Page 8 of This Changes Everything

I caught Zoë’s eye from the drinks table. She waved at me, then mouthed, What are we doing?

I mouthed back, I have no fucking idea. My face twisted the second I said it.

What the hell was that? Why did I swear? Is that a thing I do? My first sentence to her, and I swear?

It was just another performance, but I had no idea the part I was playing. I was starting to sweat from so much trying. I guess Jess Munch was right: I was already finding out who I really was, and apparently, I was a moron.

The evening was over, and Ben finally made his way to me. Instead of officially introducing himself, he simply said, “You hungry?”

Ben and I walked into the brightly lit pizza place across the street from the school. The display case featured enormous, tourist-size slices covering all the basics from cheese to pepperoni to meat lover’s and Hawaiian. There were a couple of specialty slices ranging from shrimp and lobster to turkey, stuffing, and cranberry.

Ben leaned over the counter but kept his body open to me so I could view the display case. He pointed at the “Thanksgiving Special” and grimaced. “That can’t be good, right?”

“Who knows, but do we try it now or wait for Thanksgiving?” I said, then ordered a spicy Hawaiian with a drizzle of hot honey and chili oil.

“You just told me everything I need to know about you with that order,” Ben said without looking at me. “Can I get the one with mushroom ragù sauce?” he asked the guy behind the counter.

“Seriously? Blech.” I gave the hardest stink face imaginable, and the worker threw up his middle finger at me, causing Ben to chuckle.

My jaw dropped. Seriously?! The worker turned his back to me, and I leaned in to Ben. “That guy just fingered me.”

Ben’s laugh blasted throughout the small space. “What? Jesus. Don’t say that again.”

“What?” I could feel my own laugh bubbling from within as I pulled out my card to pay for my slice. Ben swatted my hand away and handed his card to the teller, steamrolling me.

Ben turned back to me. “You said that guy fingered you.”

I pointed at the server, disgruntled. “He did! Did you not see that?”

“Is that a Canadian thing?”

“Is it an American thing to just finger people?!” I spat out defensively.

“Oh my god, Ellie.” Ben laughed again, covering his face this time.

“Girl. Stop saying that,” a stranger behind us in line said with a giggle.

“What’s going on? He’s the asshole here!” My face tightened with confusion.

Ben looked me straight in the eyes. “He gave you the finger. Gave. You. Or he flipped you the bird. It’s not ‘He fingered me.’ How do you not know that?”

“I’m not saying anything wrong. What I’m saying is normal.” I started to blush, but I carried on, deciding to be stubborn. The guy handed us our greasy pizza on paper plates, and I said it once more for good measure, with my hardest stare. “You fingered me, and I didn’t like it!”

Ben and the stranger in line both laughed. I smacked Ben’s shoulder with a smile but refused to give an inch, like the McCain I was raised to be.

“Come on. I asked Lucas if he wanted to meet us here in a bit, too.” Ben tilted his head to the side so I would follow him to a seat along the window bar.

“How’d you feel about tonight?” I asked as we took our seats.

“I don’t know. I kinda can’t believe I’m here,” he answered honestly, folding his pizza in half. “I helped Lucas move a couch through the East Village the other night, and it felt like I was in a movie.”

“Oh, do you know him from before?” I took a bite of my pizza.

“We did the summer program together and were invited to join full-time. So, yeah.” Ben took off his jacket and draped it over another barstool. “I thought I was going back to Seattle to my girlfriend and our dog, because I moved here for six weeks on a whim, but then I had two weeks to decide if I was going to throw my old life away and start again. It wouldn’t be the first time, so I went for it.”

“Wait! Let me guess!” I said excitedly. “You were an athlete who got injured and became an actor.”

Ben stared me down, bothered. “Well, that was disturbing. Am I a cliché?”