by Phoebe Fox
“Oh, I forgot.” I sagged against the jamb. “I hadn’t planned on going to that this year, with...everything else.”
“We always go. It’s awesome.”
“Sash, at last year’s party you woke up in a clearing on Faryn’s neighbor’s property—three houses down. You threw up green for two days from Jell-O shots. I had skid marks on my elbows for a week and a half from where I took a facer after you convinced me to get on your shoulders and play chicken against Spencer Halloway and Hunt Jackson.”
“Right? How fun was that!” Sasha dipped a fat, fluffy brush into a vat of loose powder and then tapped it on the side, most of the powder sprinkling off. “You have to go. We always have a blast there. It’ll be good for you.” She shrugged. “You never know—maybe you’ll even meet someone.”
“Among the same people from high school who’ve been coming every single year since we graduated? Doubtful.”
Her forehead wrinkled up at my acidic tone. “Brook, I’m worried about you.”
I moved my gaze from hers in the mirror. “Don’t be. I’m fine.”
She turned to face me directly. “You’re not fine. How could you be?”
Her tone was the one you use with sick people who don’t realize how ill they are, and she was regarding me with a concerned, pitying look I didn’t like being on the receiving end of. At all.
“Really, Sash,” I said, reaching down to the lipsticks lined up on the counter and making a show of investigating each color, “I’m totally okay. I’ve even kind of met someone.”
I wanted to snatch back the words the second I’d uttered them. I’d only meant to deflect her—not tell an out-and-out lie. But her entire demeanor had changed as soon as she heard the words, and I knew a Gitmo-worthy interrogation was coming.
“You did! Who? Where?”
I yelped—loudly. Her playful slap wasn’t that hard, but it landed right on my still-healing tattoo.
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” Sasha said, with a roll of her eyes. Then she turned thoughtful. “You know, maybe this is just what you need—a couple of dates with someone nice who can get your mind of off Ken”—she bit off the word—“things. Where’d you meet him?”
I racked my brain frantically. For a second I thought about using my new client Duncan as my fictional potential new boyfriend, but I didn’t think I could sustain that with any believability if she asked too many questions. Before I thought it through, I blurted, “At the hospital. The night I got my tetanus shot.”
Mistake.
“Brook!” Her arms were crossed and storm clouds knotted her brow. “That was two weeks ago! Why didn’t you tell me!” Then her eyes got huge and she gasped. “That was even before you and K—” Again she caught herself. “Sneaky girl. You know what? Good for you. What’s his name? What’s he do?”
Mortifyingly, to save my life I couldn’t pull up the name of the man I’d met in the emergency waiting room, so I focused on the second question. “Uh, he’s in building. A...construction worker.” I had no idea if that was exactly true, but it wasn’t as though it mattered.
Sasha’s forehead crinkled again, and then she shrugged. “Perfect. No possibility of commitment—the ideal rebound guy.”
“There’s no such thing as an ‘ideal rebound guy,’ Sash,” I replied automatically. “Rebound guys are a bad idea.”
“Are you kidding?” She pulled another brush from a leather case and turned back to the mirror to blend a light shadow along her brow bone. “They’re part of the process. How else do you forget about your ex and feel good about yourself again?”
I watched her for a moment, struck dumb. How was it that after a lifetime of friendship with me, Sasha still hadn’t absorbed any of the breakup rules? As the number one recipient of my post-dumping ministrations over the years, she was a terrible advertisement for my services.
“Sasha.” I kept my tone level—a patient parent guiding her child. “Rebound guys are just a way of avoiding dealing with the pain of a broken relationship.”
Sash stopped tapping her brush into a sparkly copper-colored eye shadow to give me a “well, duh” look. “That’s the point.”
“No. Completely against the point. You have to work through your feelings so you can move past them. And the way you feel good about yourself is from inside—not outside.” I might not be walking the walk, but I could still talk the talk.
