by Maria Monroe
"You look gorgeous, Lia," says Darren.
"You too," I respond. In his crisp black suit and those poignant grey-green eyes, he looks like a model. "I'm not used to seeing you so dressed up."
"Are you saying I'm usually a slob?" he asks, a playful twinkle in his eyes.
"Um, no?" I joke.
"Have you noticed my work-day attire getting messier and messier every day?" he asks.
I think about it. The first day he was wearing jeans and a nice shirt. Since then it's progressed to worn jeans and worn T-shirts. "Now that you mention it," I respond.
"I'm fucking with Connor," he says. "Seeing how far I can go before he says something."
"Is he a stickler for dress code?" I ask.
"He's a stickler for lots of things," answers Michelle. "But he'll choose something, focus on that for a few days, then forget it because he gets caught up in something else that's bothering him."
"Before dress code?" says Darren. "He was all about the Oxford comma and how we should no longer be using it."
“I feel very strongly about this topic,” says Michelle.
“Don’t get her started.” Darren rolls his beautiful eyes.
“Oxford comma. Yes or no?” she asks, looking at me with a face so serious I don’t think she’s joking.
“Um, I love the Oxford comma?” I respond, hoping it’s the right answer.
Michelle pretends to wipe anxious perspiration off her forehead and grins. "Thank god. If you'd said no, I couldn't hang out with you anymore."
"She’s seriously worse than Connor on this topic, just on the opposite side of the debate. Anyway, I think he's over the dress code thing too now," says Darren. "It makes it less fun to dress like a bum at work."
I realize Ben's been pretty silent as we've been talking about work, so I try to bring him into the conversation. "Where do you stand on the Oxford comma?" I ask him.
He grins, his teeth so perfect, his smile so adorably lovely. And he has dimples! I never noticed before how cute dimples are on a guy.
"Well, if I knew exactly what the Oxford comma was, I could probably answer your questions." He laughs lightly.
I force myself to laugh too. OK. So he's not a grammar snob, like I admit I can sometimes be. I can deal with that. Just because he doesn't know about the intricacies of a grammatical debate in the literary world, it doesn't mean he's not smart. I’m being totally judgmental.
"I promise to look it up tonight when I get home," he says, putting three fingers up in a Scout salute.
"Look, only weirdo writers are interested in grammar. I mean, who else would talk about something like that at a bar?" I tease him, hoping he doesn't feel bad.
"You?” he says, with a slight drawl, “Could make applied math sound interesting.” He seems totally confident, one hand casually resting in a pocket of his pants, the other holding his drink. From any other guy I'd just met that would sound like an annoying and obvious come-on, but somehow he says it with just enough humor that it's endearing and cute. And, I have to admit, more than a little hot.
I blush and smile. A glass of white wine has mysteriously appeared on the table in front of me, and I take a huge gulp. Michelle and Darren start gossiping about someone from work who I don't know yet, and usually I'd ask all kinds of questions, but instead I turn to my date, trying to think of something to talk about with him. Luckily, he starts the conversation first.
"So I hear you just moved back to Chicago," he says.
I nod. "I just graduated from college in Maine. I got a job here, and my parents live here, so I thought it was the perfect move. What about you?"
"I'm from Canada originally," says Ben. "I moved to the states with my family when I was in high school, and I played in the junior league. Then I got a scholarship to college. I just finished and was recruited by the Blackhawks."
"That's exciting," I say. "Honestly? I know pretty much nothing about sports. But it's so cool that you're doing what you love for a career."
"It is pretty awesome," he says shrugging, and I can't tell if his modesty is genuine or a little forced. Either way, those dimples make up for it, and I smile back.
There's a silence for a few seconds, and I search my mind for something to talk about before the quiet gets awkward.
"I'm really glad Michelle set us up tonight," he says before I freak about not having anything to say.
"Me too. I usually don't go on blind dates…"
"Me neither."
"But I decided to take a chance," I say.
His eyes stare into mine. They're so blue, and he's grinning a boyish smile. "I'm really glad you did."
