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“I like it. Taking care of people,” I say, and the world blurs more. “But I also really like you taking care of me.” And then the world fades to black.
And I think right before I move to oblivion, I hear Ben say, “I’ll take care of you for as long as you’ll let me.”
But that was just the fever speaking.
Forty
-Lola-
Standingin front of my mirror in my bedroom, my entire stomach is a slurry of butterflies.
The gala is tonight.
I’m going not as a donor or as the mayor’s daughter.
I’m going asBen’s date.
I should be fine; I’ve been to a million of these fundraisers in my life and this, in theory, should be no different.
But it is, of course.
Because everything that has to do with Ben is different and new and exciting.
And just a bit terrifying.
My budget didn’t allow for a new, extravagant dress so I ended up calling Lilah who has all of my old gowns in her closet. She picked one and hand-delivered it over the weekend, a smile on her face that I didn’t quite understand until after she left and I unzipped the dress bag.
It’s not mine.
It’s new, the tags still attached—a gift from my sister.
It’s black.
And shimmery.
Andtight.
It has tiny spaghetti straps, a simple sweetheart neckline that makes me look like I have much bigger boobs than I do, and a daring back that dips deep. The rest is skin tight, ending at mid-shin with a slit up the side that definitely would be way too high for a fancy political fundraiser.
But an art charity gala with my tattooed . . . boyfriend?
Perfect.
Is he my boyfriend?I think as I touch up my red lipstick and tuck another strand of hair into the low bun.
I don’t really know that answer. He’s been sweet, taking me to meet his family and taking care of me when I was sick. Opening up to me about his life, accepting my own dark secrets. He’s been adamant, if not suffocating, about keeping me safe, but technically, he holds the same safety standards for Hattie.
We kiss and we fuck any time we’re alone, which is amazing. But are we more?
Once you’re past the age of “boyfriends” and “girlfriends,” do you have a conversation? Do you sit down and go for commitment and exclusivity, or are you just one day laying in a hospital bed with two rings on your finger, popping out babies?
Jesus, Lola. Way to overthink this,I think to myself as I hear a knock on the door.
With a sigh and one last look at the mirror and the killer red bottom shoes I was forced to borrow from Lilah, I turn and head for the door. Standing in front of it, I take one last deep breath, attempting to ignore the nervous energy flowing through me before impatient knuckles meet the new solid door once more.
Ben is halfway through his second, more frustrated rap when I open the door, leaving his hand hanging in midair.
I smile at him, eyes gobbling up his black button-down shirt, the top few buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, displaying his arms proudly like he already went to the event and we’re going to the after party. The shirt disappears into black dress pants held up by black suspenders, the whole thing seamlessly ending in a pair of dark, shiny wingtip shoes. He must have had a trim, the sides of his hair neatly cut and the top combed back impeccably, the neatest I’ve ever seen it. Even his scruffy beard has been trimmed to look perfect.
