by Jamie Shupak
“That wasn’t her dad at dinner last night. Her dad died a few months ago.”
If this were a boxing match, the underdog just sucker-punched the world champion in the gut at the end of the last round, knocking him to the ground. The crowd, wild just a few seconds ago, falls silent. We’re standing in the middle of a busy pedestrian plaza at the top of the Meatpacking District with people, dogs, food carts, and cabs buzzing around us—but the silence between us is pulsing.
“Well, obviously I had no idea, and I’m sorry,” I say, moving my sunglasses from my face to on top of my head so he can see the sincerity in my eyes. “I never would have …”
“Oh please, Guiliana. You’re out to get her. You’re out to get me,” he says, cutting me off midapology. He’s on a mission, a rant, and he won’t be happy until he chews me up like a hungry pit bull. “Don’t bother pretending that you’re sorry, or that you care. We all know how you feel. We all read your eloquent post about texting under the influence. It’s all fun and games for you, and why would anyone actually like another human being and want to be in love?”
“Ben, whoa whoa whoa,” I say, holding both hands in the air, signaling him to stop in his tracks. “First of all, I am sorry if I upset her with the dad comment in my segment. I honestly had no idea. I would never attack someone like that—come on, you know me better than that.”
“I thought I did. But I also thought we were friends.” He pauses, and when he speaks again his voice is a lot quieter. “I know that night was a mistake, the kiss …” He trails off. “But a mistake we would laugh about together, privately, the next day. You never called …”
I never called? “Ben, I was waiting for you to call. Come on,” I say, giving his shoulder a slight nudge with my fist. I’m trying to remind him that it’s me—not this horrible version of me that Sloane Smiley Riley has concocted for him. I go back to the segment, trying to show him I’m genuinely sorry and that he has no reason to be upset. “The gossip stuff is pure entertainment. It’s all fun and games—not real life. If anyone knows that, it’s you!”
“Exactly, Guils.” Well at least he’s back to the friendlier, more comfortable version of my name. I wait for more as he scuffs the pavement with the toe of his boots. “It just really upset me that you never bothered to text or call. You just went on with your life as normal, writing columns and telling stories for kicks and clicks.”
“Kettle, meet pot,” I say, smirking. He has got to be kidding me. “That’s the founding principle of your entire company—your entire being! You write about me and people like me every day, with those same intentions!” Unbelievable. The peddler of smut is playing the morality card.
“It’s the lies, Guils.” Oh, here we go. “It’s the inaccuracies and the exaggerations that I don’t get down with. And that’s not you anyway—you’re not insecure, you should try just telling the truth.” What is he even saying? Insecure? As I mentally try to process his line of argument, he keeps on preaching. “And then you call me and say congratulations about Sloane and me. I know you don’t mean that. I know you hate her. She told me about Miami, how you blame her for losing your job. And you told everyone her mole was fake? Unbelievable, G, and you expect me to think you’re not out to get her now? I’m not buying it.”
“I don’t give a shit if you believe it, Ben. It’s the truth!” I’m furious. “Tell Sloane I’m sorry about her dad. My spy gave me bad intel, and I am sorry about that too.” I’m so angry, I’m panting. But I’m not done. Now I’m punching back, knowing I’m going to knock the wind out of him. “Oh, and don’t worry about me spreading any more of my rumors, ’cause I’m getting surgery and I’ll be out of commission for a few weeks.”
“Wait, really? When? You’re going through with it?” His face relaxes and pivots to a more concerned expression. “What did Doctor S. say?”
I feel my face relax too. “Well, he was wondering where you were, first of all. I told him about your new girlfriend and how you found love in a hopeless place … and wanted all of your hundred-thousand-plus Twitter followers to know.” I look up at him and he’s smiling, blushing even—like I caught a kid kissing his first girlfriend behind the back of the junior high school.
“It’s not what you think, G.”
“Oh, I think it’s exactly what I think.” Punch number two, landed—square on the jawline. “But yeah, I’m getting surgery. They’re going to fuse the two discs together and I’ll be in bed for about two weeks, out of work for three. My mom’s coming up to stay with me, so that’ll be nice, at least.”