Oh my. I look away from his heated gaze, feeling suddenly shy, and sip some more wine. Then I muster up some guts and take a step closer to him. Just a little. Not enough to make it seem like I'm actually making a move.
Maybe Ben could be it. The rebound guy that will help me finally get over Julian. Maybe it's time to lose my secondary virginity to someone, and maybe tonight's the night to do it. Yes, a part of my mind admits I’m trying too hard to conjure feelings too quickly. But I can’t help it. I’m desperate to get over Julian—I’m certainly past the cut-off where not being over someone turns pathetic—and Ben seems like the perfect guy for the job.
All four of us pile into the back of a cab for the short ride to the McCormick Place where the industry's formal is being held. I'm glad we have to squish together, because it gives me an excuse to sit extra close to Ben. I have a black velvet throw over my shoulders, but my legs are bare, and I can feel the smooth fabric of his pants against my skin.
I have so many mixed emotions right now as we head to the dinner. I'm excited about Ben, but when I think about Julian, about how he'll surely be there tonight with Scarlet, my heart pounds in a sickening way. And I feel like I'm going to throw up all over the place. It's depressing that I can be in the back of a cab with a super hot hockey player who, oh my god, is suddenly resting his palm on my thigh, and the biggest thing on my mind is my ex. Who's made it perfectly clear that he can't stand the sight of me anymore.
I grit my teeth. I am not going to let anything ruin my night. Or my new career, for that matter. I'm going to suck it up and have a good time, no matter what. I casually lean against Ben's arm, and he moves it around my shoulders. There. Much better.
The reception room is an overwhelming mix of sights and sounds. A huge chandelier hangs from the ceiling, and tables—dozens of them—are set with what looks like fine linens and sparkling glasses of water. Each table has a centerpiece, an overflowing arrangement of red flowers and green ivy, with a lit candle in the center. Everywhere I look are people dressed to the nines, women in a mix of sexy and fancy dresses, all the men in suits, mostly black. Voices mingle, overly cheerful small talk filling the air, laughter chiming like bells periodically. I try not to look too impressed—surely my coworkers and date have been to formal events like this before—but the only times I've been to something so fancy are the few weddings I've attended with my parents, and the awards ceremony at MUD when I graduated. And, of course, the awards ceremony I went to with Julian when he was graduating. I push that memory away, not wanting to relive that night, the one during which I found out he was accepting a lesser job so he could stay closer to campus. Closer to me. That night, I now know, was the beginning of the end for us, and I shudder involuntarily thinking about it.
Ben takes my arm by the elbow—so gentlemanly!—and with Michelle and Darren we head to the table with all the name cards to see where we've been assigned to sit. Our table—and all the others too, I notice—are stocked with bottles both of red wine and white wine, on ice.
"Wine?" asks Ben as we sit down.
"Sure. Red, please," I answer.
He pours the wine into my glass and does the same for Michelle, who's holding her glass out to him.
"What are you going to have?" I ask him.
"I think I'm going to hit the bar," he says, gesturing to the open and fully stocked bar
in the corner. "You interested, man?" He looks at Darren.
"Let's go," says Darren. He turns to us. "Be right back."
As soon as they disappear, Michelle looks around, like she's trying to make sure nobody can hear her, and says, "I told you he was a hottie, didn't I?"
"You did. And he is."
She adjusts the thick silver necklace she's wearing, takes a sip of wine, and gently swipes at the corners of her mouth like she's fixing up any makeup that might have gotten ruined. It is, of course, all flawless. "You're welcome," she says, raising an eyebrow and grinning at me.
"So it's not bad that he didn't know what the Oxford comma is, is it?" I ask.
"Shut. The fuck. Up. Are you serious, Lia?"
"What?"
"He's gorgeous. He looks like candy. And you don't need to know about grammar issues to be good in bed."
"Who says he's good in bed?" I look at her suspiciously.
"I told you I wouldn't give you my sloppy seconds," she says, with an exaggerated sigh. "But look at him. There's no way he's not an extremely good lay. Am I right?"
