by Jamie Shupak
Then my phone vibrates, letting me know I have a Google alert in my email. I’m sure it’s just a reposting of my column to Level’s Facebook page or something. A lot of times I get multiple alerts on the days we publish. When I click to open it, I see it’s a Banter post. Of course Ben has to get in on the action and write about my column. I need the full effect, so I fire up my laptop and nervously click the title of his blog post.
GUILIANA LAYNE: LOOKING AT A FORK IN THE ROAD
By Ben Abrams
Everyone’s favorite rail and road girl might be thinking about a new career path now that her dating column is getting a record number of hits for Level. Her latest installment, about texting under the influence, has more than 200 comments and is creating quite the stir not only here at Banter, but across the blogosphere, and even at some city newspapers, too. We hear rumblings that the Toast might be offering her a write-in advice column, and that Miss Layne has been talking to literary agents about writing a novel based on her life. Looks like she’s living up to her column name and really Getting Around Town. Hey Guiliana, we hope you don’t leave NYNN. We don’t want anyone else telling us about the delays on the L train every morning. Put your foot on the brake and stay where you are!
I could kill Ben! Literary agents? The Toast? Leaving NYNN? Where does he get this stuff? I peck into my messages and text him.
I HOPE YOU’RE READY TO HIRE ME WHEN YOUR POST GETS ME FIRED.
One new text message from Bantering Ben.
TO BE MY SEX SLAVE?
GOD, YOU SOUND LIKE YOUR CREEPO BOSS. IS THIS WHAT I GET FOR NOT TEXTING YOU BACK THE OTHER NIGHT?
One new text message from Bantering Ben.
DINNER TONIGHT AND ALL WILL BE FORGIVEN, EXCEPT THAT COMMENT ABOUT MY BOSS. I JUST WORK FOR THE SCUMBAG—I’M NOTHING LIKE HIM.
If he only knew, I think as I write back to confirm dinner. Just then my phone rings, and I’m hoping it’s Ocean because I still haven’t heard back from him since New Year’s, save for a text promising that “S’all good, I’ll call you soon, angel.” The sweetness rolls off his tongue with such ease. I could get used to that sort of name-calling. But no, it’s not him; it’s Jason, my agent.
“Jason, hi,” I half mumble, admittedly a bit disappointed.
“Are you sleeping? It’s your naptime, isn’t it? Sorry Guils, but we need to talk.”
“Sure,” I say, worriedly holding my breath. “What’s up?”
“Well, NYNN think you planted that Banter post because you’re unhappy and you want to leave the station.” He pauses to let the words soak in, then continues. “Now, I know you didn’t do that. I know you’d never do something that,” he says, sounding like my dad, laying the guilt on thick.
“No, no I didn’t. And I don’t wanna leave. I love writing the column, but I haven’t thought about choosing one or the other. Wait, do I have to choose?”
“No, you can keep writing. Maryann and Joe aren’t thrilled that you’re covering sex instead of transportation, but it seems to be driving traffic back to the station.” He pauses and my heart shifts from neutral to drive. “They know people are watching for you, G, so here’s their offer: If you’ll consider dropping the column, they’ll give you a three-minute entertainment news roundup each morning, just like you used to talk about doing. And they’re going to pay you more for it too.”
“Wow, Jason. I really don’t want to give up the column. I love writing. But my own segment? And more money? What did you tell them?”
“I said I’d talk to you about it. I reminded them how much you love NYNN and working with Eric, but that the traffic hasn’t been enough for you. So I proposed we figure out a way that you could spread your wings a little, and they bit.”
“Jason, thanks! I mean, this is great but I need a little time to think it through—when do I have to let them know?”
“I said early next week—is that enough time for you?”
“Definitely.”
