Chapter 14
14
Olivia
Slapping for my phone, I blindly press the stop button on the alarm that’s been going off repeatedly for the past hour. It’s only nine a.m.; I haven’t slept in too much. I just couldn’t bring myself to spring out of bed, not when the crisp morning air was filtering through my cracked window so beautifully.
I love Saturdays. Especially when the sky is clear, the air is cool, and you’ve the whole day to spend traipsing around, just indulging yourself. Because that is what I plan to do today— indulge myself. That might be just what I need to clear my head.
When I got back home last night, I could barely keep my eyes open. It’s only now that I remember Will probably spent the better part of his night out drinking, without me. I guess Gen was good enough company in my absence, because when I check my messages, there’s only one. And it’s not from Will.
Ben
You left the sparkly interrogation notebook on my bed. Just fyi. I’ll bring it to class.
His text to me feels mechanical, especially after the way he basically dismissed me last night. I can ruminate over this another day . I toss my phone on my bed as I finally leap from it. The original hardwood of my room is cool on the soles of my feet, and I hurry to slip on my Tasmans. My gaze lands on my to-do list, and I steal my phone back from the cloud that is my bed, tempted to just lay back in it with a steaming cup of tea.
I’m about to hit buy now on an old school harlequin paperback I need for class before I realize that shipping is a two week minimum. Why does anything take two weeks to ship these days?
A quick search of the title relieves me when it becomes apparent that the middle aged women of Boston are keeping bodice ripping paperbacks stocked in the independent book shops off Massachusetts Avenue . I can’t think of a more indulgent morning than one spent strolling along the cobbled streets, searching for a book, and maybe stopping by Veronica Beard.
Assuming he didn’t have the foresight to order this week’s in advance, I shoot Ben a quick text, asking if he wants me to also grab him a copy when I find the book. He may have hurt my feelings, but he doesn’t need to know that. I barely have time to put my phone down when a notification materializes on my home screen.
Ben
Or I could just go with you.
Not even a question; just a statement. This time, heat flares inside me. There’s no reason for him to come along, just like there’s no reason for me to have such a bodily reaction to his text messages. Another one appears, and anticipation blooms where my heart should be.
Ben
I really don’t have any other plans, if that’s what you’re thinking.
That would’ve been my response, actually. How does he know what I’m thinking? I’m unsure of his motives, especially after the way our conversation ended last night. But when I consider it, Ben tagging along for this, realistically, quick errand would be the perfect time to continue interviewing him. And he has my notebook. And he can just help me search for the book and be on his way when we’re done.
Apprehension trickles down my spine, but anticipation wells up inside me when I realize I might see him today.
Sure.
I quickly press send, tossing my phone away like it’s fire. I search my closet, settling on my black Sandro pleated mini skirt, a cream cable knit sweater, a sheer pair of hose because it is a bit chilly, and my favorite black Chloé boots. Running my hands through my hair, I work through a few tangles but decide to leave it down, the messiness of a good night’s sleep making it look carelessly wavy.
I’m carefully assessing myself when I hear a knock on my door, my stomach briefly sinking. Will would show up, unannounced, with not even a “good morning” text. The sinking in my stomach quickly morphs into annoyance as I haphazardly fling my front door open.
“I figured I would swing by here, since you weren’t answering my texts… but I can go?” Ben greets me, confusion swirling in his eyes, the corners of his mouth upturned in a slight, mischievous grin. I take a steadying breath and breathe deeper when his scent envelops me— rain and cedar— and a startling familiar feeling sets into my bones.
“Sorry,” I smile, shaking my thoughts away. “I thought you were Will.”
“Oh,” Ben hesitates, suddenly uncertain. “I can go. I didn’t realize?—”
“No! No, I mean, don’t go. I’m not expecting him.”
“You weren’t expecting me either,” he replies, a flirtatious smirk gracing his face. My lips press together in an attempt to stifle yet another smile.
I eye him carefully before looking away. “Let me just grab my bag and we can go.” I whirl around to find my bag resting on the bench to my left and check to make sure I have my wallet.
