A Kind of Romance

by Lane Hayes

  Hi Zeke. Sorry I missed your call. Are you free for a drink later?

  Curiosity won. I pushed Call, thinking this was a good opportunity to see what my ex wanted. It went straight to voice mail. As I listened to Taylor’s deep masculine tone requesting the caller to leave a message, a strong sense of déjà vu came over me. And with it, a wave of frustration. It was the one emotion that always seemed at the forefront of my relationship with him. He wasn’t around when I needed him, and he had a peculiar talent for holding people at arm’s length. Even me. Perhaps I’d been as attracted to the challenge he presented as I had been to his hot body. A buzzing sound was followed by silence. I fixated on the headline scroll running at the bottom of the large screen in front of me. The constant flicker of information with graphs, charts, and analysis was strangely cathartic, but I was aware of the alluring quiet on the line seducing me with a promise of… what? A game? There was nothing between Taylor and me but the wreckage of old frustration. There was no relationship or even friendship to salvage. There was only pride.

  I disconnected the call. What the fuck was I doing? A sense of loss and longing washed over me. It had nothing to do with Taylor, though. It was a familiar pull toward a hollow darkness I knew all too well. I hadn’t felt it in a while. Probably because of Benny. I wished the day was over already. I wanted nothing more than to sit in an overcrowded Italian restaurant eating fresh bread while sipping Chianti and listening to Dean Martin croon “That’s Amore.” I closed my eyes for a moment, wishing I had someone to point me in the right direction. Someone I trusted who didn’t need a backstory to know I was in over my head and could use a little guidance. Fierce longing hit me like a bolt of lightning. I missed my mom.

  THIRTY MINUTES later I was in Brooklyn, breathing in the dreaded antiseptic smell of a health-care facility. I cut my conference call short before waving a quick hello to the nurse on duty. Unlike my father’s brief visit at Mount Sinai in the spring, I knew this place well. The nurses greeted me by name and offered kind platitudes as they directed me toward the visitors’ lounge. There was no need for an escort. I could get there in my sleep now. Left, right, short left.

  I gazed at the framed landscape print above the sofa in the waiting room. It was one of those innocuous ones featuring a stream, trees, and fluffy clouds in an impossibly blue sky. It could be anywhere or nowhere. You weren’t supposed to have a strong opinion about it either way. I stuffed my hands in my jeans and turned at the sound of shuffling feet behind me.

  “Good morning, Zeke. It’s so nice to see you today. A lovely surprise. I was tellin’ Miri how lucky she is to have such handsome gentleman callers. You just missed George.”

  I smiled at Susan, one of the daytime nurses. Then I turned to my mother, noting that her short, gray, curly hair looked tidy and her pink floral dress looked pretty against her pale skin. These visits were becoming more and more predictable. Usually, I was a stranger she was meeting for the first time. Not too long ago I could gauge a visit by the initial few moments of contact. Everything was in her eyes. I foolishly still hoped for a spark of recognition. Something to let me know she knew me. If only for a little while.

  “Hi, Miri,” I said in a soft voice. “Do you feel like a walk in the garden?”

  She grinned widely and reached out to squeeze my hand. “I’d love to.”

  I took her arm and nodded briefly to Susan before leading my mother through the sliding glass door into the facility’s small garden. The wide, circular path was surrounded by lush foliage. There were benches under tall, sturdy trees along the perimeter and a pretty rose garden in the middle. On touch-and-go days when she was easily agitated, I headed directly for the roses. Today I stayed on the path. I patted her arm as we meandered, speaking in a low, soothing voice about the weather, the flowers, and perfect temperature. Getting too personal too soon always backfired. She had to work to stay in the moment now. It was better to let things flow naturally. On a good day, she’d be engaging and even funny. As long as I didn’t push, I’d get a glimmer of the woman I knew. It might not last, but it was worth taking a chance.