I hang up feeling slightly bewildered. My own entertainment segment? It’s not the hard news I tried (but failed at) in Miami, but it’s a step up from the traffic. Stanley Smith’s face the day he fired me comes floating into my mind, and then I can’t help it—I start to beam. Immediately I text Ben to see if he wants to meet up now instead of waiting for dinner later. I’m not ready to celebrate with Gemma—or do anything with Gemma yet—so Ben is the perfect person, because I know he’ll be excited for me. Plus he’ll have some great insight and advice on my dilemma—this, and the Jake Spears freaking on my best friend fiasco. I know it’s his boss, but for some reason, somewhere along the road, I started to trust him. And perhaps it was his posts that helped spur a major promotion for me, so he should be the one to help celebrate. He quickly agrees to the change in plans, so I jump in the shower, dry my hair, throw on some makeup and a cute dress, and head out the door.
I don’t see him when I walk into Dos Caminos, so I grab a seat at the bar and order two Patron gimlets on the rocks. The handful of times we’ve hung out, Ben always drinks whatever I’m drinking, which I find simultaneously unmanly and endearing. It’s the same way I feel about a lot of what he does. Like when I didn’t feel well and he showed up at my place an hour later with three different kinds of soup. It was obviously very thoughtful and generous, but at the same time I wanted to tell him, Don’t just run over here. You should at least pretend that you have other things going on. Play hard to get; don’t play “boyfriend.” Just then, Ben barrels into the bar and flops down on the stool next to mine.
“Got here as fast as I could,” he says, gasping for air as he situates himself. We kiss on the cheek, and I put my hand on his shoulder to try and get him to relax. He’s always all wound up.
“Cheers,” I say and motion for him to clink my glass. I don’t even wait for him to take off his coat. “I don’t know if it was your post or what, but NYNN wants to give me my own segment. Like my very own entertainment news roundup!”
“Guils! That’s fantastic news, congratulations.”
“Thanks! I mean, there’s a catch—they want me to do it in exchange for not writing the column anymore—but Jason my agent says he can probably swing a way for me to do both. I dunno, what do you think?”
“I think that’s so exciting. I’m so happy for you.” We guzzle down our drinks and order a second round. “That texting column, man, that was hilarious. You really did that? Those texts were real?”
I nod, hanging my head in shame. He puts his hand on my chin to pick it up and we both start cracking up. I like his hand there, on my face. I belly laugh so hard I snort, and we both erupt into even more boisterous laughter. The whole bar is now looking at us, but we don’t care. Ben takes his phone out and holds it in front of us, snapping our picture. He starts typing something and barely a minute later my phone buzzes.
One new message from Twitter.
@BanteringBen: WHAT’S SO FUNNY, @GuilianaLayne?
“Ben! You tweeted the picture of us?”
“Why not, it’s cute. You look so happy. Retweet that shit.”
“I will, I will. But wait, I have a crazy story for you.”
“Hold on, are you still hanging out with the guy whose texts you posted? J-something?”
“Nah, never called or texted again.”
“His loss,” Ben says. He’s looking earnestly into my eyes now, and that feeling I had when he was just touching my chin is back. It feels different with him now, and it’s making me nervous, so I change the subject. “Tell me about your New Year’s. You said you were with people I know?”
“Well I went to Jake’s place first. He apparently went to your party later, which we need to discuss …”
“That’s the crazy story!” I say, interrupting him. “He made out with Gemma!”
“Wait, HER?” He’s confused and now I’m confused. “But he said he’s a huge fan of YOURS. Um, if I recall—every part of yours.”
“Yeah, he made that explicitly clear to me, too. But I guess he saw
an opening with her first.”
“Jesus, that guy.” Ben shakes his head and stirs the melting ice in his drink. “He’s been an absolute nightmare ever since his wife threatened to leave him. I don’t know why she doesn’t just do it, but apparently women like that bad-boy shit.”
“Not me,” I interject. “I like to create all my own problems. It’s easier to keep track of them that way.”
Ben laughs and continues his story. “Anyways, Jake was having some married people party so I wanted to swing by there and get it out of the way. Then I went and met my boys at the Electric Room, you know that new spot underneath the Dream Downtown? They wanted me to meet this girl—everyone’s been talking about her lately, and I think you might know her—Sloane Riley?”
“Sloane Smiley Riley?” I say it with so much sarcasm he thinks I’m jealous.
“That’s the one.” He’s smiling. Like, big-time. “So you know her.”
