He straightens up and puffs out his chest satirically, his voice deep and overflowing with bravado. “I did see that movie on a date with a chick who promised to put out afterward.”
“Will you stop?” I plead as I erupt in more laughter. “I cannot eat and laugh at the same time, and this sashimi is really good and I really want to eat it.”
“No no no no no.” He slashes at my chopsticks before they can grab some salmon. “You have to try this.” He jabs at his roll. “Seriously. You have to. You will go out of your mind. You’ll have one of those things you can’t say out loud!”
“No, that’s yours. I am not going to take it away from you.”
He shakes his head and grabs one of the sections of his roll with his chopsticks and lifts it toward me. I see it in slow motion, heading for my mouth. I look past the sushi and meet his eyes and for a split second, all the humor has drained away, replaced by a hunger that has nothing to do with raw fish.
He wants me, I think, and intuitively, I know it’s true. My heart thumps crazily in my chest as the world around us completely clouds over. Because I know he must see the same hunger reflected back at him from my eyes.
But before I can confirm my suspicion, his eyes snap back to the piece of Yummy roll suspended in the air mere inches from my lips.
“Open wide!” he commands, the irreverent twinkle once again in his gaze. “And don’t make me hold your nose, young lady.”
I obey him and allow him to place the roll in my mouth, and it is amazing, like nothing I have ever eaten, but I suspect it tastes even better because of the way it was fed to me. I give him a closed-lip smile as the flavors explode over my tongue.
Ben is watching me closely. “What, no orgasm?”
I have swallowed just in time to keep from giving him an eel-and-uni shower.
“It’s really good,” I report.
“That’s all? Just ‘really good’?”
“Really, really good.”
“Oh, c’mon!” he jokes. “You can do better than that! Where’s the moaning and writhing in ecstasy?”
“I’m moaning and writhing on the inside, where it counts.”
He laughs at that, then signals to the waitress to bring us another round. I shake my head in protest.
“I can’t drink any more, Ben.”
He turns suddenly to look at me. “I like the way you say my name.”
“Well, maybe just one more round.”
By the time we leave the restaurant, the farmer’s market crowd has thinned and most of the merchants are beginning to close down their stalls. The outdoor seating of the many restaurants on Center Street has filled up proportionally as shoppers have given in to their hunger and thirst. Friday night energy abounds; laughter and chatter permeate the air, with people having a good time in that “I don’t have to work tomorrow” kind of way.
I myself am feeling no pain—in fact, I am almost giddy—but it has less to do with the revelers around me than with the sake and the Yummy roll that was fed to me by a yummy man who wears Levi’s better than anyone I have ever seen.
Ben glances at his watch and I am surprised by the pang of disappointment I feel. I don’t want this evening to end. It has been so long since I have felt attractive to a man other than my husband, an eon since I have had that easy repartee that is coupled with sexual tension. It is an exquisite sensation. I am me, but I am someone else, too. Not merely Jonah’s wife, or Connor, Matthew, and Jessie’s mom. I am the me before the family and the me after. Ellen revisited and Ellen 2.0 at the same time. Tomorrow I will wake up and recognize myself when I look in the mirror, but earlier tonight, when I went to the restroom at the sushi bar, I saw a different person staring back at me. Someone whose cheeks were flushed with excitement and whose eyes were sparkling with…something new. I am loath to climb into my Flex and drive back to my house, where I will once again just be me.
And also, I am drunk.
“It’s early,” Ben says, and my heart skips a beat. “Just after eight.”
“That is early for a…Friday night.”
He peers at me with those gorgeous brown eyes. “Don’t you just love sake bombs?”
“I do.”
“I’m a little buzzed myself. You?”
I shake my head. “Nope. Not me. I’m perfectly fine.”
He smiles at me, and I notice for the first time that his bottom teeth are slightly crooked. I find this downright sexy.
“What do you say we grab a Starbucks and sober up?”
Yes, oh yes, I really want to do that but I’m afraid that I’m going to do something stupid like jump you at the wrought-iron table outside the coffeehouse.