  She seemed comfortable with me today. Sometimes she’d get caught up with our size difference and mumble over and over about how tall I was. Sure, I had an easy eight inches on her, but it was hardly a topic we could engage in for more than a minute or two. And if she spun on anything for long, it invariably made her anxious. Today, I felt anxious enough myself. I couldn’t say why. I selfishly needed to be close to the part of her that exuded motherly benevolence. My thoughts were restless, and I needed an anchor. Or the memory of one.

  “There aren’t as many roses on the vine now,” she commented wistfully. “Oh! This one is nice. I love the pink ones. Dark pink especially. George always brought pink roses. He was a darling man.”

  “George is a good guy,” I agreed, leading her to a nearby bench. Her tone indicated she was speaking in past tense about a man who’d passed away, rather than the one who came to see her every day. The man she’d loved most of her life. “Susan said he came by this morning. Did he bring roses?”

  She ignored the question and cocked her head thoughtfully. “You remind me of him.”

  “George? How so?” My raised eyebrow and comical expression made her laugh. Dad and I looked nothing alike.

  “I don’t know. You’re very handsome,” she added with a smile. “George is too. And he’s kind. But he has a stubborn side. I bet you’re stubborn. Are you?”

  I tried to keep the disappointment from my voice when I answered, “Yes. George thinks so too.”

  She waved her hand, indicating she didn’t want to linger on the topic. No doubt it jarred a fragment of memory she couldn’t place. The name George was significant, but she didn’t know why. She was lucid enough today to avoid triggers. It was frustrating in a way because that trigger was where our history was stored. Without it, we were strangers looking for common ground.

  “Hmm. Did Da—George bring you flowers today?”

  “Yes! I’m not sure if it was George, but yes… someone did! He has a crush on me,” she giggled. “Who do you have a crush on?”

  I smiled and gamely switched gears. She’d moved into a girlish, high school mode I’d have a hard time keeping up with for long. But I’d try.

  “His name is Benny.”

  “Benny. I like that name. Is she pretty?”

  “Benny is a man. But yeah… he’s pretty.”

  “Mmm. What’s he like?”

  “He’s fun. Kind of colorful. He has dark hair, brown eyes, and—”

  “Is he tall?”

  “No, he’s short. Well, shorter than me, but taller than you.”

  “Does he know you like him?” she whispered conspiratorially.

  “I think so.”

  She pointed suddenly at the biggest flower on the vine next to her and then at me. It was a familiar gesture. Quintessential Miri. A pointed finger at one object then at a person meant business. “Make sure he knows you like him. Bring him roses.”

  “Uh….”

  She giggled and leaned into my side affectionately. “Tell me more. I want to know everything! I can keep a secret. I won’t tell George. Go on.”

  As with every visit, my heart soared and then plummeted. “George knows Benny. He likes him too.”

  “Good. George is a nice name, isn’t it? Tell me about him!”

  I found the even ground in between the thorns in her conversation. A place to drift without succumbing to anger or sorrow. In this space, I could simply be. I could set aside my outrage at the horribly unfair twist of fate that had taken my mother from me. This was worse than death. It was endless torture. She was here, but she wasn’t. Even when the glimmer of her true self was evident… she was a shadow I couldn’t trust. I had to learn to be content with what she could give and who she was now.

  TWO HOURS later, a text message from Benny blinked on my phone.

  They’re beautiful. Thank you.

  Ur welcome. I’ll
see you at the restaurant.

  I set my phone on the kitchen island and stared into space. I couldn’t say why I sent him roses. Perhaps it was a hint from Miri. A piece of advice or a finger pointing me in the right direction. The mother I remembered would have probably given me an exasperated headshake and told me to stop being a fool. I didn’t want Taylor, so why waste time? But Benny scared me. We were traveling too fast and getting too tangled. Someone was bound to get hurt here, and it might even be me.

