Page 56 of Stuck With the Best Man

I roll my eyes and toss my hair over my shoulder, having tamed it as best as I can. Still, he keeps looking at me with that unreadable expression on his face.

There’s an awkward pause. In the light of the new day, everything that happened yesterday feels like a weird nightmare. Everything we talked about… and argued about… and that insanely personal conversation I initiated late last night… I feel like the entire world has been turned upside down.

I feel completely out of control.

“We should probably get on the road,” I say.

Ben murmurs his agreement. I slip out of the bed and pad over to my suitcase. Cancelled class or not, I have every intention of heading to the studio as soon as I drop my suitcase off at my apartment downtown, so I grab a leotard, some leggings, and my favorite warm-up cardigan. Without glancing in Ben’s direction, I scurry into the bathroom.

One glance in the mirror assures me that I don’t look like a total disaster. My eyes are a little puffy, but nothing so dramatic that would give Ben a reason to stare at me like that. Maybe he’s just not a morning person.

I get dressed, wash my face, and then return to my suitcase to pack everything neatly away again. I’m embarrassingly aware of every movement he makes as he rummages through his own weekend bag and then shuffles into the bathroom.

The pointe shoe I threw at him last night is neatly tucked into its companion. I huff out a quiet laugh. I’m not usually so impulsive, but at least he seemed to find it funny. Perhaps people on the board simply expect to be attacked with pointe shoes at least once or twice during their career.

By the time I zip up my suitcase, he’s also ready to go. He’s not as meticulous about making sure everything fits neatly into his bag. Somehow, for the first time in my life, I find that sort of untidiness oddly endearing. It suits him—the haphazardness of it all.

It’s only seven thirty when we check out. A few other hotel guests are milling around in the lobby, frowning at the meager breakfast pickings thanks to the power outage. Luckily, it looks like we might be the first people to get out of here. Hopefully, that means we’ll beat the bulk of the traffic.

Hopefully.

Ben and I fall into an easy, steady rhythm. Though we’ve only spent a handful of days together at this point, there’s a silent sense of understanding between us. We move like magnets, instinctively aware of each other without having to say a word.

In no time at all, we’re in the car and back on the road.

To say the least, it’s a disaster zone. Ben has to do some careful navigating through this forgotten small town to avoid hitting large branches and suspicious lumps of foliage scattered across the road.

“If we get another flat tire, at least I know how to change it this time,” he comments.

“Do you have another spare back there?”

“Oh… no, I don’t.” He flinches, realizing that his new skill is basically useless if he doesn’t have a fresh tire to actually put on the car.

I feel the need to make him feel better. “At least you learned something new.”

“True.”

The awkward silence returns. I’m not sure I really know what’s going on. Ishefinally annoyed withme? Is he sick and tired of being in my presence after all the chaos of yesterday? Did he finally reach his tolerance for my persistent bad attitude?

If that’s the case, I can’t exactly be mad at him for it. It’s only fair. I’ve been cold and unfriendly toward him since the rehearsal dinner. I wouldn’t blame him if he regrets letting me ride with him back to the city.

When we finally hit the highway, I’m relieved to discover that it hasn’t been too badly ravaged by the storm. There’s some scattered debris, but it looks like the flooding didn’t hit this area—or it otherwise dried up in the past few hours. Better yet, the traffic hasn’t accumulated yet. It’s easy enough for us to pull off onto an exit with a Starbucks drive-through, collect our breakfast and caffeine, and get back on the road.

“It’s eerily clear out here,” Ben comments after about half an hour of smooth sailing. “I was expecting bedlam on the roads.”

“We’re still in western Mass,” I remind him. “We might reach bedlam the closer to New York we get.”

“Good point.”

Then, once again, unbearably, the awkward silence returns.

I stare out the window, stretching my legs without really paying attention. Ben turns the radio on to a local news station—ongoing reports of the aftermath of the twin storms becomes a dull hum in the background of my thoughts.

I don’t know what to say to him. It feels stupid to blurt outThanks for the ride, by the way. How did words flow so easily between us yesterday and now refuse to come today?

I think about what he told me last night. About his family. He shared so much of himself so willingly, like he considers me a friend or like he’s never had any reason to think that someone might use his personal troubles against him. Maybe Ben is so used to being adored by everyone that he never bothered to learn how to guard his back. That’s why he’s an open book. It must be nice to be that way. To trust easily. To want to offer your heart to anyone who offers you even the slightest of smiles.

I’ve never been that way. Anxiety and natural introversion created a cocktail of instinctive distrust within me. Even my own twin didn’t get access to every facet of my heart and soul. Then, when I started taking ballet more seriously, it was a good thing that I was private and kept to myself. It helped me stay out of the way of the more viciously competitive dancers and kept me safe from the petty sabotage that sometimes occurred in those junior classes full of spoiled teenagers.

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