And it’s fun, Ben realizes, as they progress through the video. It’s fun, to watch this with Pete. It’s fun to laugh, gently and without malice, at the person he was when he made it; it’s fun to see Pete laugh, too, entertained by this younger version of Ben in a way that, somehow, doesn’t feel sharp or judgmental or mean.
Ben has spent the bulk of his adult life trying to avoid being known, sliding away from intimacy and closeness the way oil slips through water. It was easier, he told himself, not to be known. It was easier to avoid the sting of being found wanting; easier to sidestep having his darkest fears about himself confirmed. It was easier for him to exist, for him tobe Ben, without having to look at the proof that the condition of being Ben was somehow, inherently, a mortifying one.
Letting Pete know him doesn’t feel like that. Letting Pete know him feels like…like…like the way sometimes, when Ben was a teenager, he’d take his camera out in the woods and stand very still, and after a while, the forest would forgive him his humanity and forget he was there. They’d come out, the birds and squirrels and chipmunks, and go about their business, as though having assessed him as worthy of knowing their secrets, not dangerous enough to hide from. The benediction of a chickadee landing on top of his head—that’s what it feels like, showing Pete this video. Like being chosen as worthy of something rare and singular through some mechanism Ben doesn’t understand, but is desperately grateful for.
It is, all in all, an upsettingly good time. It’s such a good time that Ben would probably stay up half the night worrying about it, except that by the time the video ends he and Pete, exhausted by the day’s events, have both fallen asleep on the sofa.
TEN
Ben learned young the folly of falling asleep on the couch. Renata, like their mother, could cheerfully bed down anywhere, waking up fresh as a daisy whether “anywhere” was an air mattress or the backseat of a car; Ben had inherited their father’s tendencies instead. Sleeping anywhere but in a proper bed, ideally hisownbed, and most ideally his own bed with the assistance of an assortment of sleep hygiene rituals he habitually doesn’t practice, is almost always a mistake. If he is foolish enough to let himself fall asleep, say, half-slumped against the arm of the couch while agreeing sleepily with Pete’s mumbled comment that they should really get up in a minute, there are always consequences.
Tonight, Ben pays for his folly by having an exceptional, exquisitely detailed dream, which doesn’t, at first, seem like a punishment. Within it, he wakes in the exact same position in which he fell asleep, and Pete’s waking up, too, and Ben’s hand accidentally lands on Pete’s thigh as he tries to stand up, and Pete’s eyes meet his with a charged, hungry desperation, and then—well. Then Ben’s subconscious gets quite granular on the detail indeed, which he appreciates, in the moment.
He appreciates it less when, just as things in the dream have reached a crescendo, a tinny, unpleasant sound rips him towards wakefulness. He fights it, thrashing internally to stay in the dream, but after what feels like a few fractured seconds, it slips away from him, lost.
Bendoesblink awake in the exact same position in which he fell asleep, which seems promising, for a second. Then it mostly seems like he, Ben, is the punch line in one of the universe’s cruel little jokes.
Pete is not sitting on the couch next to him. Pete is standing, tense, on the other side of the room, whispering into his phone. Aringtone, Ben thinks, feeling abruptly hollowed out inside, is what had pulled him from the dream. He can tell from Pete’s body language alone that he would have been happier staying asleep—as always, reality is clearly planning to underwhelm him.
“I know what Isaid,Chris,” Pete is hissing, trying fumblingly to put on one of the shoes he kicked off earlier, around ten minutes into the screening of Ben’s teenage theatrical efforts. “And I meant it, it was an accident, I didn’t intend to be out this—oh, like you haven’t ever—well I wasn’texpectingto set the stupid set on fire, was I?No, Jesus, I’m not in jail—no, I am not outgetting some strange,Chris, what’s wrong with you?” He turns, at this point, to grab his other shoe, and sees Ben staring at him in the dark. Quickly, he snaps, “Look, I’m heading back right now. I’ll get a cab, okay, it’ll be fast—you know what? I can’t do this with you right now. Bye.”
Pete hangs up the phone and, sliding it into his jacket pocket, gives Ben a pleading expression. “Sorry to, like, run out in the middle of the night,” he says, his tone changing to one Ben can’t quite place—guilt? Regret? Ben’s not sure it matters. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep,andI didn’t mean to sleep so long, and now it’s all…ugh.” He runs a hand over his face, sighing, and says,“It would be too hard to explain it all right now but I’ve kind of…messed some stuff up at home, and it’s going to be a whole thing, and I really need to go deal with it before it gets worse.”
“No worries,” Ben says, ashamed when it comes out thin, reedy. Forlorn, he thinks, is the word, although he wishes he’d never thought of it. “Worse seems—bad.”
Pete laughs, not that there’s much humor behind it. “Worse is bad,” he agrees, “and the story of my life, in some ways, but—just, thanks, man. Seriously. I don’t know what I would have done, and if you want to?—”
“Oh, don’t,” Ben says, waving a hand, like it’s nothing to him. Like it’s easy. “It was no problem at all. Your basic act of Good Samaritanity. Samaritanism? Never mind, it doesn’t matter—whichever it is, that’s all that it was, so. No big thing. Would’ve done it for anyone. Safe trip home, okay? I’ll see you at work on Monday.”
