They do not, as Ben had hoped, get through all the Christmas videos in one day. They do not even get through all the Christmas videos in oneweek; it takes them two and a half days to get enough workable footage for Ben to scrape together the first video, which he’s editing frantically on set as they film the second one, which takes themfourdays to shoot. That puts them at Tuesday morning of the third week of November, and the final video, a Christmas dessert spectacular, Ben honestly thinks might kill Pete. He’s supposed to be making a Yule log, and he spends the back half of Tuesday and all of Wednesday being tormented by the cake, Thursday swearing up and down that he’ll never make buttercream frosting again, and Friday cursing all meringues, of all shapes and sizes and flavors and purposes.
Still, it’s not all bad. Work’s a depressing nightmare, but it’s still better than things used to be on twenty-seven, where Ben hardly spends any time at all these days. For one thing, everyone’s pissed at Miranda on Pete’s behalf, so Ben gets a lot of good gossip. Apparently, she’d been the Formica executive who oversaw theGastronomebuyout a few years ago, and they’d all been stuck working with her for a while. Ben notes with grim satisfaction that she is roundly hated, even by Brogan, usually too even-tempered to bother with hating anyone, and Ezra, who seems to find almost everyone he meets at least a little annoying but rarely expends the energy to work himself up to a proper loathing. And Ben gets the sense, too, that something was going on between Miranda and Rick at one point, although no one will give him more detail, and all of them clam up guiltily when he presses. Ben, knowing all too well Rick’s tendency to chat, has to wonder if he didn’t confide in all of them individually at one point or another, unthinkingly asking each of them not to tell anyone.
But within a few days of the courier’s delivery, the conversation turns to the upcomingGastronomecentennialparty. The celebration of the magazine’s hundredth year is taking place the Saturday before Thanksgiving, something Ben really wishes he had been told before he booked an early-bird flight out on Sunday morning. Granted, he booked that flight before he even worked forGastronome, and, sure, okay, hecouldhave afforded to pay the nominal additional sum to switch to one that left at a less punishing time than four in the morning, but he hadn’t seen the point. It’s not as though he ever slept the night before going home to Michigan anyway; the way he figured it, if he was going to be awake no matter what, it might as well save him a little money.
In spite of the fact that it dooms him to a long, complicated night of navigating travel logistics, Ben is looking forward to the party. It will be nice to relax a little, to cut loose, to spend some time with Pete that’s justfun. It’s not that Ben hasn’t had fun with Pete since theLate Night Livefiasco—Benalwaysseems to have fun with Pete, no matter what kind of mood he’s in or what they’re doing. This fact, while inarguable, makes Ben feel warm, soft, gooey, and slightly nauseated, like a toasted marshmallow dropped at the last moment in a patch of yellowing snow.
Pete, however, does not seem to be having very much fun. Pete seems to be swimming through a waking nightmare every day, and there’s only so much Ben can do for him. The videos are one thing—Pete, as predicted, cannot say a scripted sponsor-submitted line to save his life, but Ben’s able to do it in voice-over in a way that plays, so it’s fine. But Ben cannot, alas, reach in and cut out the long stretches of miserable silence from Pete’s day, splicing in some more pleasant experiences instead. All he can do is be around, and encouraging, and tell Pete that it’s not as bad as he thinks, and he’s doing fine.
It’s a rough two weeks, no doubt. But it is, Ben has to admit, almost worth it for the moment after their very last shot, when, with Jaelyn’s nod to indicate they’re clear, he smiles at Pete andsays, “That’s it. We’re done. No more filming.” The light that flares in Pete’s eyes for the first time in days—the way he whoops with delight, and steps close, and scoops Ben into a huge, back-slapping hug as he yells, “YES! DONE!”—well. Ben would do it all again a hundred times, for that reward.
He is, if he’s honest, still riding the high of that moment as he walks back into the Formica Media building the following evening, feeling strange to be entering on a Saturday night. He knows that he’s not in the wrong place; the entryway is brightly lit and set up with a comprehensive fleet of valet drivers who certainly aren’t usually on duty. A line of expensive cars is blocking a whole lane of Sixth Avenue, various fancily dressed people climbing out of them and making their way laughingly inside. Ben, who rode the subway here like he does every other day and is wearing a suit he originally bought for his grandfather’s funeral, slips quickly past them, walks round the building to a more subtle entrance. The sustenance of Pete’s firm, warm hug seems to be draining rapidly away from him in the face of so much glamour, and he’d rather slide unobtrusively into the back of the party than face walking boldly in the front door.
But, as it turns out, Ben needn’t have worried about it. He barely makes it through thebackdoor without being pulled into something by someone he knows—Adina, looking stunning in an emerald-green cocktail dress, spies him from across the room and makes “rescue me” eyes at him. Ben walks over and pulls her away from conversation with a man who, as she explains once they’re out of earshot, had been eagerly trying to convince her to visit his lake house upstate, despite having met her only minutes before. They chat for a moment, and then Brogan joins them, and introduces her partner, Charlie, and then suddenly, Ben is being dragged away by Jaelyn and ends up in a twenty-minute discussion of cinematographic techniques with someonewho turns out to be a very famous food photographer whose work Ben has admired for years.
It’s around this time he sees Pete arrive, looking windswept and a bit rumpled from his ferry ride, but with a spirit and energy about him Ben has sorely missed. They grin at each other from across the party—Ben’s all the brighter because Pete has not brought Chris with him tonight—and start progressing towards one another.
But progress is slow; Ben sees Pete get flagged down into conversation at the same moment that he feels a hand land on his shoulder.
“Kid!” Ben turns, torn between fondness and despair, knowing before he manages it that he’ll see Rick. “Good to see you. You remember my buddy Larry Kobald, right?”