“You are, but who says I’m going to sleep with him anyway?”
I gaze over to the bar where he's holding a glass of amber liquid and ice. That suit fits over his huge muscles perfectly. He's smiling, now laughing, in a way that's made everyone around him look over and smile as well. There's something magnetic about him; it's true. Still, I can't help thinking about how Julian destroyed the literary trivia questions once when we were out at a bar. And I'm positive he not only knows what the Oxford comma is, but probably also has a strong feeling about it. There were so many things I loved about Julian, and his intelligence was a big one. But I'm not with Julian. And I won't be ever again. So there's no use thinking about him or comparing Ben to him.
"What are you thinking?" Michelle's tone is accusatory.
"Nothing."
"You're lying. Look. I know you're still hung up on Julian Barnes. It's so obvious that even Darren could tell, and he knows nothing about relationships. And I'm not saying Ben can replace Julian or take away your feelings. He can, though, be a lot of fun, I bet. And honestly? The only way to get over someone is to move on. With someone like Ben!" She sounds proud at that last part, like she somehow created him herself, out of thin air, just for me.
"You're right," I say. I take another sip of wine and resolve to give Ben a chance. A real one.
But all my good intentions and resolutions are voided instantly the second I see Julian.
Oh god. I thought Ben was hot. And he is, in an athletic, smiling, charismatic way. Julian? He's dark and brooding as he walks into the ballroom. Ben's suit covers an obviously huge and athletic build, whereas Julian's suit, also expertly tailored, shows off his lean and muscular body. He's not body-building big, but he's firm, his abs defined, his arms ripped. I remember when he was mine, when I could run my hands up and down those arms, across that tight stomach. It's agony to see him now and not be able to even talk to him, agony to know someone else gets to have that body whenever she wants it. I don't want to think about that. I don't want to care. But with sudden horror and dismay I realize I have absolutely no control over my thoughts when it comes to Julian. I was only fooling myself if I thought I did. Ben doesn't have a chance.
Julian stands still, surveying the room. Even from a distance I can tell those green eyes of his are sharp, intense, unwavering in their search until his gaze lands on me. And stops.
I freeze. My whole body goes still as I meet Julian's gaze. I wait for a nod of recognition if not a ghost of a smile, but he gives me neither. It's just his eyes, taking mine captive, so I couldn't look away even if I wanted to. I'm dimly aware of Michelle saying my name, then muttering "Oh shit" as she has, presumably, seen who's got my attention. But all I can do is stare back at Julian across the room while everything else—the clink of glasses, the laughter of party-goers, the sounds of people talking—fades away into nothing.
"Lia!" Michelle's shaking my arm, and I blink, shake my head briefly, and glance at her. Her brow is furrowed, her eyebrows slanted down in anger.
"What?" I ask, glancing back towards Julian. "Dammit," I whisper to myself, because now he's no longer looking at me. His arm is around Scarlet, his head bent down to her as she says something to him. He laughs, throwing his head back, and her face, tilted up to his, is so pretty and flawless. I want to look away, but it's impossible, like looking at a bad car accident even though you don't really want to see it, or looking up the symptoms you've got even though you know you'll inaccurately be told you're dying from a terrible and incurable disease.
"Lia!" Michelle repeats.
I swing my head around, glad to look away from Julian and his supermodel girlfriend, in that emerald green dress, tight, with a slit on one leg almost all the way up her thigh. The dress, I suddenly realize, is almost the exact color of Julian's eyes. Oh my god. This is the worst ever. I'm going to cry, I know I am, and I swallow hard and force my eyes to stay open so tears don't pool up in them.
"Stop," Michelle says strongly, but there's compassion in her voice too. "You can't do that to yourself. Just don't even look at them, OK?"
"OK," I mutter, but of course I know that's impossible.
"Are you all right? Do we need to go to the bathroom to freshen up?"
"No. I'm fine." I force a bright smile onto my face and pretend I'm strong enough to survive this night.
