Page 3 of The Best You've Ever Had

I pullup to Ben’s home in a cookie cutter track-style neighborhood. A strange feeling settles in my chest as I grab the plate of sweets and march up the snow-lined path to his home.

Last time I saw him, we were both kids. Young adults with big dreams and zero sense of how the world operates. Now we’re both well into adulthood, with places of our own, grownup jobs, and the bitter taste of reality.

I had known since my father left and parents divorced that life is hard and unrelenting.

While Ben on the other hand, always had a good, easy life. His parents were well off money-wise, and in a happy and healthy marriage. He got A’s throughout school without much effort, while I had to study for hours to do well on tests. Girls flung themselves at him, while I didn’t grow into my looks until my early twenties. Life for him has been easy, and now he’s experiencing a taste of this other side of the coin. The dark, crushing side where bad things happen to good people.

I knock on the wood of the dark brown door with my knuckles three times. Besides the sound of the television blaring from inside, there is no movement or other signs of human life.This motherfucker better not be dead, because I don’t have the bandwidth for that right now.

“Open up. It’s Layla,” I yell through the door.

No response.

I knock again—obnoxiously persistent for a solid thirty seconds. Still, he doesn’t answer.

Spotting the security camera above the porch light, I point up at it and say, “Don’t make me break down this door. You know I gladly will.”

Then I ring the doorbell, over and over again until, finally, the door creaks open.

He stands before me, holding himself up with one hand on the jamb of the door. A pissed off look resides in his eyes as he simply stands there, glaring at me like I’m the devil’s incarnate.

My belly does a strange flip flop. It’s the first time I’ve seen him in the flesh since graduation. Pictures on social media do not do his transformation justice. Over the last eleven years, he has turned from a boy to a full on ridiculously handsome man. His tall and lanky form has massively filled out, with biceps straining against the fabric of his shirt. His black hair is a mess, as if he’s run his hands through it a million times. And it dawns on me. He is exactly the type of man I’d go for; but, personality wise, he is the complete opposite of what I’d ever want.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he says, voice full of disdain.

I walk into his house, pushing past the resistance of his body from attempting to stop me from entering. “Checking inon you. Our moms were worried since apparently you’ve fallen off the face of the earth.”

“Well, you’ve checked in. I’m alive. Now you can go.” He opens the door and gestures his hand out, waiting for me to turn around and leave.

I take one look around his house and instantly know that’s not happening. Dirty dishes and empty beer bottles are scattered throughout. Multiple piles of laundry sit on a lounge chair adjacent to the couch. And some trashy show about pawn shops is playing on the television. “If you would’ve picked up your damn phone, I wouldn’t have needed to come here. Do us both a favor and stop ignoring your family.”

With one hand still on the handle of the wide-open door, he glances down as if he’s been caught red-handed. He looks beat down and tired. And my heart swells with empathy for what he’s going through. I don’t want to care, but fuck, I do.

I also know I can’t coddle him. This back-and-forth has always been our dynamic.

Walking back over to the door, I gently lift his hand off the knob and shut it. We stand there, staring at one another in silence. Eyes simultaneously taking in the other’s changes over the years, all while not backing down from whatever weird showdown this is.

Finally he sighs and walks over to the fridge, popping it open and digging around for awhile before coming back up with two beers. I sit at his kitchen table, scooting junk mail and an old pizza box to the side. He places a beer in front of me, before cracking open his own, as he sits on the dining room chair across from me. The way he sways on the chair, all loose limbs and tired muscles, tells me everything I need to know about him right now.

I nod in his direction. “You look like shit.”

His dark eyes snap up to mine. “Did you come all this way just to insult me?”

“Oh yeah, totally. Flew all the way here purely so I could kick some sense into your ass.”

With the beer bottle to his downturned lips, he sarcastically mutters, “A waste of a trip if I do say so myself.”

I lean over the table and snatch the clear glass bottle from his hand. As I take a sip from it and place it out of his reach, he yells out in protest. “What the fuck?”

“It’s apparent you don’t need anymore alcohol. You smell like a fucking bar.” I grab my phone, unlock it and slide it over to him. “Now grow a pair and call your mom or Mick.”

He glances between me and the phone sitting on the oak table, caught off guard by my brash behavior. “I can’t.”

“And why not?”

Leaning back in his chair, he grabs a fistful of dark hair in frustration. “Because.”

“Because, what? Just say it already.”

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