Locking the door, I feel Ben’s presence behind me, the warmth from his closeness a sharp contrast to the cool wind whispering about my pantyhose clad knees. It isn’t until I’m standing at his car, the passenger door held open by him, that I register what we’re doing.
This feels like a date.
But it’s not a date; Ben’s chivalrous door opening is, in fact, not chivalry at all but common decency. I really need to stop reading so much fluff , I chastise myself as the passenger door deftly falls shut. According to Will, Ben is like this with everyone; it’s me who’s reading into it.
“You can DJ,” Ben offers, shooting a playful glance my way as we make our way into the city center, smiling knowingly. “Since you’re already pairing your phone to my car.”
“While I appreciate the permission, I would’ve anyway. Passenger princess, and all that,” I brashly reply, surprised at myself. He hums in acknowledgement as I press play on one of my daily mixes. Fleetwood Mac’s “Gypsy” weaves its way through the speakers. I catch Ben’s eyebrows raise in my peripherals.
“Yes, Cabot?” I turn in my seat to face him, ready to defend my choice. “Don’t tell me you’re shocked.”
“Okay— I’m not shocked,” he laughs, shaking his head. “I just didn’t take you for a girl into the oldies.”
“First of all, I resent the idea that oldies can be used in reference to Stevie Nicks. She is timeless. Second of all, if you were a teen girl anytime in the past two decades and you didn’t go through a Fleetwood Mac-record shop phase, you are an anomaly,” I explain with rapidity. I shake my head in mock disbelief. “I’d love to know what kind of girls you’ve known who don’t scream “Dreams” every time it comes on.”
“Well maybe,” Ben begins, the start of a sarcastic remark on his lips, “you’re just not like other girls .” He slyly glances at me out of the corner of his eye, grinning.
“Oh come off it, Cabot. I’m exactly like other girls,” I roll my eyes, amused. “Well, maybe slightly better,” I add, righting myself in my seat so that I’m looking ahead. Ben murmurs something to himself, but it’s drowned out by the embarrassingly loud growl of stomach.
“Sorry. I’m also a breakfast girl, but I overslept. If you just stop at—” Ben’s blinker cuts me off, indicating a sudden detour. His car slows, bumping along the cobblestone side street he’s turned into. He parallel parks in record time in front of a worn, but clean building.
When I look out the window, I’m met by a royal blue sign in cursive lettering, most certainly at least three decades old. Inside, stereotypical diner booths skirt the perimeter of the tiny spot, with a few tables clustered in the middle. A waitress wearing a checkered apron makes her rounds. As Ben opens the door for me, I’m met by the comforting aroma of diner coffee.
We’re seated quickly, two dark blue mugs are slid towards us, and the steaming coffee pot pours.
“I’ll give you guys a minute to look over the menu. Good to see you, Ben,” the waitress offers with a smile before quickly winking at Ben. Something stirs in me… jealousy? Most definitely not that.
“One of your non-Fleetwood Mac girls?” I’m kicking myself before it’s even out.
“Uh, no,” Ben says hesitantly. “I used to come here.” He pauses like he has more to say but isn’t sure if he should say it. I squint, trying to read him, but not wanting to pry. But you should pry— isn’t that the whole reason you agreed to this highly suspicious, possibly inappropriate non-date?
“Before you came back to Astor?” I ask, attempting to hide my journalistic tone with one of curiosity— because I am curious. What was he doing these past few years? Why have I never seen him? Those are pertinent to the story I’m meant to be investigating, but they also feel pertinent to… me.
Ben subtly scoffs, disappointment shading his gaze. “So this is an interview for your story?”
His disappointment wounds me, for whatever reason, but it’s good. Ben shouldn’t be disappointed by me to begin with.
“I never said I wasn’t an opportunist, Ben,” I quip with a slight tilt of my head, like he should know better.
His assessing gaze unsettles me, eyes squinting for a moment, searching my own, and I’m worried what he might find. I don’t even know what he might find. Like he senses my unease, he unlocks from his target and finally answers my question.
“Yeah. Before I came back to Astor,” is all he gives me. A beat goes by. Then another. “You want to know why I left.”