“Wow, I can’t believe it.” There’s an awkward silence as the earlier rage mixes with the new vibe of concern. Now our conversation is much more like the low hum of traffic passing us on the corner—cabs idling in front of Chelsea Market, then slowly accelerating as they pick up passengers. “I’m happy you’re gonna get it taken care of, though,” he finally says. He leans in to hug me. “I have to run back to the office, but email me the details for your surgery—where, when—I want to come check on you.” I smile and hug him back.
“Sweet of you to say, but you don’t have to, Ben. You know how horrible the cell service is in the hospital. How will Sloane see your song lyric tweets?”
“Always breaking my balls, Guils,” he says, but I can tell he’s changed his tone. He’s not mad anymore; he’s smiling. “I don’t know why I let you get away with it.”
CHAPTER 27
I know Gemma’s home styling a new ad campaign that Dylan Pierce hired her for, so I head straight to her place before going home to mine for a nap. The promotions for Runaway ended after the record opening weekend at the box office—no more talk show appearances or fancy cocktail parties for him to need her by his side. But there’s always something when you’re a young hot celebrity. And now it’s some cologne thing or maybe a car commercial—who can remember? She was sending me pictures all morning of the looks she’s styling for him, and I told her I’d come check them out, give her a final seal of approval. And wait until she hears about this whole Bantering Ben fight.
I’m looking—where else?—down at my iPhone when the elevator door opens on her floor. I’ve done this walk so many times it’s become as much of a habit as putting away my toothbrush after using it. I can literally do it with my eyes closed. I’m not paying attention—I don’t need to pay attention—so I’m shaken out of my deep Twitter blur when a guy comes flying around the corner and smacks into me.
Ouch.
My phone tumbles to the ground and I have that weird tingling sensation that my nose—or even my whole face—is broken. But alas, as I gently bring my fingers to the bridge of my nose and wiggle everything around, I realize it’s all still there.
“Guils,” a familiar voice says. “How did she already tell you?”
I grab my phone and look up, ready to annihilate whoever just bodychecked me. But it’s V-Dub. “Already tell me what?”
“That I did it. I ended it, once and for all,” he says, and I recognize a familiar triumph on his face. It’s how I imagine I looked the day I left that blank Post-it on the counter for JR in our old apartment. It’s that feeling of pride, that feeling of confidence, that feeling of “I’m not going to take this person’s shit anymore.” But wait—that person he’s talking about is my best friend.
“Wow, good for you,” I say, and I mean it. “But how is she?” I ask, and I mean that too.
“She’s definitely upset. I’m glad you’re here—but how did you know?”
“I didn’t,” I say, looking down at my phone as it vibrates. She’s texting me now. “I was coming to tell her about Ben, and see the looks for Dyl—”
“I’m so glad I never have to hear that guy’s name again,” he says, and I know exactly what he means. “I thought things could be different with us. I wanted things to be different with us. But watching you, G, and how strong you’ve become—and how much happier you are now—I knew what I had to do.”
I smile, thinking about the p
arallels. I have a lot in common with V-Dub—more than either of us, or Gemma for that matter, would ever care to admit. I have a tendency not only to see the best in everyone, but also to assume that everyone is emotionally capable of reaching his or her highest potential. It’s how I was born. It’s how I was raised. It’s how I’m always going to be. JR loved telling me that I should try “taking off my rose-colored glasses once in a while,” so I could stop seeing the best in people and see them for who they really are. He said he was just trying to protect me. And turns out, I desperately needed the protection. But what he was really doing was trying to change me—and you can’t change someone’s DNA.
“You did the right thing,” I say, wrapping my arms around him to give him the strongest, tightest hug I can manage. I’m glad he like me refuses to be the victim of his own optimism anymore. “I better go check on her, but take care.”
He pushes the elevator button, and before I turn towards Gemma’s apartment, I give V-Dub one last look. It’s the same look you gave your high school boyfriend when you saw him years later at a reunion—it’s pleasant in a smile-with-your-eyes kind of way. It’s gracious and warming. And although neither of you knows if you’ll ever see each other again, you know you’ll never forget ’em. And with that, I head to my best friend down the hall.