  The one thing I always came away with after a visit with my mother was to seize every moment because life could turn sideways in a flash. The woman who spoke with a girlish longing that afternoon had once known true love. Now she couldn’t recognize the man who brought her favorite flower as anyone more than a sweet suitor. She couldn’t remember the famous story of the day she’d met him at Bowery Bagels decades ago. He’d literally stumbled at her feet, dropping a basket of bagels in his haste to greet the dark-haired beauty. They used to laugh at the memory and share a special look. One that seamlessly told us that was where we all began. But that was only his story now. She couldn’t remember it. Nor could she remember his proposal in her parents’ garden or walking down the aisle. She didn’t remember giving birth to her four sons or the years she’d raised them with “her George.” She didn’t know her grandchildren or her friends, and she’d long forgotten the kinds of foods she liked.

  But she remembered the roses.

  Chapter 8

  BENNY SAT at my kitchen island, tapping his fingers excitedly. I caught myself staring at his profile as I poured him a glass of wine. He was wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt in deference to the crisp October evening. He looked beautiful. Handsome, happy, and brimming with an enthusiasm he could barely contain. He was telling me about a fledgling theater production he and William were hoping to help salvage. It was a promising musical that he thought could use some polish.

  “William can rework the score in an afternoon. He’s that good. And me? It might take a week to deconstruct all that horrid crinoline and lace and sprinkle in some snappier colors, but I’d really like a shot. If we can convince the producers we know how to fix a portion of their problem, we might have an in on our first real Broadway show. Well… off-Broadway show,” he amended with a light chuckle.

  “You’ll get it,” I said with confidence, lightly clinking my glass against his.

  “Unfortunately, you don’t get a job ’cause you want it. You network, you audition, you stay up all night worrying that you’re a bust and no one wants you, then you get up the next morning and start all over again. Of course… if you can find who to blow to get the gig, that’s always helpful.” His eyes took on a faraway look as he tapped his fingers against his chin thoughtfully. “I wonder who—?”

  I set my glass aside and moved around the island toward him. His eyes were lit with ready humor he tried to disguise with faux nervousness when I pushed his knees open and stood between his thighs. I cradled his face in my hands and gently bit his bottom lip before pulling back slightly to give him a pirate’s smile.

  “You’re hysterical, Benny baby. You want to blow someone, you got me. No one else. Am I clear?”

  “Oh my gosh. Are you asking me to go steady with you?” He batted his eyelashes theatrically.

  “I thought we’d already established that.”

  “We alluded to it.”

  “Alluded. Hmm. Then let me be clear… you’re mine.”

  Benny collapsed onto the island in a faux faint with his arms splayed in front of him. I ran my fingers through his hair and bent to kiss his ear. Then lick it. He sat up with a start and gave me an evil look as he swiped at his ear. “Yuck.”

  I snickered at the over-the-top reaction and then ruffled his hair playfully. “Come on. Let’s—”

  “Wait up, Mr. Romance. So you’re saying what exactly?”

  “Uh… well, I was going to suggest that game of pool you keep weaseling out of, but….” I swallowed hard before continuing, hoping I’d get this right without promising more than I could give. “Nothing’s changed, Ben. We know who we are to each other, right?”

  “Yeah. Right.”

  I hated the instant flicker of hurt I saw cross his face.

  “We can try to—”

  “Zeke, no more talking. You’re doing that compliment thing again. Let’s move on. What did you say about a game of pool?”

  “Uh… I was saying we should play,” I said as my brow puckered with confusion. “We’ve never gotten around to it and—”

  “Fine. Let’s do it. You can show me how.” He winked as he jumped off his barstool gracefully and headed toward the pool table. “What color should I be?”

  I gave a half laugh and draped my arm over his shoulder. “That’s not quite how it works. Let me explain the rules.”

  I spent a few minutes giving him a basic tutorial on how to play pool. Benny nodded profusely with a serious expression as though trying to memorize every instruction and helpful tip.

  “Okay. I’m ready. What are we betting?”

  “Betting? Baby, you’ve never played befo—”

  “Loser must grant the winner a favor their choice.”

  “Sex?”