“You want a clickfest for Banter? I have intel that the Madonna-esque beauty mark on her face is fake. One of my old anchor friends has it on ‘very good authority’ that she draws it on every morning,” I say triumphantly. It always made me feel better about her general superiority, that is, until Stanley Smith gave her the general assignment job permanently and gave me the boot.
“So anyways,” Ben says, trying to pull me out of my premature catfight, “I met her and we got to talking …” I’m starting to shake. I don’t like where this is going. “The place was loud and we left.”
“‘We left’? What do you mean ‘we left’?” I try not to sound like I care too much. I don’t even know why I do. This is Bantering Ben we’re talking about here; we’re friends. Our next round of gimlets arrives, but I can’t drink it. I’m choking.
“Yeah, we. It was too loud and crazy in there, so we actually went to Corsino, ‘cause I knew it was close by from when I met you there. We got some food, some wine …” he trails off, realizing he doesn’t want to finish the story. Even though I think I want to know, the thought of the two of them in Corsino makes me raging mad inside. Do I like this guy? No way, it’s Ben, I tell myself. But I know what’s coming next, and for some reason I want to throw up. I don’t know why it’s making me so upset—maybe I’m drunk. But I’ve only had two gimlets. Maybe I should leave. I don’t even know why I trust him. If I say or do anything strange, he’ll write another Banter post about it.
“You okay Guils?” he asks, sensing my discomfort.
“Yeah, I just asked you for advice, you know? That’s it. I thought you’d have some insight about navigating this whole traffic or writing thing. Or even a little help with the Gemma-Jake thing.” Forget pretending not to care.
“Okay.” He looks slightly hurt—like he listened to the whole Greg Advertising sex story that day, so I should listen to this. “Well, if you want my advice, I think you should keep writing. You’re talented, and people are responding.”
Armed with his small but serious tidbit of advice, I motion the bartender for our check. Ben grabs for his wallet and shoos me away.
Outside, he offers to walk me home, but I tell him I’ll be fine. Maybe it’s the tequila or maybe it’s the guilt he feels from telling his Sloane Riley story, I don’t know, but when he goes in for the requisite goodbye hug, he doesn’t let go. He’s saying something about how everyone is supposed to hug for at least three minutes a day, that it’s good for their mental health or something, but I’m not really listening because my face is buried in his chest and I’m too busy breathing in the warmth from his wool sweater. His arms, his chest, his whole body wrapped around mine makes me feel safe and at ease. I don’t want him to let go, or even loosen his grip. He’s still talking, but I hear nothing. It’s like I’m in an underwater paradise where I know there’s a whole world of drama and conversation happening aboveground—I can hear it, faintly, in the distance. But I choose to ignore it, at least for the moment, and continue gliding in the bliss of the water.
Finally, he loosens his grip, and I look up at him. Our eyes meet in that same serious way they did when he told me it was J-Baker’s loss for not calling or texting me again. I can see his breath as he exhales into the frigid air. I sniffle from the cold and I can feel a tear form in the corner of my eye as my body starts to shake. He reaches his thumb to the tear, wiping it away, and then pulls me in closer. This time instead of burying my face into his chest, I hold his gaze. We linger like that for a moment as we exchange a knowing smile.
Everything inside me begins to warm up and then, finally, he leans in and kisses me.
CHAPTER 23
The power of that kiss propels me through the next few grueling days at work getting my new “Gossip with Guils” segment off the ground. I still haven’t talked to Ben, but I know we’re on the same page—that the moment our lips connected, it felt right. I can’t believe I was just rolling my eyes at his lightning-fast soup delivery a few weeks ago. It’s like he’s slowly chipping away at these strong Berlin-type walls I’ve put up. Maybe I can like someone again. Maybe I can embrace the affection of another man again. Maybe I’ve had a legitimate change of heart. I’ve wanted to text, or call, or even tweet at him, but I’m waiting for him to make the first move. When security calls up to my traffic studio that someone’s here to see me—and I’m not expecting anyone—I think it has to be him. Maybe he brought flowers! Maybe he brought me lunch! Maybe he just wants to sneak me outside for a few minutes and make out again!
