Just Friends With Benefits

by Schorr, Meredith

  “I know. I’m still in shock myself. Jess has been trying to tell me since last night but said she couldn’t find the right moment.” Eric then looked over at Jess, who was talking to Hope, and said, “She’s got some strange timing but I’m not complaining. That woman can do no wrong right now.”

  “You’re gonna make a great dad, Eric. You always took care of me when I puked in the fraternity house.” Mock glaring at Paul, I said, “My loving boyfriend at the time just directed me to the bathroom and lifted the toilet seat. You, however, actually held my hair back once. Yes, you will make a great daddy!” Naked slip ‘n slide participation notwithstanding.

  Laughing, Eric responded, “My kid isn’t drinking until he’s thirty. And, if she’s a girl, make it forty.”

  “Good luck with that, Dad,” I said before turning to Jess who had finally separated from an extremely long embrace with Hope.

  I remembered the night I had met Jess, my junior year of college. Eric, a senior, was bartending at the Longpost on a Monday night and the bar was empty save for me, Paul and the spunky red-head freshman Eric had met earlier that weekend. Eric fed us free drinks all night, which led to Jess’s drunk confession that she thought Paul and I were an odd match. Prophetically we broke up the following month, deciding we’d be better off as friends.

  Pouncing myself on Jess, gently of course to avoid hurting the unborn baby, I exclaimed, “My turn!” After we hugged, I said, “I’m so happy for you guys. Truly.”

  “Thanks, Steph. You ready to be an aunt again?” Jess asked.

  Wiping a tear from my eye, I said, “Really? You want me to be an aunt?”

  “Absolutely!” Jess said.

  I turned to Hope and said, “And Hope doesn’t mind sharing the title?”

  Wrapping her arms around me, Hope said, “Hope doesn’t mind! We can have fun buying baby clothes together. If it’s a girl, we can teach her about men. And if it’s a boy, we can teach him how to treat women!”

  Eric, who had just walked over, said, “Uh, the child is not even born yet. Can you refrain from discussing him/her in the context of sex at least until we know what sex it is?”

  “Speaking of which, how far along are you?” I asked. “You’re certainly not showing.”

  “Only seven weeks. I know you aren’t supposed to tell people during the first trimester but I couldn’t imagine keeping something like this from you guys, especially when I’m in an apartment full of alcohol and drinking juice!” Jess then rubbed her belly, something I had a feeling she’d do often during the next seven or so months—at least if she was anything like my sister-in-law and every other pregnant woman I had ever known.

  “If you guys don’t mind, I think Jess and I are going to try to check into a hotel and do our own celebrating,” Eric said.

  “You’re seriously gonna blow off my thirty-fifth birthday? Some friends you are!” Paul said. We all looked at Paul in disbelief until we noticed he was grinning.

  “You’re such an ass,” Hille said. Then he took an unopened bag of Doritos from the kitchen counter and threw it at Paul. Eric followed Hille’s lead with an unopened bag of potato chips and Hope joined in with an unopened box of Bavarian-style pretzels. Feeling left out, I grabbed the closest bag I could find—Fritos—and tossed it in Paul’s direction.

  Except the bag I grabbed was opened and the chips went flying all over his oak parquet floor.

  Everyone started laughing and Paul, of course, said, “Could you be more of a spaz, Steph?”

  Bending down to pick up the chips, I responded, “No.” and looked up at Hille red-faced. “Sorry, Craig.”

  Clearly trying not to laugh, Hille said, “No worries” and bent down to help me.

  I decided it was not a good time to ask him his biggest fear.

  Twenty-two

  Hille got Jess and Eric a reservation at the Sheraton Suites in Weehawken and after my initial disappointment that Jess and Eric weren’t hanging out, I decided going out with just Hille, Paul and Hope could be a good thing. Although Paul and Hope had been dating for about six months, the long distance extended the newlywed stage and they tended to sneak away a lot. Alone time with Hille could mean more time to ask him questions.

  Aside from Hille, none of us had ever been out in Hoboken, so we trusted his judgment when he suggested Scotland Yard, a European-style pub around the corner from his building. On the way, we passed rows of brownstones and at least one real estate company and two bars on every block. As we walked, Hille and I slightly ahead of Paul and Hope, I got a positive vibe and had a feeling it would be a good night.

  “It’s that one over there,” Hille said, gesturing towards a bar with a bright red telephone booth at the entrance. “Sometimes they have live blues bands here, but I’m not sure about Saturday nights.”

  Taking a sideways glance at Hille, who was staring straight ahead towards the bar, I said, “I’m sure it will be fun. I’m all about the company anyway.”

  “And they have a great beer selection, too,” Hille said.

  When we got inside, we headed directly for the bar and Hille bought the first round. It wasn’t long before we lost Paul and Hope and, after Hille and I found an empty corner, I held up my beer and said, “Cheers, Craig.”

  Hille repeated, “Cheers,” clinked his glass against mine and smiled at me.

