I blink away tears. It’s felt, for a long time, like I’m in this alone.
I’m scared to let myself think I no longer am.
On Sunday morning, he’s in the process of getting dressed when I wake. “Sorry,” he whispers.
“You’re leaving?” I don’t know why I care. I was going into the office anyway.
He nods. “Brunch at my mom’s. It’s kind of a tradition.”
His gaze flickers to me. For a moment I think he’s going to invite me, and I’ll have to find a way to say no, but he just keeps getting dressed. We’ve been doing this for weeks now, and I’ve still never met anyone he cares about. I’ve still never even gone to his place—I’ve suggested the latter and he alludes to the construction or says it’s too far. I can hardly argue that it’s only twenty minutes away when I’m pretending I neither know nor care where he lives. If we were at all serious, though, it would probably bother me.
I sit up, holding the sheet to my chest. “Do all your brothers come?”
He hitches a shoulder. “Graham lives on the east coast, and Colin’s doing his residency, so they’re kind of hit or miss. Today it’s just my mom and stepdad, and my brother Simon.”
“I didn’t know your mom got remarried,” I tell him.
His tongue taps his lip, and he turns away to grab his shoes. “Yeah.”
“You don’t like him?” I ask.
He looks wary as he glances over his shoulder at me. “I do. He’s a great guy. And things were pretty difficult until he came along.”
I almost make a joke about what difficult means to a spoiled rich kid from Newport, but manage to stop myself. Someone could easily say the same thing to me—I was once a spoiled rich kid from DC too. “Difficult in what way?” I ask.
“My mom completely shut down after my dad died,” he says, perching on the edge of the bed. “They figured out later that it was probably shock and post-partum depression, but it went on for a while, and I never stopped being scared she’d…leave us again.”
“Shut down how?” I ask. My foot slides toward his thigh, suddenly needing contact.
He leans forward to tie his shoes. “She couldn’t stop crying. Couldn’t even sit at the table through dinner, and it was often like…she’d forgotten we were there. I never once left for school without being scared shitless that Simon would walk off into traffic because she wasn’t watching him, or that she’d forget to feed Colin.”
I picture it all, and it hits me somewhere deep in the chest. He was only ten at the time. It hurt to watch my mom suffering, but it would be terrifying to be so little and feel responsible for three siblings. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper. “How long did it last?”
“A while,” he says, as if the specifics are too dark for him to delve into. “But it remained hard for a long time. Every time things went wrong...I was petrified she’d be pushed over the edge.”
He must hope he’ll find someone stable, someone who plans to stick around. Maybe he’s not inviting me along today because he knows I’m neither of those things.
32
Two weeks before Christmas, Ben stops by my office. He’s on his way out of town for a weekend in Palm Springs with his friends. I look away from those keys in his hand, the reminder he’s leaving.
“So do you have plans?” he asks, in the manner of someone who very much hopes I’ll say I have them.
“Keeley mentioned a party.” This is not a lie, in that Keeley did mention a party, but is a lie, in that I have no intention of going.
The relief on his face is palpable, and if this were anything, if this was more than enemies-with-benefits, I’d probably be really hurt by that. I’ve seen enough of Drew’s Instagram feed to know he’s brought other women along in the past, and that they were idiots. Women he should have been ashamed of—but I’m the one he doesn’t want to bring.
“So where is this party?” he asks.
My patience with him is fraying. “Certainly, you’re not going away for your nebulous friends’ weekend and thinking you get to grill me about what I’ll do in your absence?” I ask tartly.
“Nebulous?” he repeats.
I hide a wince. I sounded more jealous than I intended. “My point is that you’re going away for the entire weekend, somewhere, and with some people, and that’s fine. So it’s a little weird to have you grilling me about the small party I’ll be at with Keeley for a few hours.”
A muscle in his jaw contracts once, like the single beat of a heart. “Don’t take a drink you didn’t see being made,” he says.
“Ben, I’m not eighteen, and this isn’t my first rodeo,” I reply, dismissing him, irritated by my disappointment.
Because I was really hoping he’d tell me not to go home with someone else. And I don’t know why I wanted it, when I’d have refused to agree anyway.
I check Instagram on Saturday morning. Drew hasn’t posted a single thing yet. Maybe Ben’s not with her. Maybe he’s actually on a romantic weekend away, just him and a blond named Lotus who is extremely flexible and thinks 9-11 was a conspiracy because she wasn’t born when it happened.
He texts but I’m not pleased, I’m resentful. How’s it possible that I’m not as invite-worthy as a girl who doesn’t know the difference between your and you’re?
Ben: This place is spectacular. We should come here for the weekend.
We could have gone there THIS weekend if you’d fucking invited me.
Me: I don’t see having any free weekends for a while.
I run to Victoria’s apartment on my way into the office to meet a friend of hers. “Paperwork issue”, she was told, when her daughter wasn’t released from juvenile detention as planned, “things slow down because of the holidays”, as if that’s a valid excuse to keep a fourteen-year-old girl locked up. It’s in no way my area of the law, but if you have a lawyer who can call on your behalf, casually throwing around phrases like standard of care and civil penalties, you tend to come out better than when you don’t.
I tell her I’ll make the call but promise nothing beyond that. I can’t represent her formally without getting the firm’s approval, and this is definitely not the time to get caught defying Fields. I shouldn’t even be placing the call, but what am I supposed to do—force some teenage girl to remain locked up without reason because I’m scared of my boss?
We finish our meeting and I head to the front door. It’s only as I reach for my purse that I notice the envelopes on the front table addressed to Santa.
Victoria has almost nothing left after she pays rent and buys groceries. I wonder how the hell she manages gifts too.
“They did it at church,” she says, shaking her head. “I wish they’d stop encouraging my kids to expect more than they’re gonna get.”
“I can mail them for you,” I offer.
She shrugs. “Won’t make a difference. I think the post office just throws them out.”
I grab the envelopes anyway, tucking them into my purse.