“I should get home,” I say aloud.
“Yes, you should, but only when it’s safe for you to drive. I am an officer of the law, remember. It’s my duty to protect and serve.”
I squint at him. “I thought that motto was strictly for uniformed officers. You know, like it says on the side of their cars. You’re a detective.”
“And what do you know about the hierarchy of the police force?”
“Only what I see on TV,” I admit and he laughs.
“Really. Come on. Your family won’t be back for a few hours. Blue Man Group is just starting. Have some coffee with me, we’ll sober up, and then we’ll both be okay to drive.”
Call a cab, Ellen! my mind screams at me. Do not have coffee with Ben Campbell. It’s been fun, but it’s time to go. End this evening while you can still look your husband in the eye.
Three minutes later, we are sitting in the back corner of the Starbucks on Center Street. Ben is drinking the house blend and I have opted for a latte with no foam. The after-dinner crowd has not yet materialized, and we are alone in this part of the cafe, save for a bespectacled twenty-something seated a few tables over, laboriously plunking away on his laptop.
Our conversation has transitioned from the raucous and rollicking superficial subjects we discussed at the sushi bar to more serious fare, and although the mood is decidedly more somber, I find it no less satisfying.
“Sometimes it’s tough,” Ben is saying, his eyes focused on the lid of his beverage. “It sounds cliché, but you really do see people at their worst.”
“I can’t imagine,” I respond, my voice sincere. “I don’t know how you do it. How do you…deal with…I don’t know, dead bodies? I mean, the only dead body I ever saw was my Grandma Phyllis, and that was after the mortician stuffed her and did her makeup.” I smack my forehead. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be joking about it.”
“Actually, a sense of humor is what keeps most of us sane. But the truth is, the bodies are nothing compared to seeing what people are capable of doing to each other.” He rubs his face with his hands. “I’m the one who should be sorry. I should never start talking about work. It’s a total downer.”
“No,” I tell him, wanting to reach out to him. “It’s what you do. And it’s important. I’m glad you talked to me about it.”
My hands are cupping my latte when Ben slides his right hand across the table and covers my fingers with his. It is such a minimal gesture and yet so intimate. A torrent of emotions races through my brain, fear and exhilaration topping the list, while at the same time, a completely physical electrical charge zaps through me, seeming to fire off every nerve ending throughout my body. If I were standing, I would have fallen to the floor in a heap of jellied, sizzle-fried limbs.
“Thanks, Ellen. You’re a good listener.”
My first instinct is to jerk my hand away, but Ben, perhaps sensing my distress, removes his hand before I am able to.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t…It must be the sake.”
My hands are suddenly cold, despite the fact that they are gripping my latte for dear life. I want to rewind ten seconds and feel his touch again, to experience that rush of warmth and electricity that has been absent from my life lately.
“It’s okay, really.” I laugh, trying to
lighten the tension that hangs between us. “It’s not like you reached out and grabbed my breast.” Oh my God. Did I just say that?
But Ben lets out a hearty chuckle. “No. I would never grab anyone’s breast in a Starbucks.”
When his laughter dies away, an uneasy silence descends over us. He inspects his empty cup, then meets my eyes and I see that he is serious again.
“Ellen. This is weird.”
My stomach flips over, not at the words themselves, but at the underlying message they convey.
He shrugs. “I haven’t felt this comfortable with anyone for a long time.”
“Me, too,” I whisper because although I shouldn’t admit it, it’s true. He holds me in his chocolate gaze for a timeless moment, then takes a deep breath. He is about to say something, and I feel myself tense with anticipation.
And that’s when my cell phone rings. Ben wordlessly exhales and with that breath, whatever he was going to confess disintegrates like steam in the air. I curse myself for remembering my cell phone, then remind myself why I’d made sure to bring it with me. In case my husband calls.
My husband. I remember him. The guy whose hands are the only ones I’m allowed to hold.