  “Or breakfast in bed. Anything goes.”

  “You’re on.” I unbuttoned my sleeves and rolled them to my elbows. Beating him was going to be fun.

  I WAS known for having an above-average intellect, and I had a degree from a prestigious university to prove it. But sometimes I was unbelievably gullible. After a few months of spending almost all of my spare time with Benny, you’d think I would have caught on when he was up to something. He won the first turn on a coin toss. After I racked the balls, I stood behind him to give another tip or two regarding how best to hold his stick. Much to his amusement. I molded my chest against his back and let my fingers roam along his sides and over his crotch before positioning the rod at his side.

  “Keep the stick at your hip and bend your body forward so you’re staring down the line of the pole at the cue ball.”

  “Like this?” he asked, wiggling his ass suggestively against me.

  “Mmm, that’s it. Make sure your hands are relaxed and supple. Now make a bridge with your left hand and set the tip between your thumb and forefinger. Good. That’s your balancing point. We’re going to keep it simple the first time around. You chose stripes, so call the ball you’re going to sink and which hole you’re aiming for.” I jutted my hips and slid my hand over his jean-clad ass before stepping to his side. “We won’t count fouls. The only big rule is you can’t hit the eight ball. The person who sinks all their balls and then the eight is the winner.”

  Benny straightened and cocked his head inquisitively. “Can I touch your balls?”

  I chuckled at the obvious innuendo and then reached for his hand and set it over my half-hard cock. “Feel free.”

  He smirked as he turned back to the pool table. I stared at his ass until the sound of his voice above the din of balls colliding shook me from my reverie. The look of satisfaction on his face told the whole story. But I hadn’t clued in yet.

  “Good job. Which one are you going to try to hit into which pocket?”

  “Ten ball in the corner pocket,” he exclaimed, pointing toward the far right side of the table.

  I leaned on my cue stick and gestured for him to proceed. He bent over the table and lowered his body as he eyed the angle of the shot. It was a terrible angle. I was about to tell him so when he stood abruptly and moved to his left. He took his time eyeing the little white ball at the end of his stick, shifting an inch to his right, then another half inch to the left. That was probably my next clue, but I didn’t heed the warning. My gaze was locked on the view. Benny moved like a dancer, with an effortless grace. I loved the way his biceps flexed as he slowly pulled the stick back. I licked my bottom lip and adjusted my dick clandestinely through my wool-blend trousers. A moment later he whooped with joy and threw his hand up for a high five.


  “Next one will be the twelve in the side pocket,” he declared, moving toward the opposite end.

  I nodded and gave him a friendly smile of encouragement. He banked his shot easily and then went on to shoot the next three like a fucking pro. He didn’t commit one foul. He was never in danger of striking the eight ball or any of mine. It took a while for me to clue into a few other important details. He knew how to position himself with the appropriate amount of space between his torso and the table and how to recognize the best angle in one sweeping glance. He altered the bridge of his left hand depending on the shot. And he didn’t so much as brush his hand on the table. His movements were studied, deliberate, and precise. The way they had been when he’d kicked my ass bowling months ago.

  When he finally missed a difficult shot with only four balls left, I’d gone from thinking he had a mad case of beginner’s luck to realizing I’d been had.

  “Oh darn. I guess it’s your turn.” He shook his head mournfully and then flashed a grin as he hopped back a few steps to perch his cute butt on the arm of one of the leather chairs next to the built-in bookshelves.

  I crossed my arms and gave him a withering once-over. “You’re a fuckin’ hustler,” I said in a low, menacing tone.

  Benny busted up laughing. And once he started, he couldn’t stop. He fell into the chair sideways and curled his knees under him as tears streamed down his cheeks. I huffed indignantly before turning to hang my stick on the wall. Benny hiccupped in his effort to regain composure.

  “A hustler? C’mon, Zeke. It’s not rocket science. I can’t help it if I know a thing or two about balls… and sticks,” he snorted, launching into another fit of laughter.