Sasha blew off her brush and set it into its space in the fancy leather case, retrieving a bigger one. “Blah blah blah. I’ve read all the self-help books. My way’s quicker.”
What did it matter, anyway? If Sasha hadn’t altered her breakup MO in more than twenty-five years of friendship with me, she wasn’t going to start now.
By the time I pulled into my driveway, I was wondering if Sasha was right. Maybe the best way to forget an old love really was in the arms of a new one. Or as she said...if not to forget, at least feel better about yourself. I could use a little of that right about now.
Inside I threw my suitcase into a closet and dug around in my purse until I found what I was looking for.
And then I made a phone call.
twenty-three
I was worried that I might not recognize Benjamin Garrett when I showed up at Andale’s. But even without the dark blue sling holding his left arm across his abdomen against the brighter blue of his shirt, I would have remembered him. He was standing by the bar, looking like a lost kid in a busy department store, but in no particular hurry to be found. Brown hair, tall, in good shape; when he wasn’t wearing a coating of grime and sweat, he was a nice-enough-looking man.
I’d been going about this all wrong, I had realized as I got ready for my impromptu date. I was chasing Kendall all over town, putting myself in the weaker position, the position of supplicant. What I needed to be doing was taking over the power position—making him realize what he’d lost, instead of crying after him.
I’d taken extra care getting ready with that in mind, wearing a white scoop-neck sundress with a big, bold fuchsia-and-orange flower print. The dress hugged my torso in ways that made the most of my God-given assets, cinched at the waist in a way that skimmed at least five pounds off my actual weight, and then flared into a feminine spill to my knees. Unfortunately, the effect I was going for—Oops, I didn’t mean to look so sexy when I threw on this old thing—was mitigated by the sweater that was apparently going to be my uniform for the next year and a half, to hide my shoulder.
I’d carefully chosen Kendall’s favorite restaurant downtown in the hopes that he would see me. Or at least maybe someone we knew would, and through the small-town grapevine he’d know about within twenty-four hours that I was out with someone else.
I deliberately kept my eyes only on Ben as I walked toward him across the crowded bar area, as if there were no one more important in the room. And then I was standing next to him, and he was smiling (nice smile, I remembered), and I had time to think, Oh, God, this was a very big mistake, before he said, “Hey, there! How’s your wound?”
I blinked at him, then realized he was talking about my foot. “Better, thanks.” Then, hoping someone Kendall and I knew was looking my way, I gave Ben a tight, warm hug. He stiffened a little in surprise, but put his good arm around me obligingly until I pulled back.
I nodded toward the sling. “How’s the arm?”
“Oh—clean fracture. I just have to take it a little easier for a while. A few more weeks of this”—he lifted the arm—“and then business as usual.”
“Good.”
“Did you want a drink before we get a table?” Ben asked politely as I looked over his shoulder, trying to catch the bartender’s eye. If Jabber Jeffrey saw me out on a date with someone new, word would get back to Kendall fast.
“Hmm? Oh...” Jeffrey was slammed—the other bartender, a girl I didn’t know, was headed over our way. “No, that’s okay. L
et’s just go sit down.”
On the way to our table, Ben remarked on the décor—elegant and modern—and the architecture of the old building.
“Do you know what it used to be, before they made it into a restaurant?” he asked as we were seated at a small, intimate table in the corner. Low visibility, I fumed, but on the plus side, I had a panoramic view of the entire restaurant.
“Um, no. Drugstore, I think?”
“Huh. You wouldn’t guess it.”
In the awkward silence that followed that exhaustive conversation about everything we had in common, we perused our menus. Or at least Ben did. I’d spent enough time in Andale’s to rattle off the ingredients of every dish they served. While Ben decided on his meal, I surreptitiously scanned the restaurant over my menu as intently as if trying to find Waldo.
“Nice article this morning.”
I dragged my eyes back to Ben, trying to decipher his words. Oh—today was Friday. I racked my brain, trying to remember what I had written.
