just better under pressure. “Do the lady with the fur. Do her next.”

  This is when our server returns with hot rolls and our salads.

  “Excuse me,” I say to the stick-thin guy with a Freddie Mercury mustache. What a bad time for him to show up. When he walks away, Ben continues playing my ridiculous game.

  “She's easy. She’s wondering if she can still make brunch with Kiki and Trixy after her ass bleaching on Tuesday.” He slaps his leg. Apparently that even surprised him. He can't help but cough his laughter into submission. Sweat beads on his forehead as he takes a sip of his wine.

  “Yeah, that's it. See? It's fun.” He makes me laugh, too. I'm aware of how juvenile it is. I know it's not nice to make fun of other people, but they'll never know and it's all just pretend. It makes me happy that he's playing along. And that he's kicking major fictional ass.

  It makes me wonder if—or when—I go completely blind if he won't play the game for me. So I ask, following our trip rules.

  “Ben, promise you'll play this when I can't see them anymore. You'll do it for me. Won't you?” I'm not trying to be sappy or darken the mood, but it would make me feel better to know.

  He's the one who called himself my boyfriend.

  “I'll do it. I promise.” The green in his eyes dances. “I like you better outside of New York.”

  “That's sweet,” I banter back sarcastically. “Any particular reason?”

  “I don't know. You’ve just been different since we left. Different, but familiar. Just don't stop when we get back.”

  We shake on our deal. He'll give me random made-up play-by-plays of perfect strangers and I'll keep running my mouth. That's a win.

  Ben and I eat the best steaks on this side of the world. The portions are just right. I'm utterly satisfied and not too full to get my dance on with my new boyfriend.

  “Do you want to dance, Tatum?” My eyes keep drifting to the dance floor that further fills with each new song the band performs. “You keep looking. Come on.”

  Together, we claim a place by the stage, and just like before, we melt into one solid being. Ben leads like he's been professionally trained.

  “You're a great dancer,” I say, complimenting him.

  “My mother was a dancer. She taught me.” He doesn't speak much of his parents, usually telling stories about his grandparents or his friend Keith. I think I would like all of them. Hungry for more information, I let him continue. “Her and my father used to dance all the time when I was a kid.”

  “That's nice. My parents danced a lot too, only they just stood there shaking their shoulders without moving their feet. You can't really choreograph moves to a Grateful Dead album.”

  He huffs, chortling. “They really are hippies, aren't they?”

  My head nods a big yes. “Pot and all. They don't look as hippie-like in their older age as they did when we were kids, but you'll be able to tell. My mom’s hair has never been colored and it's platinum silver. She's really pretty, and her skin looks bette
r than mine. My dad had a beard the last time I saw him. He has glasses now, so that helps make him look more normal I think. You'll change your mind when you hear him talk though. It's a wonder that Cooper and I don't call everyone 'man' and 'dude' because he does.”

  “My parents smoked pot, too. I think.” This is news. I always thought that we were the only kids with pothead parents.

  “They did? I'm a little shocked,” I confess.

  “Not a lot, but I think they did every once in a while.” He squints, remembering.

  “Huh? That's a weird thing to have in common.”

  “It's kinda how I knew about the job,” he says and stops there.

  A revelation.

  I try to keep my cool. He's about to let me know how he knew about the job opening. I've been dying to know for so long, but now I realize that it really doesn't matter. I hardly care anymore.

  Still, curiosity blooms within me. “Oh? How's that?”

  “I know someone who said that you had some sight issues and might be needing some help. And I have experience with that. Both my mother and father are blind.”

  “Both of them?” I stomp my feet and halt our dance. My hands grasp his biceps for balance. I look into his eyes. “Why didn't you say anything?”

  “I thought it would make you mad. I don't know. I didn't think you'd like it. I didn't want you to close me off.”

  Ouch. He's probably right though. There is worry and insecurity in his eyes. He kisses my head tenderly, holding me tighter as we speak quietly face to face.

  “Wow. Is that why you spent so much time with your grandparents?” I'm stunned. I knew that there had to be a reason that he always spoke of them going places and doing things that typically parents would do with their kids, but I never thought it would be this. I bet they did smoke pot.

  “Yeah. My parents did what they could, or what they thought they could, but my Moo...grandma and grandpa did a lot,” he explains quietly, setting us into motion again.

  “That must have been an interesting house to grow up in. How did they manage? You said you have a brother right? Where was he?” I'm helpless to stop myself from firing so many questions.