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“Bennett?” I asked, almost in a whisper.
Movement, shuffling against the door, as if he mirrored my pose. Staying close to me. “It passed,” I heard him say. I didn’t think two simple words could convey so much shame. Though who knew why.Iwas the one who felt shame. He had nothing to be shameful of.
I stood, ran my hand along the door as if I could feel him. “I’ll go,” I told him.
Blew out the candle. Picked up his discarded flannel shirt, laid it on the ottoman. Collected the wine glasses and put them in the sink. Turned off the record player. I grabbed Ralphie the Racoon from his bedroom and propped the stuffed animal against the door so Bennett could see him when he came out.
I left, feeling like a coward, an abuser, a lowlife who couldn’t read signs.
I threw up when I got home and didn’t sleep for one minute the whole night.
ChapterNine
MYMOTHER’SWORKSstared at me as I ran my finger along the bindings to find the right one. She had asked me to retrieve a particular draft, one that never made it to production.The Unspoken Lies of Millie Parkersat in a faded red binder, not the coveted black leather of the finished, produced works. I slipped it out and returned to my mother’s bedroom.
A speaker tucked into the corner pumped out symphonic music, her preferred background when writing. She sat up in her bed, more alert than usual, with a laptop perched on a cushion designed to rest on her lap. A celadon mug of tea wafted steam from the nightstand, the cup sitting among a forest of orange pill bottles.
I handed her the red binder. She looked at me over the black rim of her readers. She accepted the binder, but kept her eyes on me. “Darling?”
“Mother dearest?”
She clicked her tongue. “You exude an air of dejection.” She held aloft a wood-encased pen. “Iam the one with terminal cancer. Not you. What has you down, darling?” She pointed to a tufted chair across from her nightstand. “Sit. Tell me.”
Not happening. Although, telling her about how my penis might have caused a man to have a panic attack would be a humorous thing to say. I pulled the chair over and sat next to her bed. A full day had passed since the Night of Terror with Bennett. Not so much as a single text from him. I had a second fitful night of sleep yesterday and now, this morning, I barely ate and knew I looked awful.
“Maudlin does not suit you,” my mother said.
“Jet lag, Ma,” I said. She shot me a look at her least favorite term. “What’s up with the computer?” Not exactly a deft way of changing subjects, but she rolled with it.
The pen she wielded like a sword banged against the rim of the monitor. “Modernity has finally caught up withme, just as I’m about to slip away fromit. The typewriter is too heavy to put on my lap and I have trouble sitting in a chair.”
My whole life, my mother used the same Remington Rand typewriter for every single one of her plays. To this day, the distinctive sound of a key hitting the page reminded me of her. I’d hear her pecking away with her two index fingers as she cranked out the next big thing.
“Still writing though,” I said and nodded to the computer. “What’s this one about?”
She had never shied away from telling me about what she worked on. She may have been absent everywhere else in my life, but Cordelia always shared the ins and outs of her drafts only with me. Never Edmund, her previous assistant, or even Rachel. Just her little darling.
So it was with some surprise to me when she said, “That’s a secret, darling.” I must have given her a look. A faint smile touched her lips. “This will be my greatest yet. Better thanThe Affair on Ministerial Drive, to be sure.”
“Well, what’s it about, at least?”
She removed her glasses and fixed me with a long stare. “Love, of course. What every great story is about.”
My phone vibrated in my pocket. My mother’s shrewd assessment of me remained as I prized my phone free.
BENNETT DUBOIS sent you a message.
Leaned back in the chair. The wood groaned and I might have as well.
“Go,” my mother said. “I can see you are busy.” I stood automatically as I looked at the notification, not yet opening it up. “And stop brooding, darling. It’s unbecoming.”
I left my mother’s bedroom door cracked as I navigated the hallways to get back to the kitchen. Once there, I thumbed my phone to read his text.
Bennett:Will you have lunch with me? Eleven-thirty?
Yes, ofcourseI would, but I didn’t answer right away. I laid the phone on the countertop and shut my eyes. Bile rose in my belly, mixed with the coffee I had earlier. It was like I sat on a pendulum that oscillated wildly between anger and joy, passing through “What the fuck is happening” in the middle of each swing. Atop all that, I had two awful nights of sleep. I dedicated every waking moment to dissect what I had done to Bennett, how I could have read the signs differently. My overall concern for his well-being eclipsed the petty worries I had about myself. Clearly, something was off, and I had no idea what.
Was I even in the right mindset to spend more time with him? Could I even trust myself? I considered strict abstinence. No touching, no flirting. Simple, uncomplicated conversation as if he were any other friend. But the sight of him…andif he ever smiled. God, Bennett’s smile. So hard won and always worth the price of the self-deprecation I had to pay to get it.