A little more than three weeks later, the roles are reversed, and now Gemma’s at the hospital, consoling me after surgery. No one tells you this, but they don’t let you sleep in hospitals. Ever since I put it on my calendar, I’ve been telling everyone how excited I am to finally get some rest. I pictured myself in a drug-induced euphoria, sleeping all hours of the day, only waking up to go to the bathroom or take more medicine. Man, was I wrong. The doctors come in to check on me every morning just after six, then as soon as I’m halfway back to dreamland, a team of nurses comes barging in to check my vitals and offer me all kinds of help. What would help is to let me sleep, but that’s not happening with their constant nagging. “Would you like us to sponge you down, Miss Layne?” “Would you like us to sit you up a bit so you can eat your lunch?” “The doctor would like us to readjust your back brace and redress the wound. It’ll just take a few minutes.”
Between their hourly annoyances and the tentaclelike swarm of tubes, needles and IVs going into my arms and hands, this is about the least relaxed I’ve ever been. Mom is here too, but she’s down the hall talking with the nurses about my physical therapy, or more likely which cute doctors are single. So Gemma curls up next to me in bed and opens my laptop so we can scroll through Twitter and Instagram together. I do need to think of a topic for my next column, but that can wait. I’m off from NYNN for three weeks, but I didn’t want to take a break from the writing. No one has to know that the woman dishing out dating advice is in a hospital bed, jockeyed up on a morphine drip, sporting a blue gown and unwashed hair. I have no makeup on either, and I even had to take the nail polish off my fingers and toes before surgery so they could properly check the level of oxygen in my blood while I was under anesthesia. If you put me on a poster for underprivileged, malnourished children right now, people would donate in record numbers.
First she pulls up emails from Jake, and then I pull up matching ones. This guy is unbelievable, sending us basically identical dirty emails. We shrug our shoulders and laugh. Then to continue our hike down the path of disgust, as girls often do, we pull up Ben and Sloane’s Twitter feeds for some intense stalking. They’re both littered with song lyrics and pictures mentioning each other, and I can’t help but think that this is what JR and I were like in the beginning of college when we first got together. Couples are only attached at the hip with such force, so desperate to show off their love for one another, when they’re too scared to be apart.
I can’t tell if it’s a little heartache I’m feeling or everything’s a bit dramatized by the heavy drugs I’ve been given, but my eyes are feeling heavy and my whole body is tensing up. I send Gemma out to retrieve my mom from her gossiping so I can be left alone. The IV in my arm, meant to bring me relief, starts to hurt. I’m supposed to stay still in my brace, but I can’t help but curl up into a ball as best I can, trying to hug my knees to my chest. They don’t quite make it all the way so instead, I just roll onto my side, away from the door. I don’t want anyone seeing or talking to me right now. I can hear the door squeak open and before the nurse starts talking, I quickly shoot her down.
“I’m okay. Can you please come back later with my next round of medicine?”
“It’s not time for your next round yet, sweetie.” Mom? I wanted Gemma to rescue her from the nurses’ station, but not bring her back to me. “You have a visitor.” I can feel her disappear and someone else materialize in her place. I squeeze my eyes shut as quickly as I can. Maybe if I can pretend I’m sleeping, whoever it is will leave me alone.
“You must be Mrs. Layne.” Ben. No way. “I could tell from a mile away. You look like you could be Guiliana’s older sister.” I can’t believe he’s here. Now I’m pretending I’m in a coma.
“Aw, you’re too sweet,” my mom says coyly, almost flirting. “I didn’t catch your name, though.”
“I’m Ben. Is she …”
“She’s great. Guils, my love. Turn around and say hi to your friend!”
This is a fucking nightmare. I slyly try to wipe any remnants of crust in my eyes onto the rough, strawlike surface of the hospital pillowcase and slowly flip around onto my back. I conjure a small smile, eyes half-open, pretending to have just woken up from a long, drug-induced slumber.