“Oh,” Pete says, blinking at him. “Yeah, okay. See you…at work, then?”
“Yep,” Ben says, nodding with the firm good cheer of someone who definitely doesn’t care at all about Chris, or Pete leaving, or, in fact, Pete, at least in anything other than a strictly friendly, platonic, collegial way. “Good night.”
“Good…night,” Pete says slowly, before he sighs, and lets his shoulders drop, and sees himself out Ben’s front door.
Ben waits. He waits until he hears the door click shut; he waits until Pete’s footsteps have faded down the long hallway; he waits until he hears the faint ding of the elevator, and the distant, barely audible metallic hum of the doors sliding shut. Only then, well and truly sure that he’s at no risk of Pete bursting back in, does Ben let himself curl up in a hard, tight little ball on the couch and sink into a misery that prevents him from sleeping at all.
By the following Monday, Ben’s managed to patch himself up a little.
Okay, so, Pete has a boyfriend; Ben already knew that. Or, he’d already suspected it—Friday night was confirmation, for all intents and purposes, andthatsucks, but it’s not like it’s such a shock. And, yes, of course, ithadobviously stung to have such a vivid dream of how things could have gone, followed by the immediate nightmare scenario which had played out for him instead. How could it not have stung? Anyone in Ben’s shoes might have, just for example, spent Saturday morning watching terrible romantic comedies and unwisely eating most of a family-sized bag of salt and vinegar chips for breakfast, feeling equal parts self-punishing and indulgent. Granted, Ben’s specific shoes also come along with Ben’s specific stomach, which can no longer handle that much acid, hence the self-punishing aspect of this particular coping mechanism. It’s what Ben used to do as a teenager, whenever he found out the guy he’d been harboring a crush on was either incredibly straight or absolutely gay enough to be getting on with, just not with Ben. He got a lot of experience, over the years, on both sides of that particular line.
But by Saturday afternoon, Ben had resolved to pull himself together, and on Monday, when he walks into theGastronomeoffices, he feels—well. Notgood, per se. Good would be a significant stretch. But he feels ready, at least. Equipped. Prepared.
This is for one reason only: Ben has a plan.
It isn’t, Ben is aware, a good plan. He wishes it were a good plan, the sort of plan that might make someone say, “Nice plan, Ben!” or “Wow, you’ve really thought this through!” However, he suspects it is more the type of plan that, were he to express it to anyone with more than a few brain cells to rub together, would be met with the response, “Yeesh. Good luck with that.”
Ben doesn’t feel great about that, no doubt. But a plan is a plan, and above anything else, a plan is something that makes Ben feel less like he’s going to lose his entire mind, so. A plan is what he’s got. It runs as follows: Pete has a boyfriend, sure, but he doesn’t seem to have ahappyrelationship with that boyfriend. Ben’s not a homewrecker or anything, but it’s not wrecking a home to hang around, is it? To see what happens? To demonstrate to Pete that he, Ben, is a fine enough person, and a decent friend, and, yeah,notexactly a certified beefcake like Chris is, or like Pete himself is, but maybe that doesn’t have to matter! Maybe it’s about timing and compatibility and anything ever going right, even once, in Ben’s whole stupid life.
Or maybe Ben’s convincing himself of absurdities to get through the day—it wouldn’t be the first time. Either way, though, it allows him the grace and composure to walk through theGastronomedoors on Monday morning, to talk to Pete like everything’s normal between them, to get to work. After the success of last week’s triple-Thanksgiving shoot, Ben’s decided to do the same thing for the three Christmas videos they’re slated to produce next. Pete will have an easier time if they shoot them all at once, and when they’ve delivered those videos, they’ll have completed the nine videos they were contracted for, and can hopefully relax for a few weeks.
Here, too, Ben’s dreams are dashed—in this later case via a courier, who arrives at the office with several large packages around 9:30 a.m. on Monday.
The courier’s arrival interrupts what was, in Ben’s opinion, shaping up to be a very nice morning. He and Pete, as usual, were the first ones in and, as has become Ben’s new normal over the last week or two, quickly threw together a breakfast to share. It’s nothing exciting today, just leftover Greek yogurt from the easy galette recipe Adina was testing last week, a selection of random fruit that was nearing the end of the line, and the verylast of the dried coconut flakes, but still, Ben was enjoying it. Between that and his nearly successful impression of a normal man with no recently bruised romantic feelings at all, things were looking up.
But the courier is followed by Jaelyn, who bears a camera on her shoulder and an apologetic expression. Pete freezes, the spoon halfway to his mouth, which is when Ben realizes the red light is on, indicating the camera is rolling.
“Uh,” Jaelyn says, looking uncomfortably between Pete’s frozen rictus of horror and Ben’s abrupt, ferocious glare. “So…someone from Formica social media? Emailed me? And said that it might be good to, um…get your organic reaction? To this delivery? For the social channels?”