  “So, Hoboken seems pretty cool. You happy here?” I asked.

  “Happy enough, I guess, and certainly happier than I was before. My commute went from over an hour to less than thirty minutes and there’s much more to do here at night than there was in Newton – where I used to live. “

  “Is this where you want to settle down? I mean, in New Jersey?”

  “Probably not, but I make more money working in New York than I would in most other places so, for now, it’s good. If money wasn’t an issue, though? That would be a different story.”

  “Where would you live if money wasn’t an issue?” I asked. Another question not on the list but certainly worth asking.

  Hille put his beer down on the built-in shelf on the wall and looked at me thoughtfully. “I don’t know, maybe Richmond, Virginia. Or out west, like Washington State or San Diego.”

  “Remember Lori Wasserstein from my dorm sophomore year? She lived in San Diego—loved it. It’s supposedly beautiful there and never gets too humid, unlike D.C., in the summer.” Yes, I could definitely see myself relocating there someday. I’d rarely have to worry about bad hair days.

  “Isn’t Lori the one who married a baron or something?” Hille asked.

  “A baron? I don’t think so. Lori? A baroness?” Laughing, I said, “Lori’s claim to fame was mooning strangers at every opportunity.”

  Hille assumed a serious expression. “Maybe the baron was so impressed with her ass he fell in love at first ass-sighting?”

  “If Lori’s white ass can hook a baron, there might actually be hope for me.”

  Hille nodded. “I’m sure if you dropped trough right now, you could hook a baron, too.”

  “Yes, cuz Scotland Yard is just bursting to the seams with barons.”

  ‘You never know. It is a Scottish bar.”

  We laughed together until Hille noticed my beer was empty and offered to get me another one. I followed him with my eyes and let out a sigh of contentment. Things were looking good.

  A few minutes later, our eyes locked as he walked towards me with our drinks and I smiled at him and widened my eyes, hoping I looked flirtatious and not like a bugged-eyed tree frog. “Thanks, Craig. One of these days, you’ll have to let me buy you a beer, okay?”

  “Okay. I promise that if…”

  Suddenly Hope appeared at my side and said, “You’ve got to get me out of here, Steph.”

  I looked up at Hille, who looked at me and then at Hope.

  “What’s wrong, Hope?” he asked.

  Hope stood with her hands on her hips and said, “What’s wrong is that your best friend is an asshole. That’s what’s wrong.”


  “Umm hmm. Okay, then. Let me find Paul,” Hille said. And before I could say anything, he had walked away and was lost in the crowd.

  I wondered why Paul had to ruin my night but forced myself to snap out of it and tend to my friend.

  “What happened, Hope?”

  Hoped pulled her long red hair into a ponytail and clipped it into a bun. “Nothing ‘happened,’ Steph. We were just talking about stupid shit—nonsense really—and he started telling me what he had planned for the next several months.” Hope stopped speaking and just looked at me.

  “And?”

  “And, do you know that Paul has his weekends planned for the next six weeks and doesn’t seem to think there is anything wrong with the fact that none of those weekends involve seeing me?”

  “Oh.”

  “Oh is right. So, Steph, do you still think Paul is so into me?”

  I knew if I told Hope that I did believe Paul was still crazy about her, she wouldn’t believe me or she would ask me to explain why he would plan six weekends without a woman he was crazy about. I had no answer for her. “Let’s go someplace else and get hammered,” I said.

  Hope smiled, the color back in her face. “Where?”

  I put down my half-empty beer and motioned for Hope to follow me to the exit. “Did you see how many bars we passed between Hille’s apartment and here?” I asked. “I’m sure we’ll find a place. Let’s just go.”

  I had tossed aside my paranoia about saving Hille’s number to my phone and, as we walked across the street and into the nearest bar, I sent him a text, “Took Hope to Hobson’s Choice. See you later :).”

  By some stroke of luck, we found two spots at the bar and sat down. I bought us SoCo and lime shots and two beers and before we did the shot, we recited our favorite chant “Here’s to the men who we love. Here’s to the men who love us. And to the men we love who don’t love us, fuck the men and here’s to us!”

  After we did the shot, Hope got silent, her eyes focused on the filthy floor of the bar. I patted her shoulder gently and asked, “So, what exactly are these plans Paul has for the next six weeks?” I selfishly wondered whether Hille was involved in any of these plans and if Hope’s lack of involvement would translate into six weeks without any excuse to see him.

  “I don’t want to talk about him, Steph.” She pointed at the crowd, specifically at a group of boys playing pool a few feet away. “Lots of cuties here. Check ‘em out.”

  I took note of the cuties in the bar. “Too bad they all look like jailbait,” I said.

  “I’m sick of dating old men. Maybe it’s time I found a more age-appropriate boyfriend.”

  “He’s only thirty-five! Plus, his maturity level is that of an eighth grader. Doesn’t that kind of balance things out for you?” I joked.

  “I love him, Stephanie.” She was not joking.

