Thank God there are no witnesses, because my reaction would expose me instantly. I stand there frozen, my mind racing in time with my heart. I quickly wash my shaking hands and mute Jim and Pam’s playful banter and nauseating heart eyes, then pick up the phone like it’s a ticking time bomb. My stomach churns as I hitPLAY.
The video’s a little grainy—Stephen’s clearly zoomed in some—but I could no sooner mistake Ben than Bigfoot. He’s sitting in a booth, his head bent toward Corinne, a glass of wine on the table between them. She’s wearing a skirted business suit and heels, her long brown hair cascading down her back. I can’t see her face from this angle, but I can see Ben’s perfectly—he’s focused on her with rapt attention, their conversation earnest and animated. Near the end of the twelve-second video he laughs, she pokes her fork at him playfully, and then they both laugh.
This is no first date.
I wonder if Corinne is his picture-perfect future wife who ticks every box on his imaginary, magical list of attributes. I’m sure they agree on everything. I imagine they’re laughing about the social safety net programs they plan to cut. They’ll probably attend a gun rally after dinner. Maybe they’ll stop and change into matching shirts that sayPRACTICE SAFE SEX: DATE A REPUBLICAN.
I want to hate her, but even I have to admit they make a striking pair. I imagine their eventual Christmas cards: They’re strolling down a Nantucket beach dressed in matching chambray, tanned and laughing at nothing as they clasp the hands of their Amazonian, athletically superior brunette children.
To torture myself, I watch the video a couple more times before forcing myself to stop.
Me: Interesting. They look good together.
Stephen:... You okay?
I’m on the verge of tears, actually, Stephen, thanks for asking.
Me: Just peachy.
I return to my dinner prep, smashing the garlic cloves with renewed vigor. I focus all my energy on making this meal a culinary masterpiece, but when I sit down to eat, I find I’ve lost my appetite.
I give in and watch the video one last time. It’s as if Ben and Corinne are taunting me. Even after I banish my phone between the couch cushions, the flirtatious forking plays in my mind like one of those insufferable Instagram boomerangs. I’ll stab her with that stupid fork if she doesn’t vacate my thoughts.
I’m unsettled for the rest of the night—and the fact that I’m upset at all just makes me more upset. Why am I so worked up over this? Corinne all but said they were dating; none of this should be a surprise.
But I guess I feel betrayed. Why would he come to my rescue on Friday night if he had a girlfriend? Surely Corinne would never agree to him carrying me home from a bar and spending the night in my bed—not that he reciprocated any of my clumsy attempts at seduction. I recall his derision at my “pawing” him and blush anew. No wonder he was so disgusted by my behavior.
I shake my head, trying to jog myself loose from this downward spiral. Why do I care who Ben dates?
You don’t,I tell myself.
But there’s a nagging voice in the back of my head I’m having areallyhard time ignoring. The voice sounds something like this:
You loved it when he carried you. You analyze how he looks at you. You dream about that shirt-sweater. Suddenly you’re adding cinnamon to everything. You sneak peeks at his office window thirty-seven times a day.
You miss him.
I sigh. Why does it I feel like I’ve lost something I never even had?
Chapter 15
It’s Friday evening and I’m packing up to head home. I’ve just turned off my light when George, my favorite night-duty police officer, pokes his head in the main door. When he sees me exiting my office, he makes a dramatic show of checking his watch.
“Why am I not surprised you’re still here?”
“Because we have this same conversation every night around this time.”
He laughs as he holds the door open for me. “I know I’m old-school, but I’m going to tell you the same thing I tell my grandkids: Nothing good happens after hours. And what are you doing hanging out in a dark and deserted old building, anyway? It’s Friday night. You young people should be out having fun, not burning the midnight oil. The country will still be standing on Monday.” George’s age and impending retirement are his favorite topics of conversation.
“Yeah, yeah, save your judgment. We can’t all have the rip-roaring social life you do.”
He snorts. “Rip-roaring, right. Said to the old man on the graveyard shift.”
The two-way radio at his hip crackles with feedback as he walks me to the elevator. “So where’s your young man tonight?”
“Great question,” I joke, playing along. “If you stumble across any eligible bachelors, will you let me know?”
He looks confused. “Did you break up, then?”
