Astor Hill

Chapter 15

15

Ben

I almost kissed her. Again.

That thought intermittently interjects itself mid sentence, off and on, all day, just like it did yesterday. It invaded my thoughts every time I’d glance at Olivia, sitting beside me seemingly unaware of the calamity I want to cause when I’m near her, unfazed by the heat that rolls between us like the unbearable heat waves of summer. So unbothered, so cool, so… neutral, that I doubt that she even feels it.

The icy chill of the lab room, as well as the sterile stench of lab equipment, does a good enough job of dousing the fire I’ve come to associate with being around Olivia. It takes every ounce of my self control not to act on pure instinct around her. The drive to hug her, kiss her, hold her hand , is unsettling, and it needs to stop. If her indifference to me this morning was any indication, or the way she let Will squeeze her ass after seminar— in full view of everyone, that delicious flush creeping up her neck the way it does when she’s flustered— she doesn't want me to act on pure instinct. I need to start showing some restraint. Thankfully, we don’t need to spend any time together for our class this week, so putting some space between us should be easy enough. In theory.

“ Ben the Bogart !” Andrew exclaims with childish glee. I can’t help the chuckle that escapes me when I feel him and Grant sidle up beside me on our way to the practice gym. “ Please tell me we have plans tonight. Please. When I tell you this one,” he shoots a playful glare at Grant, “is too polite to pick up anyone at a bar anymore! Unbelievable. Thank god you’re here.”

And while the idea of going out and picking up anyone who isn’t Olivia makes me slick with unease, it’s exactly what I need to do to snuff out this fire I keep feeding.

“Yeah… we have plans. But you can’t call me Bogart when we go out later. Actually, can you stop calling me that in general?” I say, eyebrows raised.

“Thank you,” he says in mock exasperation, clasping his hands together. Andrew, while an invaluable member of the team, is also a bit of a theatrical person. He is literally involved in the theater department. Our own, slightly aged, Troy Bolton. “No can do on the Bogart thing, though. We can start at Pub 24 and make our way around the city center. I’m tired of Astor girls.”

“Or they’re tired of you,” Grant taunts with a grin and the shake of his head.

“Either way, I think it’s time to dabble in new waters,” Andrew retorts, making a show of his declaration by spreading his arms wide, knocking into me and Grant.

I playfully knock his arm out of the way. “Couldn’t have said it better myself, Andy.”

Pub 24 is an Irish pub, and decidedly not a college hangout spot. Fresh graduates putting in ten hour days at whatever fancy firm they landed after leaving one of the many Ivies up here come to trade office tales, desperate to one up each other with subtle brags about the deals they closed or clients they landed. Almost like a college hangout spot, but replace the fresh faced optimism that comes with not having graduated yet with the exhaustion and disenchantment of actually joining the workforce. Why Andrew thinks he’ll be able to flirt his way into going home with any of the women here is beyond me. He is persistent though, slyly making his way to every blonde he sees and quickly recovering when they turn their nose up at him.

“I think they smell the ‘college’ on him,” I joke to Grant, who is obsessively checking his phone while cradling his Guinness in his other hand. His nose crinkles in disgust as he takes another sip. “They definitely smell something on him. I still don’t get the Guinness hype,” he says without looking up.

“And yet, you keep trying,” I say, cheering his bottle with my Modelo to get his attention.

“We’re at an Irish bar, I figure why not give it another go?” He finally puts his phone on the table face down with a little more force than if he had done it carelessly.

“Calling this an Irish bar is pretty generous.” He gives a hmph in response flipping back over his phone only to see his home screen still only displaying the time.

“Grant… are you waiting for a girl to text you?” I ask feigning shock for comedic effect.

“I, uh—” his face flushes as he quickly moves his phone into his pocket. “Sort of,” he sighs, taking a long pull of his Guinness, grimacing as he sets back down his glass.

“And who is the lucky lady?” His face turns a deep shade of red as he picks up his beer and finishes it off.

“You wouldn’t know her,” he says in sort of a mumble, clearly wanting to change the subject which only spikes my curiosity more.

