“You look like you need to have some fun,” Daisy had said when she proposed the plan. “I’m running a bet with my friend. Stay until midnight, and when she asks for your phone number, refuse to give it to her.”
“Weird bet,” I said.
“Part of our acting process.” She scooped up a handful of pretzels and popped them in her mouth. “Helps us pretend we’re anyone but ourselves.”
“Actresses are very strange.” I laughed.
“You don’t know the half of it.” She untied her apron from her waist, waved over her friend, then passed the apron to her.
I spend the better part of the hour checking the door, swiveling my neck so often a muscle pinches. I should say something to Amanda, tell her how much it annoys me when she just goes AWOL, but I hate getting into it, the confrontation, the fights.
We met through mutual friends at a Yankees game two summers ago: a Goldman analyst buddy had been released into the wild for the night and his partner had given him the Goldman box—fifteen of us were invited. Amanda and I hit it off immediately: we were all hot dogs and kettle corn and cold beer for the three-hour stretch of the game. Every once in a while, she’d stop to look out on the field and yell: “Jeter, you’re such a little bitch!” but she was from Boston and a Red Sox fan, so I forgave this. Besides, her fiery attitude was perfectly in line with her red hair, her zeal. She was passionate about her med school, she was passionate about politics (we were in the midterm election cycle that year); it was only surprising that she was just as passionate about me. We took the subway home together, with everyone really, and when I went to exit at my parents’ stop, she said: “No, you’re not getting off here. Astor Place is your stop.” And so I abided.
But now it’s nearly midnight, and my neck hurts and my beer is flat and warm. I have promised Daisy that I’d stay until her friend, Tatum, who is wiping down the bar and shutting down some girl I recognize as the sister of an asshole I went to high school with, loses the bet.
“Bitch!” the girl yells at Tatum, who looks on with mild interest, the epitome of cool, not rattled in any way. I watch her for a beat, as that asshole’s sister falls off her stool and to the ground, and am struck by the fact that Tatum’s face doesn’t flinch for even the tiniest of seconds. I remember that asshole, how I’d be reading in the library and he’d come by and shove my book to the floor, and how I was dating Paige Brewer and he wanted to sleep with her, so he told me that she left her underwear in his locker. He’d taunt me, cajole me, and never once did my face not flinch, never did I shake him off so completely, like Tatum is able to shake off his sister now. She grabs her towel and wipes down the bar, and I wonder what I could learn from her, what she could teach me.
“I hope you don’t take her personally,” I say. “I went to high school with her older brother. I think being an asshole is genetic.”
She laughs at this, throws her head back like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard. I’m great at writing drama, milking emotion out of real life, but I’ve never been a comedian. Amanda never finds me gut-busting hilarious. Something needy swells in me. More.
“Free refill for you,” she says.
I wave her off, though not because I want to. I’m just trying to be responsible. I have an early shoot, and also she makes me uneasy, like I’m sitting here waiting for Amanda but want to be sitting here talking to her. I’ve never been disloyal, never even considered being unfaithful. I make a mental leap—to me unbuttoning Tatum’s shirt, kissing the nape of her neck—and then press it to the back of my brain. No.
“I don’t need another,” I say. “I’m on my way out.”
“You turn into a pumpkin before midnight?”
She’s closer now, and I can see how beautiful she is. Long brown hair tied up in a bun, sharp green eyes that probably veer toward hazel when the sky is overcast. She has a dimple on one cheek, a fan of freckles on her nose, not dark enough that she couldn’t cover them up, but tonight, she lets them breathe. I imagine, again, taking off her shirt.
“Nah, just . . . I have an early shoot tomorrow and the person I was meeting tonight never showed.”
“A shoot? I’m intrigued,” she says.
“Grad student.”
“Are you at Tisch? I’ve never seen you before; I’m there for theater.”
“I’m there for writing, MFA. You know, about to set the world on fire as the next big screenwriter.”
Shit. What a stupid fucking thing to say. Selling myself short, listening to the voice of my dad in my ear.
