“What are youdoing?” I cry, fighting him.
“Carrying you. I really don’t need you breaking an ankle on top of everything else.”
“This is so antifeminist,” I fume. “And I’m wearing a skirt.”
“That’s why I’m not piggybacking you.”
I grumble but eventually stop struggling and clasp my arms around his neck. What choice do I have? Besides, walking home in these heels would be a level of torture on par with waterboarding.
I know I shouldn’t poke the bear—especially when said bear is carrying me—but I can’t help myself. “This must be your dream come true. The knight in shining armor swooping in to save the damsel in distress.”
He doesn’t react—Where is this newfound restraint coming from?—so of course, I poke again.
“Only I don’t need saving. I could have gotten home on my own, thank you very much.”
His look is one of thinly veiled disdain. “Sure, Kate. You probably would have gotten home, to that douchebag’s apartment.”
“Maybe Iwantedto go to his apartment.”
I feel him stiffen beneath me.
“Besides, I’m not an idiot. I know how to call an Uber, Benjy.” Something occurs to me. “Hey, how do you know where I live?”
He doesn’t respond right away, the muscle in his jaw ticking. “I just do.” His voice is so quiet I have to strain to hear him.
“Benjy, have you been stalking me?”
“Quit calling me Benjy. It sounds like a dog,” he snaps.Oooh, cranky Benjy.
I mock gasp. “Wait, youdon’tlike being called degrading nicknames?”
He’s setting a brisk pace, my weight clearly no match for his Herculean stamina. It’s a chilly night and I should be cold, but the heat seeping from his body into my skin is relaxing me on a cellular level. It’s like being wrapped in a cozy Ben blanket. I could get used to traveling this way.
“You know, I’m not even that drunk. I didn’t need you to cut me off.”
“Not that drunk.Right.You’re what, a hundred and twenty pounds dripping wet? You’d be wasted after two drinks. And by the looks of you, you’ve had a lot more than that.”
“What are you, the booze police?” I explode. “You’re so freakin’ uptight.Youcould use a drink.”
“I’muptight? You’re the one who can’t even swear properly. Who saysfreakinginstead offucking? You should try a real curse, you might feel better.”
I wave my hand. “Cursing is unbecoming.”
“‘Cursing is unbecoming,’ says the feminist.” He shakes his head in disbelief.
“My mom doesn’t like cursing. When I do it, I feel like I’m disrespecting her.”
“As opposed to how respectful you’re being by going out and getting wasted at a bar alone? I’m sure she’d bethrilledto see you like this.”
I turn my face away. “You don’t know anything about my mom.”
“Why don’t you tell me, then?”
I’m not too drunk to recognize his diversionary tactic for what it is. I’d call him out on it, but I’m in that chatty drunk stage where I actuallydowant to talk about my mom.
“Oh, she’s a lot of fun. We’re very close. She’s hardworking and focused and smarter than she lets on. Also, she’s kind of nuts. Like she just discovered GIFs and now she’ll barely communicate any other way. She’s sort of going through a secondary adolescence. It’s like a midlife crisis but without all the bad decisions. What else? She’s optimistic. A hopeless romantic.” I make a face.
He smiles lightly. “Yeah?”
