Page 72 of One on One
I nod.
He pulls me in close and I rest my head on his chest. “You’re incredible,” he says.
There are a lot of things I want to tell him but they won’t budge from my throat. I do my best, whispering into his skin. “The pervs on Instagram were right about you.”
TWENTY-TWO
Bits of the Charles Riverare visible through the window of the hotel room, but the main thing to see is the Zakim Bridge. Its cables and pylons rise like the great geometry lesson in the sky, like a supersized string instrument on steroids.
“Like two giant concrete Spider-Men shooting webs from their wrists. That’s what I always used to think,” I say, rolling over in bed. It’s Wednesday, and we’re in Boston. The first round of the tournament—tomorrow’s game and, if we win, Saturday’s game too—is down the street at the Garden.
The pulsing glow of the muted TV lights Ben’s face. He closes one eye and lifts a strained brow. “I think I can see it. You have quite the imagination.”
“I told you the other day, I’m a visual person.”
He nods toward the window. “Did you live near here?”
“Across the river and west. In Cambridge.” I often forget that this is a place I once lived, because it doesn’t feel likehome. In my memory that time is more like a series of scenes from a movie I remember, not my actual life. Long cold walks to the T with my headphones on, a drunken fight with Oliver outside a restaurant in Inman Square, an office where nerdy bros played pranks on one another. I can’t summon the faces or names of any of those former coworkers.
Version 2.0 of my relationship with Oliver was all-consuming, sucking up all my energy so I had nothing left for anything else. When he wasn’t with me, I was worrying about our relationship or missing him or analyzing his text messages. I began to fade out of my own life. I thought—so, so wrongly—that it was a sign, that if I spent so much time stressing and crying and he spent so much time sulking and withdrawing and then showing up at my door in the middle of the night, it meant the relationship was worth fighting for. Because we did fight over it, over and over and over again. I measured its value in quantity of emotion.
Version 1.0 of the relationship had been costly for me, and I couldn’t bear the idea that it was all for nothing. Senior year, everything with Maynard, wouldn’t have gone the way it did if our breakup hadn’t wrecked me.
After the night Maynard drove me home from the bar, he started texting me. I have the screenshots saved in a Google Drive folder. Cassie was a lawyer-in-training even back then. “You don’t have to do anything with them,” she urged me months later, after I finally told her what happened. “But keep them, just in case.”
I opened the folder for the first time the other day. The first few messages were things likeYou doing okay? I’m always here if you need advice.My reaction at the time wasWow, he’s such a great coach.Not just taking care of his players, but also checking in onmeabout parts of my life completely unrelated to basketball. I felt like he cared.
It changed so gradually.I’m up late reviewing scouting reports. Please tell me you’re out at the bars like a senior should be, not moping around over that guy?Or:After my first heartbreak I moved into the gym and didn’t come out until I had abs that looked like they were drawn on with a marker. You do spin classes, right? If you want to come into the office later on Fridays to catch an extra class, go ahead.
Each time he got more personal than the last, but not so much more that I could even point to what made it different. Nothing that seemed inappropriate, exactly. I didn’t feel uncomfortable about it in the beginning. Not until October.
What are you dressed as for Halloween?he asked, at 11:07p.m.He only ever messaged me at night.You’re a beautiful girl (I bet I sound old saying that) so I’m sure you look great no matter what. Don’t forget to post pictures on Facebook so your ex can eat his heart out.
Then, at two in the morning, when I was sitting on the living room floor with my friends eating chicken fingers, dressed as a bumblebee:Will you send me a costume picture too?And a minute later:Are you dating anyone?
I was wasted, but for the first time, an alarm went off in the back of my mind. Yet I told myself maybe it was a clumsy way of trying to play matchmaker, because he was always talking about his younger cousin from Maryland. Or maybe he was clueless about how his texts came across because he was older. Or he was trying to be cool and supportive but didn’t know how. Telling someone they’re beautiful doesn’thave to be anything more than a neutral observation. Plus, what an obvious cliché—the college coach creeping on a student?
I know it wasn’t my fault. But it’s hard not to think I might’ve been able to keep his behavior from escalating if I had been thinking more clearly, if I hadn’t been such a heartbroken wreck. That can never happen again. It’s why I’ve only dated guys I’m certain will never breach my defenses. Guys who’ll never cause me to lose control of myself, who will never turn me into a mess. Which often means choosing guys I don’t like much.
Ben’s not like the guys I normally date. But he’s not like Oliver either. Being with him makes the rest of my life sharper, not blurrier. Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m mature enough now for something real, and I didn’t realize it. Maybe it’s the fact that I know there’s an expiration date. Or maybe it’s him, us, together.
I’m not going to dwell on this, not right now.
Sneaking into Ben’s room undetected took a bit of spy craft. We’re staying on different floors, and he’s near the coaches. There was a hooded sweatshirt involved, and an empty manila folder with a ready excuse in case of emergency. He stood sentry in the doorway, peeking toward the elevators, and I looked around corners before speed-walking down the hall. Neither of us is all that worried, but it does add to the thrill.
My phone vibrates on the nightstand. I reach over to feel around for it. “It’s my dad’s friend Big Ed,” I say. “All week he’s been texting me everything he knows about Monmouth. A lot of their players are in-state, so he’s coached against them.”
“That’s adorable. What’s he saying?”
I read it. “ ‘Greer’s right-hand dribble is weak. Always prefers to drive left. Force him to go right.’ ”
“Hmm,” Ben says thoughtfully. He falls silent. I assume he’s thinking about basketball, but then he turns toward me. “What was he like?” he asks, propping himself up on one elbow. He rests his other arm on my waist, his fingertips tracing patterns on my lower back. He smells like his own soap, not the generic hotel stuff.
“My dad?”
His patient, discerning gaze is fixed on my face. His eyes look black in the weak light of the TV. I pause to consider all the ways I could answer this question.
“He had the best sense of humor,” I start. “He always kept a straight face when he told a joke. If you didn’t know him well, you’d wonder if he was being serious or not. You had to earn the ability to recognize his humor. But when he thought someone else was funny, he couldn’t hide it—he’d laugh until his eyes watered. I loved that about him, that he broke for other people but not himself. He was a good listener. He had excellent taste in TV and movies and terrible taste in music. How can a person’s favorite show beFriday Night Lightswhile his favorite musical group is the Bee Gees? It’s unnatural.”