I reach into my pocket and pull out the damned intrusive device, then spy Jill’s name in the Caller ID.
“Sorry,” I say to Ben, then punch the Talk button. “Hi, Jill.”
“Where are you? I called the house, but you didn’t answer. I got worried that maybe you were the victim of a home invasion or something.”
“I’m still downtown.”
Ben leans back in his chair and casually looks around the coffeehouse.
“What? I thought you went over at five.”
“I did. I’m still here. I, uh, decided to grab some dinner.” I catch the grin on Ben’s face and my cheeks go hot.
“Okay,” she says slowly, suspiciously, because she knows me so well. I have never been the kind of woman who likes to dine alone or go to the movies alone or take a trip to Barbados alone. Not because I worry about the pitying looks from fellow diners or filmgoers or tourists, but merely because it is less interesting. If I take a particularly delectable bite of seared foie gras, or watch a heart-pounding action flick, or gaze across at a perfect expanse of beach, I prefer to share it with someone. Plus, if you say aloud “That is amazing goose liver!” to an empty chair in a crowded restaurant, the maître d’ might think you need a psychiatrist and eighty-six you from the place.
“Tell her I said hi,” Ben calls as he gets up from his chair. He gestures to his coffee cup and then points to mine questioningly. I nod my head.
“Thanks.”
“Who’s that?” Jill pounces.
“Funnily enough, I ran into your next-door neighbor on Center Street.”
“My what? My he-of-the-tight-buns next-door neighbor?”
“Exactly,” I reply, trying not to look at his aforementioned ass as he deposits our empty paper cups into a trash can.
“His wife, too?”
“No. Just him.”
“What the f-u-c-k is going on?” she nearly shouts, and I have to pull the phone away from my ear. Ben heads toward the table slowly, hands in his front pockets. Just the sight of his approaching visage makes my insides do a crazy happy dance. I feel lightheaded and giddy, am grinning stupidly, and have an overwhelming urge to cross my legs. Jesus, I’m fifteen again.
“Ellen? Are you there?”
“I’m here.”
“Okay. Detroit has a morning game; he has to be on the field by eight forty-five, so Greg and the boys will be out of here by eight thirty. You, cousin, are coming for coffee. Am I making myself clear?”
“I’ll see if I can.”
“Oh, nooo. You will be here at eight thirty-five. Not one d-a-m-n minute later. Yes?”
“Sounds great,” I say into the phone, and end the call before she can ask any more questions or make any more demands.
Ben looks down at me. His placid face belies any intensity that might have sprung up between us only moments ago, as though it is already forgotten or has been deliberately suppressed. Whatever he was going to say to me is now lost forever. D-a-m-n Jill and her f-u-c-k-i-n-g timing.
“Think you can drive?” he asks me, and I nod quickly.
“For sure. In fact, after that latte, I’ll probably be up all night.”
“Me, too.” It is a casual comeback, but I detect subliminal meaning. I get to my feet, clutching the bag of honey, and find myself face to face with him. We look at each other for a moment, another one of those damn romance-novel gazes that makes me want to throw my arms around his neck and suck his face for about twelve days.
“I’ll walk you to your car,” he says, quickly averting his eyes, then wordlessly escorts me out of the coffeehouse.
It is just after ten when we reach my car, parked on a side street at a meter that I didn’t bother to refill, having temporarily been rendered brain-dead by a chocolate-eyed detective. I am greeted by the sight of a parking ticket in the form of a curled-up piece of paper trapped under my windshield wiper. Ben sees it at the same instant I do and automatically reaches for it.
“I completely forgot about the meter,” I say dumbly.
“I’ll take care of it.”
I want to protest, but his jaw is set in a firm line. “Thanks,” I say. “Gotta love those perks.”
He nods and a small grin tugs at the corners of his mouth.
If we were single and twenty-two, this would be the point where I would hope he would ask for my phone number, or I would say something inane like, This was great, let’s do it again sometime. Or he would lean into me tentatively and press his lips against mine. But twenty-two is a lifetime ago, and my wedding band weighs heavily on my finger, practically pulling my left hand to the ground. Still, I don’t want to end this magical evening with just a See you around or Catch you later.