I add, “Or something like that. I don’t know, talk to my parents and they’ll tell you I gave up my very lucrative analyst position at Morgan Stanley for a graduate degree in film.”
“Banking boys are so boring. No wonder you quit.” She smiles and her dimple craters, and now I’m on to removing everything she has on, stripping her naked. “Eh, tell your parents to screw themselves.”
“I’m still living with them, so that’s a little hard.” Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Why am I saying all this? I play this off like I’m joking. Like I’m not sitting here exposing all of my shortcomings to the most intoxicating woman I’ve met since, well, since that Yankees game with Amanda.
“Yikes,” she says.
“Tell me about it.” I laugh, wave a hand, recover.
“Tatum Connelly.” She extends a hand, and I clasp it, don’t want to let go.
“Ben Livingston.” She winces when I do indeed hold on for a moment too long. “Sorry. Habit. Trained that way by my dad since I was six.”
“Fun childhood.”
“My dad’s only paying for grad school on the promise that I win an Oscar,” I offer, surprised to hear how quickly I share this confession.
But she grins and says: “So win an Oscar.” Like it’s nothing, like it’s not the finish line, the nearly unattainable triumph my father expects.
“Uh . . . OK.” I grin back because I like her breeziness, her candor. “Now you sound like him: ‘If you’re going to do something, Benjamin, you’d better at least be the best!’”
“There are worse role models,” she says, and something like sadness washes over her for a beat before she sheds it.
“I’m probably making it sound worse than it was.” I am. Mostly I love my parents, loved my childhood. No one is perfect; we all did our best. “You know, to make you feel sorry for me or something.”
“Fun childhoods are overrated,” she says, but then chews on her lip, lost in that same trail of thought that she doesn’t give me access to. “But why would you want me to feel sorry for you?”
“Oh, I don’t know, so when you get my phone number, you might take pity on me and actually call,” I say. Daisy kicks me from underneath my side of the bar.
“Come on,” she says, incredulous.
“Come on what?” I know I’m flirting now, in spite of Amanda, in spite of my previously unwavering loyalty. To Paige Brewer, to Melissa Thompson (college), to Felicia Hollis (also college), to Amanda.
“What makes you think I want your phone number?” she asks. “And even if I did want your phone number, why then wouldn’t I call? For your information, as a female bartender, I get numbers thrown at me all the time.” She’s rattled. I’ve been the one to rattle her. I picture her naked now, me beside her.
“Well, good, because I don’t hand out my number to strangers.” I grin. Daisy told me to drag this out for as long as possible, until after midnight.
“I’m not a stranger,” she says. “I’m Tatum.”
I want to say: I know. Now tell me everything about yourself because that won’t be enough. I want to consume you, breathe you, explore every inch of you.
Instead, I say, “But you don’t want my number, Tatum, so we don’t have anything to worry about.”
“Well, I don’t want your number, in fact.”
“Perfect,” I reply.
“Great,” she says. Then: “Well what if I do want your number?”
“I alread
y told you: I don’t give my number out to strangers who scare me.”
God, do I want to give her my number.
“Something else you learned in your childhood?”
“They trained me well.”
“What if I’m not a stranger?” she says. “What if I tell you something about my own less than fun childhood that assures that I’m just Tatum, your local friendly bartender!”
“I’ll consider it.”
“I started working when I was twelve, have had a job ever since,” she says. “So, no fun for me.”
“Hmmm. Nope.” I try to shut that down quickly, worried she’ll ask me about my own work experience, which is shamefully lacking. A camp counselor for a summer, teaching racquetball for another. I’ve never callused my hands, never worried about a paycheck. Certainly never slung drinks for assholish NYU trust fund brats.
“Oh, come on,” she says. “Are you going to make me beg?”
“Yes,” I say. Please beg, please ask me to do whatever you want me to do. I’m sold. “I am going to make you beg. Very much so. Come on, give me your best begging face.”
Daisy clutches my shin, then pulls herself up to eye level, tears building, then spilling down her cheeks. She grabs my arm to steady herself against the onslaught of her laughter.