“C’mon man, talk to me.” I flag the waitress down. “Two Modelo’s please.” I give Grant and his Guinness a pointed look and he finally cracks a smile.

He sighs rubbing a hand over his face.

“I don’t know man, it’s complicated.” He pauses for a second, seeming to contemplate what he’s going to say. “Have you ever really liked a girl and I mean really liked her, like you can’t get her out of your head for even a second. Every thought ultimately leads to her and you know there's something real there. When you’re near her it’s like the rest of the world doesn’t exist and you just really see her and she really sees you. Nothing else matters.” His words hit me hard and I immediately think about Olivia. I nod without realizing as he continues. “Except it does matter at the end of the day,” he sighs as the waitress brings us our new beers and he mumbles, “all of it matters.” We sit for a second in comfortable silence, both staring into our beers.

I clear my throat. “Yeah man, I know exactly how that feels.”

We stare at each other and he gives me a firm nod. “I figured,” Grant says, giving me a sad smile. He squints past me, surprise lighting his eyes and bringing us both out of the moment. “I think I see Sloane?”

“Isn’t she in San Francisco?” I peer around my shoulder and immediately spot her. Similarly to Grant, his sister towers over the group she’s with. She’s hard to miss, her strawberry blonde hair pushed back from her face, carelessly falling down to her waist. Her face is friendly and open just like Grant’s but from what I remember she’s not nearly as happy go lucky. They’re polar opposites, Grant and his fraternal twin. Where he’s athletic, she’s artsy; where he radiates predictability and sturdiness, Sloane is carefree, whimsical, and a little flakey. Even so, they have that twin telepathy, built-in best friend thing going that makes you feel left out in their presence. Last he told me, she’d just secured an insane offer curating for a major museum in San Francisco, with the possibility of hosting her own show at some point. From the look on Grant’s face, I can tell he’s shocked to see her and unsettled that she wouldn’t have told him she was in town.

“She’s supposed to be. She just started her new gig there.” He pushes back from the bar as Sloane, having spotted us, awkwardly approaches.

“Hi,” she says in the voice you use with your parents when you just got caught doing something you’re not supposed to.

“What are you doing back here?” With eyebrows raised and arms crossed, it’s clear that Grant is no longer concerned with the girl he was mulling about just moments before.

“I— uh. I’m not technically back,” she says, her face turning more red by the second.

I squint at her. “What do you mean ‘technically’?” I speak on behalf of Grant who is currently taking another long pull of his beer.

“Meaning—” she huffs, “I am ‘technically’ not supposed to be here, nor does anyone know that I am.” She gives me a tilt of her head, that Sloane attitude I’ve come to know shining through. It instantly reminds me of Olivia and I think about how much they would probably get along.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean Sloane?” Grant's eyes are wide with panic, familiar with Sloane’s history. I'm sure he thinks she’s bailing on one of the biggest opportunities of her career right now — and maybe she is.

She flinches slightly. “I had to get out of there, Grant.” She gives him this look that I’ve come to realize is some sort of twin telepathy thing because he quickly understands he needs to drop it. He moves forward with open arms trapping her into a giant bear hug. Her arms stay limp at her sides but she rolls her eyes and smiles until she finally wraps her arms around him, too. “Speaking of being back—” she says eyebrows raised, “I’m pretty sure the last time I was here you were in some sort of witness protection program or something?” I roll my eyes and Grant gives an exaggerated “HA!”

“Close— I was mostly just avoiding you.”

She laughs and flips me the bird. “Asshole.” I grin as Andrew approaches.

“Nice find,” he says under his breath, swinging his arm over my shoulder.

“Goddammit, Andy,” I groan.

“That’s my sister, you sick fuck,” Grant says, playfully shoving Andrew.

“Whoa whoa..” he says, hands raised. “Forgive me,” he picks up Sloane's hand as if he’s going to give it a peck. “You look nothing like your brother.” He winks and Sloane promptly pulls her hand away and slaps Andrew upside the head with it.

