Page 48 of One on One
I could swear I hear Ben snort from across the hall.
There’s something about this place that makes it impossible for me to keep my distance. I’ve had more personal conversations here in the last four months than I had at my previous workplaces combined in the last eight years. “Can’t you be nice? I’m single on Valentine’s Day. Maybe I’m wallowing.”
“You? Nah.” Whatever that’s supposed to mean, it doesn’t sound good. She jerks her head toward Ben’s office. “Him, though? Maybe.”
“Ouch,” Ben says. He sounds more entertained than offended, but there’s a kernel of truth in Donna’s analysis. Ben is sincere, responsible, clean. He was made to be somebody’s boyfriend.
Four hours pass at an excruciatingly slow pace, the ounces on my water bottle dropping away like the tide going out. At nine o’clock, I check the score for the thirtieth time. The game is going into triple overtime, and it’s time to accept that Paul and Big Ed are bailing. On the bright side, I am fully hydrated.
Rain check, Paul texts a few minutes after I see the score.Getting late. Have to see the end of this one.
And, yeah, it’s triple overtime. It would be unreasonable to expect them to leave before the end. They’re like Dad, and it would’ve been physically impossible for anyone to draghim out of his seat to make an early exit from a game like this one.
It would’ve been nice, that’s all. Dad, Paul, and Big Ed used to go to this frozen-in-1974 Italian restaurant near the high school after every home game to debrief over bar pies. As a kid I always begged to tag along, and Dad let me. We’d stay out way past my bedtime, and they’d strategize and reminisce about the old days, and I’d soak it all in while mainlining Shirley Temples. Sometimes I’d fall asleep on the faux leather cushion of the booth and Dad would have to carry me to the car.
They’ll make up for tonight some other time, so it doesn’t make sense that I’ve got a lump in my throat that I’m trying to swallow, or a knuckle pressed up against the outer corner of each eye. I was looking forward to spending time with them, that’s all. And I’m exhausted. I’ll get over it by tomorrow.
What I wouldn’t be able to get over is letting Ben see me cry in the office on Valentine’s Day. If I pack up my stuff quietly enough and take the stairs, I can slip out without saying good night.
When he appears in the doorway, I have one arm in a camel wool coat, my tote slung in the crook of my other elbow. “Hey,” he says in a gentle voice. He looks at my jacket and then my face. I busy myself with my bag, digging around the bottom so my head is nearly inside it.
“You heading out too?” My voice is overly chipper, but I’ve been caught. I’m sure my eyes are puffy, my cheeks blotchy. There’s no hiding.
He shoves his hands into his pockets and rocks back onhis heels, studying me carefully. “I saw people talking about the game online. Sounds epic.”
“Yeah, I told the guys not to worry about dinner. It’s too good to miss.”
Peeking up from the jumble of lip balm tubes and loose change, I see him nod slowly, working his jaw back and forth. Uh-oh. I thought he was letting me off the hook, but the longer he stands there the more likely it is he’s going to try to say something nice—
“Come on. Let’s go out to dinner.”
I withdraw my face from my bag. “Like, me and you? Together?”
My mind flashes to the night Quincy hurt his ankle, to Ben’s hand on my hip when we fought over his phone. Goddamn. That memory invades my thoughts at the most inconvenient times. Despite the completely nonsexual context, my legs go liquid when I think about it, which is too often. I could sketch the exact position of his palm and each fingertip from memory. His grip was steady. Decisive. Purposeful.
If I dwell on it too much, I short-circuit.
He rolls his eyes. “Yes, me and you. We both need to eat. It won’t be that different from every other night. We’ll just be sitting in the same room for once.”
That’s true. Recently, he’s started poking his head in to ask if I want anything when he orders food. We eat at our own desks and talk about basketball from across the hall.
But this feels different. It’s not about convenience, or passing the time while taking a break. This is intentional. I should probably decline, because my body and mind will end up more confused than they already are.
Except I want to go. The idea of retreating to myapartment is too depressing to contemplate, and being around Ben is easy. He’s good company.
I’ll build a fortress of sarcasm to protect myself, like I always do. It’ll be fine.
“You want to have dinner with metonight?” I ask.
“Don’t overthink it,” he grumbles.
I clasp my hands to my chest and bite my lip. “On Valentine’s Day?”
He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. He went to the gym and showered earlier in the evening, so it’s his post-work mass of chaos. “I mean, technically, yes, I guess that’s what I’m proposing.”
I step toward him, offering my best Disney princess smile. “Wait, now you’re proposing? This is moving a little fast, but I’ll be honest, it just depends on the ring.” I wiggle my left hand in front of his face.
“You know what, I changed my mind. I think I’d rather eat a frozen burrito in my office and spend the rest of the night trying to convince my Facebook friends from middle school that vaccines are safe.”
