I’m on system overload here. It’s saturating my bloodstream. Clogging my lungs. Steaming from my pores. “Friends without benefits” is all fun and games until you’re lying awake, heartsick and horny.
If only I were the type who could be friendswithbenefits. I never could engage in meaningless hookups, even in college; it’s just not mystyle. It’s a shame, too, because I bet I could get him to bite. He’d suggested it himself, hadn’t he?Scratching the itch,he’d called it.
“Hate sex isn’t my style.”
“It’s not mine either, but for you I’d make an exception.”
Ben’s clearly my exception, too. A mouthwatering exception to all my carefully crafted rules. A handsome devil in a well-tailored suit, holding out a big, juicy apple.
Is it such a bad thing to want something that isn’t good for you? Can’t I just allow myself this one little indulgence? It’s like eating that extra piece of dark chocolate. Staying up an extra hour to finish your book. Skipping your morning spin class to go to brunch instead.
Ben could be my extra piece of chocolate.
The thought plagues me as I dress for work the next morning. I need to quash these cravings, but it’s easier said than done. Ben’s dominating my thoughts like the president dominates the news cycle.
It’s impossible to focus on work with my mind this scrambled. In a bit of Monday morning quarterbacking, I want to kick myself for retreating in his kitchen last night. Why couldn’t I have just swallowed my pride and asked him if he’s available?
A lightbulb blazes on and I jerk upright in my desk chair.Duh, Kate!It’s time to do something I should’ve done a long time ago.
I peek across the atrium; his office is dark. Even so, I creep toward my window like a criminal and slap my blinds shut, like he’s going to appear out of thin air and scold me. I grab my laptop and pull up Facebook, mentally calculating just how long it’s been since I logged on. This past election murdered any desire I had to ever go on Facebook again, but this is an extenuating circumstance. A Benmergency.
Relationships leave a digital footprint. It’s a truth as undeniable as death and taxes. If Ben is dating Corinne—or anyone else, for thatmatter—Facebook will prove more historically valuable than the National Archives.
I type his name into the search bar. There are plenty of results for Ben Mackenzies, but the second listing is the one I’m looking for: there’s his smiling picture and underneath it,Washington, DC.We have six mutual friends. I click on it, pulse racing.
The gods are smiling on me—his page is public, though I quickly realize it’s because he’s rarely, if ever, posted on it.Crap.Most of the entries on his timeline are random photos he’s been tagged in, which I soon realize is a blessing in disguise—I’m able to get an unfiltered look at his history this way.
My breath catches when I see the most recent post: Ben in a tux (gasp!) in a group picture from one of the inaugural balls (groan). He’s beaming, the pride and elation on his face practically glowing out of the picture. I stare at it until my eyes blur, recalling how depressed I was that night. I scroll on with a heavy heart.
I surf past shots of Ben in a tropical location, nattily dressed in a linen suit as part of a groom’s party; Ben at an outdoor concert, looking happily sunburnt in Wayfarer sunglasses. I gorge myself on information, reading every comment and noting each like, poring over his Friends list like the stalker I am. I don’t learn much I don’t already know—Ben likes to tailgate, Ben goes on annual fishing trips with a group of outdoorsy, sweaty-hot men. There are women in some of the photos, but I can’t tell if he’s actuallywithany of them. I’d guess not, based on the absence of any cheek-to-cheek, coupley posed shots. More importantly: no Corinne.
I scroll and scroll, then scroll some more. Before I know it I’m four years back, so deep in his profile I’m terrified of inadvertently hitting theLIKEbutton. I start to sweat, focusing on my mouse movements with rabid precision. I’m Tom Cruise inMission Impossible, contorting mybody to avoid the laser labyrinth, and one wrong move will trip the alarm bells. I imagine Ben receiving notifications in triplicate on his watch, phone, and laptop that scream:Kate Adams liked your photo from 2013. And in case you weren’t aware, she’s stalking you!
There’s a knock on my door and I stifle a scream.
“Yes?” I call out, clicking frantically to X out my screen. Just my luck, it would be Ben in one of his unannounced drop-ins.
The door clicks open and Stephen pokes his head in.Thank God.My breath rushes out in a gale-forcewhoosh. He takes one look at my paranoia-laced posture and narrows his eyes.
“Am I interrupting something?”
“No! Not at all.”
“Whatever you’re doing—and I don’t want to know—just remember, there are eyes everywhere.” He points to the ceiling and mouths,Big Brother.
I roll my eyes. “Did you need something?”
“Obviously.” He shuts the door behind him and takes the chair across from me, crossing his legs primly. “I need to hear about your date last night, of course.”
“It wasnota date. And it went... fine. Kinda.” If you can call me crying on Ben’s shoulderfine. I’d classify that somewhere betweenterribleandcall your therapist.
“Afine, kindanon-date. Sounds fun.” He emits a loud snoring noise.
“What do you expect me to say?”
“That passion finally overtook you and you got busy on his floor.”
“Not this time. Sorry to disappoint.”