“So, I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, and I give him a questioning look even as my heart bangs against my chest plate. “At the soccer game.”
Duh, I think. “Right. Eleven o’clock.”
“Well.” He takes a step back. “You were right about the sushi. Thanks for keeping me company.”
“My pleasure. It was fun.” I watch him retreat, backing away so that he can continue to look at me even as the space between us widens. I know that this night has been a happy accident, a fluke, brought about by circumstances that will not be repeated, and for some reason that I don’t quite understand, but which I’m certain I will contemplate later, I want the last thing he hears from me to have some meaning. My pleasure, it was fun just doesn’t cut it.
As he is turning toward Center Street, I call to him. “Ben.” Immediately he reverses direction and moves toward me. He cocks his head to the side and stares at me, waiting.
“Yes?”
I take a deep breath. “I really have to thank you.”
“Hey, you introduced me to a great restaurant; the least I could do is pay.”
“No, not for that,” I say. “I mean, yes, thanks for the sushi, but that’s not what I was talking about. Last week at Trader Joe’s you said something that…struck a chord in me, I guess…and it inspired me.…”
He grins. “Wait. I said something inspiring? This has to be a first.”
His self-effacing humor makes me smile, but I am not finished yet. “You were talking about trying new things. How important that is. And I realized that I haven’t done that in a long time. Because of you, what you said, I, uh, did something I’ve never done before. Something new.”
“What? Tell me.”
I shake my head. “No. I’m not going to tell you. But I just wanted to say thanks.”
“Oh, come on. You have to. You can’t leave me hanging like this.” His grin morphs into a lascivious smile. “Is it, you know, dirty?” He pronounces dirty with an Irish brogue and I laugh, shaking my head. “It’s women, right? You tried women?”
“I said it was something new.
”
He cracks up at that. “Really.”
“Hey, all college girls experiment. They should offer a class in it. Girl-on-Girl 101.” Suddenly self-conscious, I look down at my feet, at the pavement, at the parking meter, at the dry cleaners across the street. Anywhere but at him. “Anyway, it’s not that exciting. It’s not jumping out of a plane, or climbing Mount Everest, or anything. But it was new to me, and it felt good. Still does. So thanks.”
My focus is now on a couple of teenagers hanging out on the corner fifty feet away, so I am surprised when Ben takes my hand in his. His touch is no less jarring than it was in Starbucks, and I watch as if in a dream as he raises my hand to his lips and kisses it softly.
“I appreciate you sharing that with me, Ellen,” he says quietly.
Slowly, he lowers my hand and releases his grip. His gaze is penetrating and sears through me and in that split second, a series of images run through my head, a montage of Ben-and-Ellen fantasies that flash onto the movie screen of my brain so rapidly that they are indistinguishable from each other. And just as quickly, the screen goes dark.
I watch Ben walk away, this time facing Center Street instead of me, and this time, he does not look back.
• Fifteen •
When the key turns in the lock at eleven fifteen, I’m on the couch, Sally at my feet, staring blindly at the big-screen TV, which is playing an old Adam Sandler movie I’ve never seen. I have absolutely no idea what’s going on because my brain has been busy processing the evening, reliving and dissecting every moment from when I first laid eyes on Ben as he listened to the street performer to watching him slowly retreat from my car.
Connor, Matthew, and Jessie appear at the archway into the living room, trailed by Jonah. My three children look tired yet energized by their evening out.
“Okay, guys, kiss Mom, and then straight to bed. It’s late.”
One by one, they come over to me and give me kisses. Jessie’s eyes are already at half mast and I know she will be asleep within seconds of hitting her pillow. Matthew yawns right in the middle of kissing me, and I am treated to a sample of his ten-year-old pre-tooth-brushing breath. Connor bends over and gives me a hug, then kisses my forehead.
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