“I’ve had first dates like that too,” Ben said, taking a sip of the water a waiter had brought over. “Where I felt like I was just there to be someone’s audience.”
Right. The article I’d written fresh from my hurt and anger about Kendall. I didn’t want to talk about that. Certainly not with an all but total stranger. I floundered for something else to say. “So...what are you doing with your time while that arm heals?”
“I’m not really taking any time off. Can’t afford to, with the economy like it is. The guys at work are helping pick up my slack.”
Well, that didn’t seem fair, but whatever. Band of brothers. The loud buzzing of the chattering crowd around us only punched up the silence that fell once again at our table. I took a sip of my drink and used the distraction to scan the patrons again.
“I didn’t mean this date, just to clarify. About the feeling-like-an-audience thing.”
I looked at Ben. What on earth was he talking about? Oh—his comment before about my column. Right. Focus, Brook. The last report I wanted getting back to Kendall—besides that I’d completely lost my marbles since he’d left me—was that I was out with someone and having a rotten time. I heaved out a gay, girlish laugh. “Of course not, silly! I didn’t think that!”
He looked at me strangely—maybe my laugh was a little loud—but the arrival of our waiter saved me from manufacturing more such witty repartee. We placed our orders, and then once again I panicked. Conversation, Brook. Look like you’re having one. I needed something we could talk about for longer than three lines of dialogue. What in the world did I have in common with someone who worked in construction?
Oh. Duh.
I projected what I hoped was a charming smile. “So, I guess I told you a little bit about my disastrous home renovation project when we met...”
Ta-da. We were off to the races. I started telling Ben all about my house—how I’d bought it with such big plans for it, all the problems I’d discovered since, the work I’d done so far. He was a good listener—that was a pleasant surprise. And he had nice eyes—chocolate brown and kind. I hadn’t noticed in the emergency room.
“Have you ever heard of I can?” he asked when our food came and I paused in my litany of home ownership woes.
I frowned as I forked into my snapper. Was he giving me some kind of a pep talk? A lecture in get-it-done mentality? “What?”
“It’s a local organization for people with HIV/AIDS.”
As he unfolded his linen napkin and placed it in his lap, I stilled as if I’d been flash-frozen. I knew what he meant—ICAN, the Island Coast AIDS Network. I’d referred a patient or two there when necessary; they provided wonderful support and education for the HIV positive in the community.
But why was he telling me this? I shifted uncomfortably on my chair, rifling my brain for an appropriate thing to say. Oh, God, was he HIV-positive? Was he looking for serious counseling help—while I’d been sitting here chattering ad nauseam about my stupid house and trying to show up my ex-boyfriend like some ridiculous woman scorned?
What kind of person had I become?
“They run a thrift store in North Fort Myers where a lot of builders donate their surplus construction material, and it’s sold to the public for a fraction of what you’d pay retail.” Ben was sliding his fork into the purple-hulled peas on his plate and didn’t seem to have noticed my reaction. “You been out there yet? ICAN Junction? That’s a great place to go look for a lot of what you need for your renovation—new closet doors, cabinetry, appliances, light fixtures, windows—even art.”
“Oh...no.” I swallowed. “I didn’t know about that.”
“Our company donates all our surplus there. It’ll save you a fortune, and a lot of it’s pretty nice stuff—you wouldn’t believe the way some of those condos were getting decked out during the real estate boom.”
I flashed to Kendall’s immaculate, state-of-the-art kitchen, with its gleaming granite and stainless and mahogany and porcelain tile. “Actually, I would,” I said thinly. I dug my fork into the wilted greens on my plate, this time welcoming the silence that fell between us once again.
“You have to talk to her at some point.”
“You know what? I don’t, actually.” What I’d meant to be a chuckle sounded alarmingly like a giggle. There was a chance I might have had a little too much wine.
Surprise.