“Yes, I?—”
“Well, the paper wants to know why I left, right?” he interrupts, sardonically. My heart knocks about inside my chest cavity, his disdain destabilizing me further. Whatever resolve I had concocted just an hour ago when I framed this time with Ben as part of my assignment dissipates under his scrutiny.
“Yes,” I admit. “I do need to know, for the paper. But I want to know… for me. It would help me make sense of things.”
Ben sighs in playful resignation, but his face speaks to how vulnerable this conversation makes him feel. I have the sudden urge to rest my hand on his forearm as he brings his mug down from the sip of coffee he just took. Tell him that he’s okay, and I can take and hold space for whatever he needs to say— but I know that’s an intrusive thought because I barely know this man. I offer him a soft smile instead and wait for his answer.
“I left because…” he pauses, staring into the pocket of space just past me. “I just needed a break. Everything started feeling like too much and stepping away felt like the only option. When I left I found myself here, a lot.” His smile is tight as he flags down our waitress for another refill of his coffee.
I get the sense that’s all I’ll be getting from Ben, so I leave it alone. What was I expecting to find anyway? Without knowing Ben’s family, I can barely make sense of anything. To me, it makes sense that Ben would only abandon his captainship for some sort of family crisis, but I have no clue what that would even be. Will’s completely shut me out of that part of his life. I know that’s what Ian’s hoping for though— some kind of tea on the elusive Chapman clan.
It’s honestly odd, in hindsight, that anyone would care to read about the family woes and subsequent consequences of the Chapmans. We wealthy nor’easters really do feed on the miseries of others, via all and any gossip channels— even college newspapers.
Sipping my coffee, I consider that there are major swaths of Will’s life that I knew nothing about until Ben showed up. It had never bothered me that Will kept pieces of himself private, but I was beginning to feel robbed. Ben was willing to share more with me in the few weeks that I’ve known him than Will has in the past two years. But it isn’t sadness I feel as I consider this; it’s longing. I offer my mug to the waitress for a refill and take another sip.
“I kind of have a place like this— in Nantucket,” I say, surprising myself. “Shitty diner coffee is like a balm for the soul.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, a soft smile settling on his face. “It kind of is. What’s in Nantucket?”
“My dad and I spend Thanksgiving there.” I catch his expression shift, and I know what he’s wondering. “My mom is alive, Ben,” I laugh, watching his shoulders relax. “She’s just never really around.” Before he can press me on my mom, I switch gears.
“So what does Ben Cabot order at—” I peek down at the menu, “Winchester’s Diner?”
“Is this still an interview, Beckett?” The lighthearted gleam in his eyes tells me he’s letting his question go for now.
“No. This isn’t an interview anymore,” I offer, more slyly than I mean to, a blush creeping up my neck. He nods in agreement to whatever he thinks I’ve implied.
“The Home Run is usually what I go for, but something tells me you’re not into savory breakfast.”
“I very much enjoy eggs benedict, I’ll have you know. But…” I begrudgingly admit, “you are correct. Recommend me something else. I don’t trust our server.”
“No? I think she’s spoken like, twenty words in total,” he laughs airily, the laugh cascading out and around us, winding through the handles of our coffee mugs, weaving its way through my hair, brushing across the bridge of my nose. Or so it feels.
“It’s that eye. Something about it screams ‘don’t trust any of my food recommendations’,” I flippantly reply.
“Definitely don’t get a Boston waffle then. It’s buttery, topped with caramelized apples, dusted with powdered sugar, even comes with a side of syrup if that's not sweet enough for you… but Bethany did tell me once that it’s her favorite. So.” Ben smirks, flagging down Bethany again.
When she finally arrives at our table, I find it hard not to look at her with derision. She’s slightly older than us, the barely there wrinkles at the corner of her eyes when she smiles only slightly deeper than my own. She could just be happier than me, I guess. But no, she’s definitely older. Her ashy blonde hair lays on one shoulder in a long braid that reaches just beneath her barely there chest. Maybe not barely there, but that is besides the point. She’s pretty in the way so many girls are unremarkably pretty, and— there’s a wedding band on her left hand.
