“It wasn’t your fault,” Ben said, and I realized I’d fallen silent. “I know that’s what people tell you, and it’s hard to believe them, but it’s true.”
There was something about the way Ben said this that told me he very much understood how I’d felt. It made me wonder, again, what had happened to his wife.
“Thank you. I know,” I said softly. “Luckily, I have really great friends who refused to let me think otherwise. They even tried to keep me writing. I managed for a while, but I was running on empty, I just didn’t know it. My friends were all that was pushing me along. When I moved away to London, it was just me. It didn’t take much for me to stop altogether.” I swallowed, gathering myself for the next part.
“In the end, it only took one agent to tell me I wasn’t good enough. These meet-cutes . . . They might not look like much from the outside, but writing about them for NOB has been like finally moving forward, after spending a really long time standing still.” I paused, not wanting to push too hard. “Sometimes you can only get where you need to go by taking small steps. You just have to be willing to take a chance.”
I searched his serious brown eyes, wondering if I’d done the right thing telling him all this.
He surprised me by inching closer, until our knees touched. “Evie. The meet-cutes, I didn’t realize—”
A shout from near the bar cut him off. “Closing time! Thank you, ladies, gents!”
“Hey, you guys!” Marc and Steph zigzagged toward us, linking arms. Marc launched himself toward Ben, pinning him to his side in a hug and nuzzling his head against his chest. “Steph said we just had a meet-cute. Did you have one of those too?”
Was it quiet in here? Because Marc’s words rang like tinnitus in my ears.
“Time to put your coat on, Marc,” Ben said evenly, extracting himself.
I checked on Steph. Her footsteps were surprisingly steady as she gathered her things.
“You’re a great friend, you know that, don’t you?” Marc said, as Ben got him into his coat. “Ben! The guy who always shows up.” Marc looked green. “Though you might want to leave for this.”
“Wait until we’re outside, buddy.” Ben gently but firmly shifted him toward the door. “I’ll even hold your hair back.”
“Just a sec.” Steph put a card into Marc’s coat pocket, patting it. “My number. Let’s actually get to know each other.”
Then she kissed my cheek, smelling of strawberries and rum. “We should do this again. You good getting home?” I told her I was just around the corner and she breezed out of the pub, trailing her red scarf. I stared after her, slightly in awe.
Ben ushered Marc along, pausing briefly at the door. “We won’t be at Gil’s tomorrow, just so you know. I’ll be picking Anette up from her grandparents’,” he said. His expression was shuttered.
“I’ll see you next week, then,” I said, with an unexpected pang of disappointment. I tamped it down before he could see it on my face.
He nodded just as the door closed behind him.
What just changed? But I knew. The moment Marc had mentioned this being a meet-cute, Ben had shut down. Again. I yanked my mittens on. It wasn’t like I was trying to have a meet-cute with him, so what was his problem?
As I pulled my duffel coat from the back of my chair, I saw the camera propped on Ben’s seat. Oh, no you don’t. If nothing else, I would reunite Ben with his camera. I grabbed it and hurried outside. It was pouring with rain. I shook out my red umbrella and stepped onto the street, squinting through the downpour. There. Ben had hailed a taxi and was trying to coax Marc into it. The rain had swept his dark hair into his eyes.
“Ben.” I hurried up to him, placed the camera in his hands, then turned away before he could respond.
I’d taken only a few steps when I heard him call my name.
“Evie.”
I turned around, shivering beneath a streetlamp as I clutched my umbrella, wondering what he could possibly want.
Flash. The whole street lit up, the rain slick and glittering. As I blinked away the light, I saw Ben lowering the camera. He looked down at it for a moment before lifting his eyes to meet mine.
“Small steps,” he said.
Chapter 27
Bridesmaids Revisited
INT: EVIE’S BEDROOM, WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 30, 5:34 P.M.
EVIE is wearing tights and a nightgown as she takes a garment bag out of a cardboard delivery box and hangs it up on her wardrobe door. Her room is tiny but neat. There are framed film posters on the walls: Brick Park. When Harry Met Sally. Lost in Translation. The Champ. A Room with a View. Thelma & Louise. Juno.
The bridesmaid dress felt heavier than I imagined it should. Sarah had chosen them before Christmas, but I hadn’t been around, and rather than send me a picture, she’d wanted me to see it in person to “really get the benefit.” She’d posted it out to me so we could both try on our dresses at the same time today, albeit at a distance of almost two hundred miles.
“Does it look okay?” Sarah’s voice sounded tinny through the speakers of the laptop balanced on my bed. The camera quality from Jeremy’s propped-up tablet was a little fuzzy, but I could see Jeremy and Maria both sitting on the small heart-shaped sofa at the bridal boutique in Sheffield, holding glasses of prosecco while they waited for us both to get ready. I wished I could have afforded to be there with them in person. Still, at least I had my own (plastic) glass of prosecco to get me through this.
“I’m still unzipping.”
“It’s so weird seeing you outside of work at this time,” Jeremy said, his arms draped across his knees as he peered into the camera.
“You too,” I told him. Now we all knew how crazy his hours had been getting, we’d been checking in with him more. “Monty’s still taking work off me. Almost everything but my edits.” It was almost like a dream job, except I was living a nightmare in which I hadn’t told Monty that NOB was still out of contact. Or that I’d refused to keep doing the one thing that had apparently got him writing again.
I determinedly shook off my worries and grabbed the plastic flute from my desk. This was about Sarah, not me. I sipped the prosecco before approaching the bag. Jeremy’s hints and Maria’s stoicism implied that the bridesmaid dress had to be seen to be believed.
“So you told NOB that you’re done?” asked Maria, as I yanked the zipper down and peeked inside. “Just like that?”
“Yep. Oh, my,” I said. It was very . . . peach. Not exactly the tasteful rose gold Sarah had promised. At first I couldn’t quite see the dress for ruffles. Then I realized the dress was the ruffles. I maneuvered it out of the bag and stepped back.