Dinner is scrumptious. It's not the usual chicken cordon bleu that looks exquisite and tastes all right and is shipped to every single banquet hall across the United States for big parties. We're served salads, ingredients so fresh it seriously seems like they were just picked in some rooftop garden, protected, somehow, from January's harsh weather. The bread is crusty on the outside, soft on the inside, and even the butter tastes different, fresher. Next we have lobster bisque, savory and buttery. And finally a filet, cooked to order or a vegetarian dish of freshly made ravioli in a basil cream sauce. The only problem is I have absolutely no appetite whatsoever, and just pick at my food, taking only a few bites; my stomach's in a knot, and I'm pretty sure my friends and date must think I'm a moron, because keeping track of the conversation at our table is all but impossible.
Luckily, Connor shows up just before dinner and provides an annoying but welcome distraction. He's actually decent looking, in a black suit and nice shirt and tie. His blond hair is slicked back like usual, but slightly less solid looking, and he approaches our table with a feigned confidence that makes me cringe in embarrassment. "Friends," he says. Then adds, "Romans. Countrymen."
We all force smiles at his weird Shakespearean greeting, completely apropos of nothing, which is a mistake because he continues: "Lend me your ear!"
"God, somebody stop him," whispers Michelle, and I have to fight down a giggle, but I feel a surge of compassion for him at the same time.
Luckily Darren stands. "Connor! It's great to see you!"
"Likewise. Likewise," says Connor, awkwardly sitting down.
"Are you here with . . .?" asks Michelle.
"Alone. I'm alone," says Connor, and I swear a slight blush shows up just under his weirdly orange tanned skin. "Too many choices! I decided to keep it simple and just come by myself."
"Smart man," says Ben, and I feel a rush of warmth toward him for jumping in to so quickly agree with Connor, saving him from more humiliation. It's weird, because though Connor’s weird and gross and inappropriate, I feel protective of him all of a sudden. I know what it's like to be the odd one out.
"Exactly why Darren and I came together," adds Michelle, nudging my leg with hers under the table.
"Well, it's a pleasure to meet you," Connor says to Ben, and the two men introduce themselves.
After we eat, servers unobtrusively clear our plates away, and a huge buffet table is filled with desserts. Ben nudges me with his arm. "I can never turn down dessert," he says to me, his dimply smile adorable. "Come with me to see what they've got?"
; I'm not hungry at all, even though normally I love desserts—I remember always eating pie at Sal's back in Deerfield—but I smile anyway. "Sure!" I say brightly, hiding the churning going on in my stomach. There’s no way I could eat right now.
Ben holds out his elbow for me to take, and I slide my arm through his. "You know," he says as we make our way to the dessert table, "I'm glad Michelle introduced us."
"Me too." I am. Or at least I would be. Except Julian. Like usual. Like always. Frustration makes me almost shaky as I think about how he's once again changed my entire life, but this time not in a good way.
"You seem sad, though. I won't pry. I just hope you're all right."
God, he's sweet. "I'm fine," I say. "Just feeling quiet today."
"Nothing wrong with that. If you want to talk…" He smiles down at me, a friendly expression on his face, like he's really trying to make me feel comfortable.
We stop at the dessert table, a dizzying array of gorgeous pastries in front of us. Ben lets go of my arm to take a plate and I follow suit, even though I'm pretty sure I won't be able to eat, nerves still coursing through my body. I pick up a pair of shining tongs and reach out to take a chocolate covered strawberry, when a voice whispers in my ear.
"You always did have a sweet tooth."
I instantly recognize Julian’s voice, its deep timbre, the way it vibrates, tickling the bare skin of my shoulders and neck as it does. I whirl around, the silver tongs dropping from my hand into the middle of a platter of elegant petit fours, crushing one of them. I reach down to retrieve the tongs, carelessly getting frosting on my finger in the process, then deposit the tongs back onto the strawberry plate, dismayed though unsurprised at my characteristic lack of suaveness.
Finally, I look up at him, my eyes meeting his. They're flickering with a combination of angst, or possibly anger, and humor. Clearly he's amused by me, by my clumsy fiddling with the desserts.