“And what’ll you have?” she asks, sweet as can be. “If you’re looking for something sweet, I love the?—”
“I’ll just take the Boston waffle,” I interject before she has the chance to recommend it to me. Ben stifles a laugh behind his menu before handing it to Bethany.
“That’ll be right out,” she throws over her shoulder, hurrying off to a table of elderly men playing dominoes.
“Okay, there are seven book shops within a five mile radius of the city center that claim to have at least one copy of the book. Can you believe I couldn’t get a single bookseller to tell me how many copies they had? Anyway, we can split up, you know, divide and conquer. That way we’re not both trekking uphill and downhill just to find this book all day.”
“While I appreciate your logic and your prior preparation, I did think we’d be trekking uphill and downhill together. Were your designer boots not designed for such strenuous exercise?” he teases, that mischievous glint in his eyes.
“Well, no I— I’m not sure actually. They feel industrial, but I guess we’ll find out. Just remember that I offered you a way out, Cabot. I’ve built a couple pit stops in my route. If we won’t divide and conquer, then you are along for the ride,” I say, giving him one more opportunity to back track.
At every turn, he’s choosing to spend this time with me, and I’m choosing to let him. I should make him stay away, but the words don’t make their way out of my mouth. I don’t want to turn him away. I don’t think I could if I tried.
“Funny, I don’t remember asking for a way out,” he replies, smug with satisfaction.
By the time we’ve located two copies of the book and visited Veronica Beard— because I was not going to give that up for anybody— the sun is past its peak, its warming powers quickly diminishing. We’re only a few blocks from where Ben parked, if I remember correctly, when he pauses to answer his phone.
“Hey, Mom,” Ben softly mutters, sympathy padding each word. “I can’t right now I’m— well no I’m—” My brows furrow in question, and I attempt to mime that I’m up for whatever, but instead I think I look like I’m sternly shaking my head. He checks the time on his phone before sighing, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah no, I understand that. I’ll text you once I’m with him. Kay. You too.” When he hangs up the phone, I catch the tension flickering in his jaw.
“Everything good?” I essentially chirp in my best attempt to be easygoing.
“Actually, no. There’s something I need to do, but I understand if you need to go. I can call you an Uber or?—”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Ben. I do not Uber,” I jokingly scoff, though I am dead serious. “I don’t have anywhere I need to be. Honestly. Is everything okay?” I add when I clock the look of worry on his face.
“My mom can’t get a hold of her dad— my grandfather. He lives here,” he pauses, like he’s revealed something he didn’t mean to. “This happens sometimes, and he’s probably fine but…”
“She wants you to check on him,” I state, looping my arm through his. “Lead the way. I’ve already added “Wellness Check” to the itinerary. If we can stop at Veronica Beard’s we can stop at…?”
“Theodore Cabot’s,” he finishes, a reserved smile disguising any worry that was just there.
“Good old Teddy. I’m sure he’s just fine,” I reassure him, gazing up into his eyes swirling with worry, curiosity, and something else that causes my stomach to flutter.
His smile morphs into a brilliant beam, transforms into an open mouthed chuckle.
“What?” If he’s laughing at me, I’d like to know what about.
“I just had no clue that the girl who told me to fuck off could be this… sunny,” he says, staring at me in bewilderment. I must look the same because I feel incredibly bewildered by such an assessment.
“In no universe would anyone, not even my father, call me a single ray of sunshine. Let’s get going, Cabot. I think you’re weary from our journey,” I joke, patting his forearm in an attempt to downplay whatever he meant. It must work, because he doesn’t bring it up again.
Suddenly, we’re before a brownstone, the door painted red. Ben pulls out a set of keys and opens the door. Immediately, my nose is assaulted by the smell of Pine Sol, that one sickly sweet vanilla scented candle, and elderly man. Once the assault wears off, I realize the smell is pleasant, and I imagine it to be the smell I might associate with a loving grandparent, if I had any.
“Grandfather!” Ben shouts out, through the opulent townhouse.
Nothing. Silence. “Grandfather?”