“What?” Tatum looks from her to me then back to her. “Were you, like, crouching underneath the bar? Listening to this the whole time? I don’t . . . what the hell, Daisy?”
Daisy catches her breath in sputters. Then finally: “Tatum, Ben, Ben, Tatum. And just so you know, you lost.”
They both look at the clock on the back wall.
“I’m aware,” Tatum snaps. “And he and I met. As, evidently, you did too.” Then to me: “I take it you know her?”
“Ben wrote a short about dating I did a few months ago,” she says. “I told him about our ongoing contest to get numbers at the bar, and he wrote it into the script.”
“That Women Are from Mars short?” Tatum asks, her eyes wider. “That won an award last semester, didn’t it?”
“I just wrote the script,” I say. “She starred. And the dude who directed it, another guy I grew up with, actually got the award.” More deflection, more slighting myself though I know better. Shut. Up. Ben.
“All you fancy Manhattan kids,” she says. “The next Scorseses. But you, don’t do that.” She squeezes my shoulder and a jolt of adrenaline rushes to my heart.
“Do what?”
“Dismiss any notions of greatness, act like you’re not worthy of winning some award.”
The adrenaline shoots all the way through me, straight to my cheeks. She’s read me so well, like I’m transparent, like she can see right into my guts.
“I’m serious,” she says. “Like, if that had been my film, I’d be standing on top of this bar, screaming about it with a microphone.”
I debate telling her to prove it, that if she’s so chock-full of bravado, she should jump up on the bar and prove it. But I don’t need her to; I don’t want her to. I want to savor this moment, her having my back, just for us. Our eyes linger for a beat, and then I remember: Shit. Amanda. I stand abruptly, fishing my wallet from my back pocket, sliding forty dollars her way.
“I should go; looks like I’m getting stood up.”
“Well, that sucks. And you don’t owe me forty bucks.”
“It’s midnight, and you lost the bet,” I say, suddenly embarrassed, like she thinks I’m some rich kid who is trying to do her a favor. I clarify: “A big tip—an actual tip, not a wise-ass tip from that girl whose brother I knew—is the least I could do. And anyway, I actually feel kind of bad about setting you up to lose. I really never do things like that.” I point toward Daisy. “She begged me. So I apologize, and please, take the tip.”
Daisy nods. “I did. It was too perfect not to. But yes”—she holds up her right hand—“I can attest that Ben is the rare breed of actually decent man who is not a total asshole. I’ve known him since we were kids.”
“Nice,” I say, hoping that Tatum will recognize the truth behind Daisy’s sarcasm, then hoping she won’t, because she doesn’t seem like the type who goes for nice guys.
“She’s not from here,” Daisy interrupts. “She’s only very recently become acquainted with New York men.”
“Ohio,” Tatum says with a shrug. “We breed only nice men in Ohio. Nice men who don’t trick us into losing.”
“Thus, the forty dollars.”
“Well, I don’t like losing.” She frowns, and the freckles on her nose shift into a new constellation, and I’m back to wanting to remove all of her clothes. “And I do like big tips.”
“No one really likes losing. And I think everyone likes good tips.”
“Are you making fun of me?”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. God, that is the last thing I intended. I’m like the five-year-old on the playground, poking fun at the girl he likes. But I don’t like her. I’m with Amanda. I try to recenter. “I swear, I am not making fun of you. And I have Daisy to testify that I am indeed a non-asshole New York guy who wouldn’t do that sort of thing.”
“We went to Dalton together,” Daisy says. “I’ve known him since forever.”
“I suppose that losing a bet and getting forty bucks is better than getting stood up, so my night is not quite as bad as yours.” Tatum shrugs again. “So fine, I will see your forty bucks and raise you a tequila shot. On the house.”