When Sasha overimbibes, she gets charmingly sloppy, hilariously disjointed, and very, very affectionate. When I do it, I get diarrhea of the mouth. Ben’s idea of ordering a bottle of wine had finally lubricated our stilted conversation, but now, with the bottle empty and most of it having gone into my glass, I somehow found myself telling Ben all about my mother and her defection to the stage.
A crash of glassware came from the bar area, and I glanced over in that direction. I’d forgotten for the last few minutes to do a regular scan of the place for Kendall. Still no sign of him.
“Don’t you want to know what’s going on?” Ben asked.
“Not really. Somebody probably just dropped a glass.”
Ben was grinning when I looked back at him. “I meant with your mom.”
“Oh.” I picked up the bottle of wine to pour the rest into Ben’s glass, but nothing came out. I frowned. “Do you mind if I change the subject?”
“Of course not. If you’re not one of those women who thinks there is no other dessert but chocolate, how do you feel about crème brulee?”
“Ben.” I picked up my dessert fork and pointed it seriously at him. “I feel very, very good about crème brulee.”
I liked how easygoing he was about shifting topics. Of course, it could just be that he was a guy, and bored to tears talking about my mama drama. But the evening had actually turned out to be...well, not a chore. Despite the fact that it didn’t look like Kendall was going to show up, that I hadn’t spotted anyone we knew in the crowd for the first time ever at Andale’s, and that I hadn’t been able to find an excuse to go get something from the bar so I could make Jeffrey undeniably aware of my presence here with another man, I was having a pretty good time. Sasha had had a point—it felt kind of good to have someone new paying attention to me, coddling me a little bit, making me feel attractive and interesting again.
After dessert, so creamy and warm and silky that our spoons clashed as we both scraped the dish of its last traces of custard, Ben insisted on paying despite my protests that I had asked him out. As we walked into the warm, breezy night, he said, “It’s late and I go right by your area on the way home. How about I drop you off?”
It was a really polite way of suggesting I might be in no condition to drive. And he was right. That was one lesson, at least, that I had learned in the last two weeks.
I angled a teasing look at him from under my eyelashes. “Benjamin Garrett, are you trying to come home with me?”
; He smiled, leading me across the street with a light hand on the small of my back. “I wouldn’t do that. You told me you have a boyfriend, remember?”
We’d reached the opposite curb, and I stopped to face him. “No, I don’t. Not anymore.” It was the first time I’d said it out loud to anyone except Sasha, and I didn’t know why I blurted it out to Ben.
He nodded and took my elbow to usher me on toward the parking lot. “Yeah. I figured.” That was all he said about it, and I was grateful.
He let me erratically operate the radio on the way to my house, which I directed him to in between drunken exclamations of, “Oh, my God, I love this song!”
When we rolled into my driveway I invited him inside. “Only to show you the house, you understand,” I said with a wagging finger.
He laughed. “Brook, that’s all I’m interested in tonight.”
I pondered that as I unlocked the front door. Did he mean he wasn’t interested in me that way at all? Or that he didn’t want to rush things? God...I forgot how hard dating was.
I gave him the ten-cent tour of the house, seeing all of it through fresh eyes as I did—the water-stained ceilings, bare concrete floors, sagging doors, and peeling cabinets. I showed him the two guest bedrooms where I hoped to put in my office, and the bathroom my dad and I had gutted and cleaned.
“It’s got good bones,” he said as we circled back into the living room.
“Thank you!” I said, as though he’d complimented my bone structure, rather than the house’s. Then my face fell. “There’s still a ton to be done, though. Most of which I can’t afford to do at the moment.”
“I can.”
“What? No! That’s not at all appropriate.”
Even in the dim light from the single lamp in the living room I could see his amused expression. “Brook—ICAN. The builder-supply thrift store. You can get what you need pretty cheap.”
“They really ought to rename that thing,” I muttered. We were standing awkwardly at the front door.