Again, nothing. Ben shakes his head in disbelief. “Pop!” he shouts, exasperated.
A walker glides out from a doorway near the rear, followed by Pop whose hands desperately grasp the handles. “If I hear you call me grandfather one more damn time, I’ll—” Ben clears his throat gruffly, censuring Theodore. “Who’s this?” the old man grumbles, face scrunching up at the sight of me.
“Olivia, sir,” I say, offering my hand, walking up to him. The closer I get the clearer it is that amusement, not consternation, dances in his tired eyes.
“Olivia? And how do you know my Ben?” We both glance Ben’s way as we see him slip his phone back into his pocket.
“Oh, well… we have—” I begin, but Ben takes over.
“Olivia is Will’s girl, Pop,” he says with such finality, I feel it like a fresh wound littered with salt. “But we’re in a seminar together. We were just running an errand for it.” An errand to run, like a tedious task to check off as quickly as possible. I shift my weight, eager to escape. “Mom said you weren’t answering again,” he swiftly switches subjects.
“Well it never rang! It—” Ben swipes his grandfather’s phone off the counter, setting the ringer off silent and to an audible level. “I don’t see why house phones fell out of fashion. This wouldn’t be a problem,” Theodore grumbles, shuffling towards Ben.
I watch Ben explain the mechanics of keeping your phone off silent to his grandfather, all too aware of how he patiently re-explains every confusion Theodore has. When he’s done, he checks the dates on his perishables in the fridge, reviews the log for the caretaker who comes once a week, and enlists me to call in his favorite lasagna from a restaurant down the road. He radiates calm, reassurance, safety— love. Before we leave, Pop releases his walker to envelope me in a bony embrace. He backs away slightly, just enough to peer into my eyes for a moment.
He lets out a decisive “hmph,” kisses my cheek, and retreats back to his walker before saying goodbye to Ben, quietly grumbling as he does. Ben’s soft gaze hardens, Pop smiles sympathetically, and I feel like an intruder.
“And remember to charge your phone!” Ben throws over his shoulder when we leave, just as Theodore shuts and locks his door.
“Thank you for coming with me. Pop— grandfather, can be a handful.”
“Why don’t you call him Pop? He obviously prefers it.”
“A story for another day. Maybe if you meet my family one day, you’ll understand,” he answers.
“Ha! Unlikely,” I scoff, feeling increasingly bitter after being referred to as a tedious errand. I may be exaggerating, but feelings are subjective.
“Olivia,” Ben interrupts as my internal thoughts spiral, lightly grabbing my arm to stop me just before his car. “What’s wrong?” he asks, concern floating in his gaze.
I contemplate saying that nothing is wrong, but that feels like waste of this moment, on this day that was meant to be an indulgence. Instead, I indulge myself by speaking my mind.
“Why did you even come with me?”
“Where is this coming from?” His confusion is palpable.
“Well, I can’t say I appreciated the way you introduced me.” He tilts his head, asking for clarity. “You said you were ‘just running an errand.’ You made it sound like I was…” I trail off, realizing I’m being dramatic.
“Like you were what?” he asks, steadily, like he’s acutely listening to me.
Indulging myself, remember? I take a shallow breath, rolling my eyes at myself. “Like I was an inconvenience. Which I now recognize is silly when I say it aloud, considering you literally offered to—” I’m stopped by the warmth of his palms, pressing through my sweater and to my shoulders.
“No, don’t logic your way out of your feelings. I’m sorry I made it sound like you were an inconvenience, Olivia. You are anything but that.” His hands travel from my shoulders to my back, crossing each other until I’m surrounded by him. I press my cheek into the solid warmth in front of me, unconsciously breathing in cedar and rain and the questionably erotic scent of manly exertion that most certainly came from lugging my bags up and down the cobbled streets.
When he releases me his gaze is heated, and the moment feels like it sits on the edge of a mountain, just waiting to be pushed over or reeled back in.
“That was quite a hug, Cabot,” I remark, smiling at him in gratitude.
He opens the passenger door, nodding in acknowledgment as he gazes just above my head, but I swear I can still see the warmth in his eyes. Then, he drives me home.