Ben experiences half a moment of blinding panic, having absolutely no idea who Larry is, before he gets a look at the man standing next to Rick. Then he relaxes; Ben remembers him, all right, he just isn’t sure he ever got a name. This is Rick’s juice guy, with whom Ben had a nice chat at the Halloween party, and they greet one another enthusiastically.
As happened the previous time they met, the conversation flows naturally between them, Rick drifting off to find something more interesting to do after a few minutes. It surprises Ben a little that the two men are such good friends—Rick’s grown on Ben these last few months, but his personality is still a bit grating and tends to leave Ben walking away slightly raw with annoyance. Larry, on the other hand, he finds easy and relaxing to talk to, like an old friend instead of someone he’s only meeting for the second time.
Larry must feel similarly, because, as their conversation wraps up, he says, “Look—it’s Ben, right? I’ve got to run, I can see my wife is locked in mental battle with an emissary of the devil, but I’m going to give you my card. I know youhave a good gig going here, but I can’t imagine they’re paying you what you’re worth, and I need someone at my facility on the west coast. A video editor,” he clarifies, chuckling, correctly interpreting Ben’s creased brow. “Not just some guy to hang around keeping the oranges company or whatever. I’m launching a juice line into the retail market next year. I’ll need commercials and pitch videos, someone to film a guided tour of our production facilities, stuff for social media, the works.”
Ben stares at him, agape. “What,me? Seriously? Just because we get along atparties?”
Grimacing, Larry says, “Depressing though it is, that’s how the world works a lot of the time. Didn’t Rick tell me he met you in a coffee shop?” Ben opens his mouth to argue and, realizing he has no rejoinder, snaps it shut again. Larry laughs and claps him on the shoulder. “Look, the truth is, hiring for these creative jobs is always pretty much a crapshoot. I like your work; we seem to get along; Rick likes you, and he’s got a good eye for this sort of thing. What I see there is an easy solution to my problem, if you’re into it, and one thing about me: I’ll work pretty damn hard to make things easy.” He smiles at Ben, passing the card over, and adds, “I’d make it worth your while, and one California winter will make you forget why you ever liked New York in the first place. Think about it.”
“I…will,” Ben says, staring from the card to Larry’s cheerful, slightly ruddy face. “Thanks.”
Larry nods and hurries off; Ben stares after him, gobsmacked at first, although this does turn to amusement when he sees Larry approach a redheaded woman who seems to be deep in conversation with none other than Miranda Culter. An emissary of the devil, indeed.
Chuckling slightly to himself, Ben decides to put Larry and the job offer out of his mind for the moment. After all, had it really been ajob offer, or had Larry just been a little overlyfriendly after one drink too many? And, anyway, it’s not like Ben can make any employment decisions right now—he doesn’t even know if the show is going to be renewed, or if hewantsit to be renewed, given the agony filming every episode seems to trigger for Pete.
Probably getting to be time to figure that out!The part of Ben that points this out sounds both urgent and, if he’s honest, more than a little annoyed.Because you’ve filmed the last video, and you don’t know what’s going to happen with your contract at all, and you don’t want to go back to spending all your time on twenty-seven, and pretty soon, it’s all going to come up!
Ben, very firmly, tells himself to let it go for now. After all, this is a party.
He turns, intent again on finding Pete, and pauses, breaking into a grin: Pete has found him first, is standing with his arm frozen in the air, like he was midway through reaching up to tap on Ben’s shoulder.
Ben is surprised to find himself feeling shy, suddenly. It’s nonsensical; he’s known Pete for weeks now, and saw himyesterday,and only a few hours ago, they were exchanging ridiculous texts betting on what appetizers would be passed around tonight. But still, Ben can’t help but scuff a shoe against the floor, grinning up at Pete like some soppy, lovestruck teenager, totally blanking on anything to say which is just embarrassing, isn’t it? But there’s nothing for it. He would stop smiling if he could, but when he tries, he finds it entirely impossible.
As if having taken this thought as a challenge, an image of Chris floats across Ben’s mind, still perfectly chiseled and unfairly symmetrical in Ben’s imagining of him, which is just cruel. His own mind can’t throw him this one bone? Give the guy an unfortunately placed facial infection? Poison ivy?Something?But no: He’s smooth and shiny even in Ben’s head,and looking down his nose at Ben in irritation and disgust. This does, Ben has to admit, dim the wattage of his smile somewhat, though he finds hestillcan’t crush it entirely.
At least, Ben thinks distantly, Pete is smiling back at him. That’s something. A pleasure to witness, if nothing else.
“Hi,” Pete says, eventually. His eyes flick down the length of Ben’s body, quick and barely noticeable; Ben notices anyway. “You look great.”
“I don’t,” Ben says, automatic. “I’m not a suit guy, but the invite said formal, and I didn’t have anything more formal than this so—uh.Youlook great, though. Like, actually great.”
Pete flushes slightly but rolls his eyes. “Oh, thanks, but if that’s true, it’s only because I made one of my sisters dress me. Or, at least, I asked for her help in choosing an outfit, which somehow ended up with both of us in a department store and her wielding my credit card like a sword, but.” He shrugs, glancing down at his cream knit sweater, which he’s wearing under a camel-colored coat, and over a pair of woolen dress trousers in a complementary light brown. “I have to give it to her, Idofeel more professional in this than my canned beans T-shirt.” He winces, and adds, “Not that I’ve been at my most, um, professional, these last couple of shoots. I hope the edit hasn’t been too brutal?”
Ben, who did in fact spend much of the night awake, and who did only get the last video sent off to Dave in S&P an hour before leaving the house tonight, says, “Oh, it was nothing, really.”
Pete, ducking his head slightly, says, “It isn’t nothing to me. Thanks for—just, thanks.”
