Page 102 of Burn Bright
He eyes me curiously, but we don’t expand on the topic because a rush of drenched college students stumbles into the empty bar. They shrug off sopping rain jackets. “Cool, Spider-Man is on tonight,” one says.
The next SundayWhen Harry Met Sally…plays to the delight of many patrons. I enjoy the cycle of New York centric films.West Side Story, Annie, Paris is Burning,andBig.
Bartending on the weekend rapidly becomes a highlight of my week. Then soon, it tops as my favorite activity. I can admit it’s because of Ben. Getting to spend time with him outside of class still makes me weirdly giddy, and as we’ve grown closer, I feel myself anticipating it. Counting down to Saturdays and Sundays to work alongside him.
In three weeks, he’s perfected the art of a good beer pour, and his whiskey sour has even outclassed mine. Whenever I fear I’ve accidentally ticked off a customer, he slides in with a charming smile and all the right words.
He smooths over my bumps. My hard edges. But never makes me feel as if I need to apologize for the gristle and the bite. It’seasierbeing myself when he’s around. Attaching myself to this feeling means attaching myself to him, right?
At times, it scares me to want Ben around this much, but fuck, isn’t this what life is about? To find and surround yourself with people that make living feellessdifficult.
The End of the World goes from a sleepy dive bar to a hot spot for twentysomethings once news around Manhattan Valley’s campus gets out thattheBen Cobalt periodically works here.
Ben says it’s a miracle his brothers still don’t know since he told his little sister the truth, and especially because his parentslearned from his bodyguard. Without even realizing it’s a secret, Rose and Connor have kept it for him.
I wish I had that relationship with my mom.
If I did still talk to her, she probably would’ve typed and printed out my deepest secrets and taped them to every lamppost in the city. She has a way of always being right. Of making sure I’m wrong. Of letting me know I will nevereverbe better than her.
Aunt Helena says it’s because Hope hates my dad so much that she can’t see past the half of my DNA that belongs to him. Punching me down is her way of socking it to him, I guess.
Luckily, my busy college schedule casts out most thoughts about her.
August bleeds away in a fever dream of homework assignments, undergrad research, volunteering at the hospital, first exams of the semester, and bartending. Ben comes over to my apartment too many nights to count. He helps make flashcards for my anatomy class, quizzes me on the circulatory system, and reads my essay for my application into the Honors House. I listen to him vent about whaling and learn way more about microplastics than I ever have in my life. He doesn’t urge me to change my ways, but with knowledge comes great responsibility (semi-thanks goes to Spider-Man), and I decide it’s better to switch my plastic Tupperware for a glass one I find at a thrift store.
He introduces me to jackfruit, which blows my mind. It has the same texture as shredded meat and a tasty, mild flavor. I start swapping it for tuna in my sandwiches after he explains overfishing and bycatches. All I can think about are the little sea turtles and seabirds being scooped up in fishing nets and thrown away like trash.
I can honestly listen to Ben talk for hours. And I do. Surprisingly, I find myself talking just as much.
Even more surprisingly, he hasn’t tired of me.
I could stand in the middle of Times Square and scream those words into throngs of tourists. It’s revolutionary. And even with my jam-packed schedule, I still yearn for nightly phone calls with him as if this is the new episode in the addictive TV show called My Life.
Tonight, I chew on the end of a Twizzler, earbuds in, and scroll through a shared notes app where we plugged in our class schedules—our attempt to find an available window to meet for a bite to eat together on campus.
I smile reading it. I knew he picked the Tuesday, Thursday strategy of stacking all his classes on those two days. I would’ve done the same, but Latin was only offered on the Monday, Wednesday, Friday schedule, and trying to fit three-hour labs on Tuesday or Thursday was near impossible.
“I should’ve joined you in Beginner Volleyball,” I say, my voice picking up in the mic of my earbuds. My phone is face-up on the coffee table. Ben’s picture on the screen.
He took the pic at work when he realized I didn’t have his photo in my contacts. Wearing his signature baseball cap, he holds up a peace sign and smirks in the camera. Can’t lie—he’s hot.
I have a hot jock’s photo in my phone.
I haveBen Cobalt’sphoto in my phone.
All things that make me slump down in the lumpy couch cushion like I’m about to kick my feet and fuckinggiggle.
What are these feelings, Harriet?
I’m not in high school anymore. This feels like something I should have already experienced in eleventh grade. Missed that, apparently.
But is there really an age cut-off to being infatuated? Oh my God, am Iinfatuatedwith him?
“No, you would’ve hated volleyball,” Ben says through my earbuds. “Hannah Payne broke her nose yesterday after some Kappa Phi douchebag spiked the ball at her. Whole court was full of blood.”
I’ve gotten used to him referring to random people by their full names. Some of them, he’s friends with. The kind of friends who invite him to parties or who sit beside him in class to share notes. Others, he just met, but the way he talks, you’d never know.
“Really putting thepainin Payne,” I deadpan.