I race down the stairs to the elevators by security and put all my body weight into the door. I almost fall to the ground as it opens, so it’s the shoes I notice first, which definitely don’t belong to Ben. These are shiny brown wingtips that I know, as I trace them up the perfectly hemmed trousers to the crisp, pale pink shirt with starched collar, belong to none other than V-Dub.
“Um, hey.” I try to sound pleasantly surprised. “V-Dub!” There, that’s better. “What brings you here?”
“Can I come in?” he asks shyly.
I lead him back to my studio, where we can sit and talk privately. He sits down opposite me, and I can’t help but notice that he looks tired. He looks lost. He looks the way I looked after JR and I broke up.
“I’m a mess, Guils.” I remember saying the same thing to him just five months earlier. As I think about the comfort he gave me then, when I needed it most, I am struck by the passage of time—and how five months can suddenly seem like five minutes ago. As I enter what feels like a vivid daydream—sitting on Gemma’s couch, poring over every detail of their affair that we could piece together—he continues to talk. “I miss her. You’re the only one who knows. You’re the only one who would understand. And I couldn’t show up at your place, or even text or call you, in case she was with you …”
“No, no, stop V-Dub,” I finally interrupt. “No need to explain anything.” I inch my chair closer to his and grab for his hands. I can’t remember what he told me that day after JR and I broke up, but I will never forget the way he made me feel. I didn’t want to hear that it was going to be okay. I didn’t want to hear that I was better off without him. I didn’t want to hear how I deserved better. I just wanted to know someone was there—to listen, to hold my hand, to let me cry—so I offer him that same small respite. “I’m here,” I say, trying to look and sound the part of confident captain of the ship. I hate it when people look at me with sad eyes, like my dog just died, so I refuse to ever do the same.
“It’s over, isn’t it?” He doesn’t have to cry for me to know how sad he is. “I don’t wanna put you in a weird spot, but has she said anything to you?”
If he only knew. I wish I could tell him everything—about Jake, how she needs to get some stuff out of her system, and how we haven’t spoken because of all of it—but I can’t. I wish I could tell him that everything will be okay if he just gives it some time. But that’s the thing with time—it’s such a bitch when you’re waiting for something, or someone. Every minute is grueling, like the ticking-clock introduction to 60 Mi
nutes, where you can feel each passing second. The difference in how time passes when you’re happy versus sad is as stark as the contrast of driving across the George Washington Bridge at 3 AM and 3 PM.
I don’t want to give him false hope. I don’t want to perpetuate the deceit. Though the crazy part—the sad part, really—is that I don’t even know what actually happened between Gemma and Jake Spears. I may never know the truth. There’s something so forever damaging, so forever corrosive to a relationship in not knowing. It’s why the breakup with JR was so painful—because I didn’t know what happened between Courtney and him, and I was engaged to the guy. I’ll never know what happened with those two. That’s the thing about lying—people are left to construct their own truths, which are typically far more painful and self-deprecating. I refuse to let V-Dub suffer from that same did-they-or-didn’t-they level of internal questioning.
“You have to move on,” I finally manage. I know it hurts, I can see it in his posture, as he slowly crumbles into his chair like a burning piece of paper in a fireplace.
As he nods, I notice in my peripheral vision a flurry of new emails appearing in my inbox. I swivel my chair back toward my computer and there it is: a Google alert pointing to a Banter post. Finally, the communication I’ve been waiting for from Ben. I click the link, and of course he had to write about my profile in the Toast that came out earlier today. Everyone hopes for a profile in the Herald, the “paper of record,” but this is a huge—and fun—first step in the right direction. Maybe Bantering Ben was right and the Toast does want me to work for them. But I’m not thinking of that as I breeze through the headline of the Banter post—I’m thinking of the subliminal way he’s going to write that he loves me in this post.
Single Lady Lair: The Toast Peeks Under the Hood of NYNN Trans-It Girl, Guiliana Layne
by Todd Greene
Todd Greene? Wait, where’s Ben? This is his beat! I’m his beat! Why is Todd Greene writing about me? I pause my narcissistic thoughts to read.