  Pretending I knew even the slightest bit about love, I offered my best advice. “Love is a battlefield, Hope. Suit up.”

  “I’ll do that,” she said somberly. Then she got up and said, “Going to the bathroom. Be back in a sec.”

  I took the opportunity to check my cell phone. I didn’t want to care whether Hille had returned my text but I did. He had, but it wasn’t much better than no text at all. All he said was, “Okay. See you later.” I put my phone back in my bag and imagined how the night would’ve gone if Hope and Paul had not fought. We would’ve talked for hours, moving seamlessly from topic to topic. As the time went by, we would stand closer to each other and look at each other’s lips while we spoke. When he excused himself to go to the bathroom, he would put his hand on my shoulder or on the small of my back before he walked away. Or, better yet, we would go to the bathroom at the same time and, rather than find Hope and Paul when he was finished, he would wait for me and be standing outside the girl’s bathroom when I walked out, ready to pick up where we had left off. If only Hope and Paul hadn’t fought.

  When Hope returned, she was smiling. “Paul called.”

  “Yeah? What did he say?”

  “He said it was all a big misunderstanding and he wanted to talk about it face-to-face.”

  “Where are they?” I asked. I hoped they were still at Scotland Yard so Hille and I could get back to our talk.

  “Heading back to the apartment.”

  “I guess that means you want to get going, too?”

  “Are you mad?”

  “Of course not. Let’s get out of here.”

  When Hille let us into the apartment, Paul stood up from the couch and Hope walked over to him slowly. I could tell she was nervous. She loved him. I kind of had a feeling, but to hear her say it was strange. I wondered if she had ever said it to him. Paul and I had never said “I love you” in the two years we were together. We said it all of the time now but, of course, in a different way. Hope was now sitting next to Paul on the couch and he was holding her hand. I decided it was time to stop watching them and looked for Hille. He was in the kitchen throwing empty beer bottles in the trash.

  “Need some help?” I asked.

  “Nope. I’m good. Want another beer?”

  “Sure. Strange night, huh?”

  Hille poured a bottle of heffeweizen into a glass and placed it in front of me on his granite countertop. Then he grinned and said, “Aren’t they all?”

  Hope and Paul were now kissing. As I tried not to look in the direction of the living room, I said, “I feel kind of like a voyeur.”

  “Just a bit awkward, huh? Why don’t we bring a bunch of beers into my room? We can watch tv.”

  “Okay.” I had a feeling I would be spending the night in Hille’s room—not that I was complaining—so I grabbed my bag on the way. I didn’t want to be in need of my toothbrush later and too afraid to leave the room at the risk of catching Hope and Paul going at it on Hille’s pull-out couch.

  Hille’s room was scantily furnished with just a queen-sized bed, a mahogany dresser and chest set and a small television. There were no chairs, so when he sat on the bed, I followed suit. As I watched him flip through the channels, I wondered what he was thinking and tried not to fidget.

  “Seinfeld okay with you?” he asked.

  “Absolutely. I love Seinfeld.” I looked at the television and immediately noticed one of my favorite episodes was on. “I love this episode!” I said.

  Hille looked from me to the television set and back to me. “You sort of remind me of Elaine, ya know?”

  I wasn’t sure how to take that. I thought Julia Louis Dreyfus was pretty but didn’t think I looked anything like her.

  As if reading my mind, Hille said, “Not her looks.”

  I hoped Hille wasn’t referring to my dancing abilities. I wasn’t likely to try out for ‘So You Think You Can Dance,’ but I had a modicum of rhythm. “In what way then?” I asked.

  Hille motioned towards the television where Elaine was trapped on the subway and cursing into oblivion. “I can see you doing that.”

  I laughed. He had me pegged and I was pleased he was so observant. “You, on the other hand, are so calm. You probably never lose it,” I said.

  “You’d be surprised, Steph. I’ve had road rage many times. It’s not pretty. Trust me.”

  “Glad to hear it. You seem so put together sometimes, you make the rest of us look bad.”

  Hille shrugged but didn’t say anything and I returned my attention to the television. While pretending to watch, I thought about how to work some of my questions into the conversation. I turned back towards Hille and said, “So, Craig, have you ever been in love?” I didn’t know what caused me to choose practically the deepest question on my list and wished I’d asked about his first rock concert instead.

  Hille looked pained as he turned to face me. Feeling stupid, I bit my lip and hoped he didn’t think I’d asked because I thought he was in love with me.

  “No,” Hille said. “Never been in love.” Then he leaned in, planted a soft peck on my lips and pulled away to look at me. He still looked
pained.

  I wanted to know why he chose that moment to kiss me and why he looked pained but I didn’t have the guts to ask.

  “What?” I whispered.

  “Nothing.” Then he chuckled and said, “Can I kiss you again, Elaine?”

  As I nodded my permission and opened my mouth against his, I told myself that Hille initiating meant he really wanted me and so what if he wasn’t into drawn out conversations?