Page 83 of Bittersweet

“I think she needs it more,” I say with a laugh.

“Yeah, well, I’ve been dealing with a very grumpy Ben.” It takes all that I have to tame the muscles in my face at her words. Her eyes are locked on me, taking in every small movement like she might replay the tape later and dissect it against some kind of body language manual.

“Isn’t he always grumpy?” I ask, uninterested, stabbing at a grape tomato. It slips from the tines, rolling to the other side of the plate as I chase it with my fork, trying to avoid Hattie’s burning gaze.

“Yes . . .” She’s feeling me out, deciding what else to say. “Except he seems exceptionally grumpy the past, oh, say, two, three weeks.” My fork hits the tomato, popping it and causing it to explode on my shirt.

“Shit!” I shout, the mom in the corner glaring at my outburst as I start to dab at tomato goo. Hattie instantly starts laughing.

“Oh my God! Something DID happen, didn’t it!?” she asks in a squeal, leaning back in her seat and clapping.

Yes, the woman starts clapping, laughing maniacally like an insane person.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say in denial, blotting at my shirt in an attempt to get the sticky tomato off of me and also avoid this conversation altogether.

I like Hattie. I can definitely see her being a great friend. But I don’t know how eager I am to dish about messing around with her boss . . .

“Shut up. You’ve been holed up in that bakery for weeks, conveniently never coming out when Ben is around. Never coming over to bring cookies or cupcakes. I need to come to you, which is not a hardship, but before you brought over peace offerings and fucked with Ben’s head. It was fun to watch. Now he’s pissy as fuck and you’re nowhere to be seen.” It’s been nine days since Ben pulled me into his apartment and made me come on his bed, his phone the only thing stopping us from going further, and I’ve doubled down on my avoidance tactics.

“He’s been crankier than normal?” I ask, but as the words leave my mouth, I realize my mistake.

I showed interest.

Hattie latches on.

“Yes, he has.” Her smile grows. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?” I stare at her. She stares at me. I spend the next thirty seconds trying to decide the likelihood of her dropping the subject.

It seems very, very slim.

“We . . . kissed.”

“OH MY GOD, I KNEW IT!” she shouts, hand slapping the table as her head tips back to the sky. Her straight bob moves with her head shaking.

“Hattie! Shut up!”

“I can’t. Not until I get the details! What happened? When!? How!?” I stare at her and realize there’s no way out of this.

She is going to dig at this until I give in.

“Two, three weeks ago,” I say under my breath. Another screech, drawing attention.

“DETAILS! I NEED DETAILS!”

“What? No. God, no.”

“I need details, woman!”

“If you want details about how your boss kisses so bad, why don’t you just hook up with him?” The words roll off my tongue.

She stares at me, mouth open, eyes wide.

Jesus, what iswrongwith me?

“God, Hattie, I’m so sorry. That was way out of—”

And then Hattie starts laughing again, this time even more maniacally, tears streaming from the corners of her eyes.

Any remaining gazes that weren’t already locked on us move in our direction.

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