“How you feeling, Guils?” he asks in a delicate voice. He’s smiling down on me. If this were a romantic comedy, this would be the scene where he’d wipe the sweaty wisps of hair out of my eyes and tuck them behind my ears. He’d lean in for a sweet, sensual kiss and tell me that Sloane never meant anything to him and that I’m the one he’s always wanted and could I please forgive him and I’d skip off into the distance holding his hand, for happily ever after. But it’s not. We’re in room 22A of the Soho Medical Center and he’s still in love with Sloane, as evidenced by the matching Instagrams Gemma and I just stalked of their romantic walk across the Brooklyn Bridge last night. I’ve never walked across the Brooklyn Bridge.
“I’m doing alright,” I manage to get out. I try to sound a little worse than I really am, again trying to give him every reason to believe that I look this way because this is how someone in surgical recovery should look.
“Well, you look great. Honestly, so much better than I expected. And here,” he says, swinging his arm out from around his back. “I brought you these.” A beautiful bouquet of brightly colored orange and pink flowers are shoved in my face. I take a deep breath, inhaling their fresh scent. He brought me flowers.
I can’t remember the last time a guy got me flowers.
“Wow, thanks. You didn’t have to.”
“I know. I wanted to though,” he says, softly pushing my legs up towards me. “Can I squeeze in here?” he asks, as he sits down at the edge of my hospital bed. Mom comes and grabs the flowers from me and leans her head out the door, asking the nurse for a vase to put them in. Ben and I look at each other and smile. No need to address anything. Not what happened in my gossip segment, or our fight in the middle of the street by my office, or his stroll across the East River with Sloane last night. It’s understood that, for at least this moment, none of that matters.
As Mom sets the flowers up next to my bed, the two of them engage in a flurry of conversation about everything from television news to what he thinks about my column. Once she’s properly grilled him about Banter, she asks him about his family, where he’s from, and where he lives now. He handles her inquisition with grace, always referring to her as Mrs. Layne and always looking directly in her eyes with a smile on his face. He’s dishing out some potent Kool-Aid, and she’s guzzling it down. In fact, it’s dripping from both sides of her mouth, making it so obvious that she’s into him, I try and sneak a look her way that tells her to chil
l a little bit. But that’s not her style. Never has been, never will be. Just then, Gemma comes sliding in through the doorframe.
“Mama Layne, I looked all over for you,” she says, clearly out of breath. She looks over at me, with Ben at my feet, and smiles. “You must be the infamous Bantering Ben.”
“And you, the other famous G,” he says, looking genuinely excited to meet her. It’s astounding to me that the two of them hadn’t crossed paths until now. “Here,” he says, digging for my laptop to make room, “you come sit here instead.”
“No, no. I’m fine on the chair over here,” she says, grabbing the arms and inching it closer to us.
“Wait, what is this doing here anyway?” he asks, grabbing the laptop that’s nestled beneath my legs. “You’re off. You’re supposed to be resting.”
“I’m off from NYNN, but I really want to get ahead on my next Level column. Want to look at some of the ideas I’ve written down? Maybe you can help me with this one, make sure I don’t say anything untrue and hurt anyone’s feelings.”
“Oh, she’s feeling just fine, Mrs. Layne,” he says, turning back towards my mom. “She’s got jokes!”
“I was showing her some of the people I want to work with for Blush’s style awards,” Gemma butts in, trying to save me from the truth—that we were totally cyberstalking him and Sloane. Blush magazine is the one women’s fashion magazine that every girl I know still subscribes to—the hard-copy version, not virtually on the iPad—because we need to literally touch and hold the stunning ad campaigns they publish. Their annual awards show this year is featuring women in media, so I need to make sure I’m better by then, because I’m obviously hoping—praying—that I get a coveted invite.
“No, seriously,” I say, opening up my laptop. “I would love your help.” I open up the Word document where I keep a list of possible topics and realize I better quickly X out my open tabs, because I had Sloane’s Twitter profile open. I don’t want to get busted checking out all their back-and-forth tweets to one another and the pictures she’s posted. As I was saying: Stalker, much? I turn the laptop in Ben’s direction, and the light from the screen illuminates his face. I love when he lets a little stubble grow in; I always enjoy a little scruff. Just a little. Ben looks suuuuper hot, my mind slurs. Did I say that out loud? Must be the medicine I’m on, ’cause I want him so bad right now. Or maybe it’s just the longest dry spell I’ve had all year.