Page 58 of Lovely War
SEVENTEEN
Hindsight is a smug asshole.When I stumble into my apartment in a daze, I can’t even make it to the green room. I get as far as the bedroom and fall face-first onto the mattress without taking off my coat. Hindsight is sitting in the dark corner, studying its nails with a condescending smirk, until it deigns to turn to me and say in a prim voice:I was wondering when you’d get here. Was it not glaringly obvious this would happen?
It is now. It wasn’t thirty minutes ago. It would’ve been nice to get a warning in advance.
Hindsight sniffs.Not my thing. You’re looking for my cousin, foresight.
Yeah. I’ve been looking for foresight my whole life.
If I’m honest with myself, I didn’t need foresight this time. I had Kat, and I didn’t listen. I knew what Ben and I were doing, I knew what direction it was going. It was escalating,but I enjoyed it too much and didn’t put a stop to it in time. I played a game of chicken and crashed.
And here is what I learned from the experience: I wanted it to happen. For the first time in a long time, Iwantedsomething. Not out of fear, or self-protection, or to avoid something else. I wanted it badly, for its own sake.
That almost-kiss felt like a boat engine revving in my body, my blood beginning to thrum like the surrounding water, brought to life by the energy of it. Who knew I was still capable of feeling that way about a guy?
But I didn’t go through with it. That’s worthy of a pat on the back. I vowed not to repeat the Oliver mistake, and I didn’t cave.
There were other good reasons not to do it. The job, for one. Plus, we haven’t cleared the air about Maynard, and I’m not ready for that conversation. Barely five minutes ago, Ben and I couldn’t stand each other, and imagining his reaction makes me sweat.
But none of that is fair. Neither of us signed up for the pressure we’re under at work. And Maynard is supposed to be gone, no longer a factor in my life, my decisions, my anything. Definitely not here, right in between Ben and me.
If it weren’t for him—well, I can’t even think about what I’d be doing right now. Tonight would be different. Everything would be different.
And what about Oliver?It can’t get better than this,that’s what I’m supposed to remember, but it doesn’t feel true. Kissing Ben would’ve made this night way, way better. My mistake with Oliver wasn’t getting physical. It was believing him when he said we had a future together. A celebratory make-out session after winning the conference title wouldn’thave hurt anyone. We can kiss without falling in love. All we have to do is not make promises.
I sit up and turn on a lamp. It’s just me in the room. No imaginary friends or enemies here, telling me what I can or should do, or how it’s going to go wrong. Fuck all those ghosts.
I’m going to do what I want. I’m going to kiss Ben Callahan.
EIGHTEEN
The next morning I getto work early, nerves burning like acid in my gut. I’m not exactly sure how to do this. Last night I thought about texting him to ask for a do-over, but hiding behind my phone seemed like a cop-out.
I sit at my desk and jiggle my leg. Open my email, close it. I realize I didn’t actually look at my inbox and open it again. Adrenaline has me jumping out of my seat every time I hear someone walking by or opening a door or talking down the hall.Calm calm calm,I type over and over again in a blank Word document.
Slipping on my headphones, I nestle into the protective shell of my semicircle of computer monitors. This is good. Now I can’t possibly hear him arrive, so I’ll be less skittish. I pull up a half-complete video I’ve been working on and, well, to say I “watch it” wouldn’t be accurate, but at least I aim my eyes at the screen. Seven excruciating minutes pass.
I barely hear him over the music, or maybe I sense himknocking on the door. Either way, he’s standing there in an Ardwyn crewneck sweater over an oxford shirt and fitted gray trousers, his cheeks wind-reddened. My body jerks upright and I slide my chair abruptly to see around the monitors, forgetting my headphones. They tumble from my shoulders down the back of my chair.
“Um. What did you say? Sorry.” I comb my fingers through my hair to untangle the wire.
His face is circumspect. “I said good morning.”
“Oh! Well, hi.” I’m already out of breath.
He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something else, then decides against it.
“Can we”—I start, then lower my voice—“can we talk?”
He glances into the hallway. “Now?”
“Yes. Please.” Eight thirty in the morning in the office is not the ideal time or setting for this conversation, but I can’t bear it hanging over my head any longer.
He nods reluctantly and closes the door. “I want to apologize again—”
“Stop.”
His mouth twitches once and he lowers his eyes.