“I’m not sure if I’m quite being stood up . . . it’s complicated. My girlfriend’s in her third year of med school. I mean, I think she’s still my girlfriend. I can’t quite pinpoint when I last saw her, so . . .” I watch Tatum, wondering if she’ll betray any interest. She raises her eyebrows for just a glimmer of a second, and I tell myself that’s enough. It’s enough to hold on to for now.
“So I couldn’t have gotten your number even if I hadn’t been set up by my so-called best friend?” She smiles, and her whole face opens into something radiant.
“Hey, Daisy put me up to it.”
She downs her shot, so I do too. “Well, I guess you owe me one.”
“Well,” I say. “I guess I do.”
2016 (NOW)
36
TATUM
NOVEMBER
I see Ben as he leans over the white fencing that separates the path from the cliff down to the beach. He tilts over and assesses, then rights himself and starts toward the steps to the ocean. I sink lower in the driver’s seat, though I’m a block away and the SUV has tinted windows, which usually guard against the prying eyes of fans who recognize me or paparazzi who need a slice of me whenever they manage to track me down. I’ve gotten better at evading them; figured out how to leave early before they plant themselves outside my gate, or how to barter for a good shot if they agree to give me freedom for the rest of the day. So for now, I’m alone, something I rarely am anymore, an irony that isn’t lost on me now that Ben doesn’t sleep on his side of the bed.
I’d realized I’d forgiven him a few weeks ago. He’d shown up to get Joey for the weekend, and rather than abruptly stand by the door and make courteous small talk (or have Constance do it and skip it altogether), I surprised myself by inviting him in.
“Really?” His brow wrinkled and the corners of his lips curled into a smile. “Well, sure, OK!”
I poured him a coffee—all black like he always took it—and he pulled up a stool at the kitchen island, wrapping his hands around his mug like it was warming him from within.
Neither of us quite knew where to start.
“So,” Ben said.
“So,” I replied.
There were so many things I wanted to ask, mostly How are you and Do you miss me? Which I hadn’t even realized were on my mind or were something resonating within me until he was there, clutching his coffee like he’d done a thousand times in front of me before.
But before either of us could find anything important or even casual to say, Joey came rushing down the steps
and threw himself on Ben’s leg.
“Daddy! You’re here in the kitchen! Does this mean you guys are getting back together?”
We both cleared our throats, and Ben set his mostly full mug in the sink, and they were gone before I could ask Ben to stay longer, which I’d found myself rehearsing in my head while he sipped his coffee, the silence hovering between us, the bubble of so much unsaid hovering too. I washed the mug afterward, staring out the window above the kitchen sink, wondering how that can happen: how in an instant you can forgive someone without consciously doing so, how you can miss someone without recognizing how lonely you were without them.
It had been well over a year since we blew up, almost two, if you start with that day when I told him about Leo, when I admitted I knew about the affair. So long that it was hard to remember who had wronged whom. There was Amanda, of course, his infidelity. But I’d wronged him in plenty of ways too: Leo, yes, but also in the smaller ways that I chose my career over him, put him second. It wasn’t that I apologized for my ambition, but I’d come to recognize that ambition and thoughtfulness are not incompatible.
A year or two is a long time to hold on to bruises that you’re partially responsible for making.
This morning, near the Santa Monica beach, I watch Ben disappear over the crest of the horizon down the steps to the sand, and then he’s gone. I adjust my sunglasses and an old Tisch hat that I used to wear when Daisy and I went power walking, when I had all that baby weight to lose.
I knew he’d be here, though we haven’t spoken in four days. But we still know each other well, or I like to think that I still know him—love him—well enough to know that he’d be here, remembering Leo on his birthday, that time when Ben told me it felt like the world stopped, and it was just the two of them and the waves on the ocean.
I glance up and down Ocean Avenue to ensure that no one has tailed me here, that I haven’t been followed by the long lens of a prying camera. But the street is empty on this sunless Sunday morning. Joey is at a school retreat for the weekend. The isolation, which I’ve grown used to, built around myself like armor, feels lonelier, cooler today, and I want to reach for Ben to warm me, like the Tin Man who was looking for a heart and needed to be loved.
Between Me and You Page 29