“I need a drink,” she says, rolling her eyes for probably the twentieth time in the past thirty minutes.

“I’ll join you,” Grant and Andy say in unison. Grant shoves him again, but nonetheless they both trail Sloane, Grant like the protective brother he is and Andrew like a lovesick puppy.

Alone, I realize I should probably do what I set out to do. I scan the bar and notice plenty of girls who peer back at me, eyes widening as my gaze meets theirs, but anytime I give it a second thought it’s like there's a lead brick in my stomach as my mind immediately turns to Olivia. Just as I’m about to give up, an auburn haired girl slides into the spot Grant was previously taking up. She shoots me an easy smile.

“Come here often?” she says, a drunken giggle in her voice, amused at her own joke.

“No,” I offer, laughing softly. “My friends wanted to do something different tonight.”

“Pick up women somewhere other than your college bar?” she asks, smirking.

“So we are that transparent,” I admit, chuckling, and I decide I can talk to this girl. She’s funny, not overly eager, and seems self assured.

“I won’t hold it against you,” she winks, resting her hand on my bicep. I can tell she’s feeling for their size by the way her hand wanders, and I have the urge to pick her off me. But this is the point of tonight , I remind myself.

“So,” I begin, “what do you do?”

“I’m a third year at Harvard Law, actually.” Pride beams from her, any modicum of modesty nowhere to be found.

“Wow. So, almost done?”

“Yeah, almost. And you go to Astor, right? Is it true that everyone who goes there is loaded?”

There’s a mischievous glint in her eyes as she attempts to appear unsure of herself. “Sorry, my friend spotted you and told me who you were. I’m sure they’re glad to have you back.”

Annoyance tries to peak its way through, but I bat it away, committed to my plan.

“Yeah. So I’m Ben,” I force a laugh. “And you are …? ”

“Melanie,” she offers me her hand, shaking mine over aggressively.

“Melanie,” I turn her name over out loud. “What are you doing picking up college men? I mean you’re practically out of the nest, and I’m still in it.” I attempt to tap into my prior flirtatious persona, but end up feeling like I’m watching myself from across the bar.

“I…” she starts, fluttering her eyelashes, her hand traveling back up my arm. “I’ve heard incredible things about … well you, your family, and I thought I’d come see if they’re true.”

Shame washes over me when I think about who I was just a couple of years ago. I should be reveling in this attention, the way I would have before, but apparently the twice weekly therapy has made a dent in whatever validation void I was supposedly filling. Morgan coined that phrase for me.

Immediately, I hear her asking me that same question: what do you think you should want, and what do you actually want?

“I’m sorry, Melanie,” I apologize, genuinely sorry for leading her on for even a second. “I’m… not really looking for anything right now.” Partially a lie, but partially true. I’m not looking for anything, because I stumbled into the only thing I’ve really wanted since that night.

An embarrassed flush spreads across her face, her hand quickly wrapping itself around her drink. “No, of course, I?—”

“I promise, it’s really not you. My friend Andrew over there—“ I point to Andrew, busy throwing darts like a showman as Sloane looks on annoyed but seemingly amused— “is who you should be looking for. Never known a woman to complain.” I shrug in nonchalance, hoping she takes the bait. Sure enough, she gives me a quick nod before striding away, but I catch the look she sends her friends. I don’t care if she saves face at my expense.

In fact I don’t care about anything going on in this bar, and I realize I should just head home. When I search for Grant, I catch him at a high top rapidly typing something in his phone, Sloane to his right cheering Andy on as he hits the bullseye. Andrew’s clearly soaking it up as that Melanie girl is also looking on. They won’t miss me if I slip out.

My thoughts wander back to Olivia as I wait for my Uber to pull up. I open my phone finding her in my contact list.

What are you doing?

Backspace.

Where are you?

Backspace.

Can I see you?

Backspace.

I miss you.

She’s probably with Will . I immediately hit the backspace, deleting the words as the thought lands like a pit in my stomach. Tonight may not have worked like I intended it to, but I have to keep trying. I have to keep trying to get her off my mind.

I’m going to hurt someone if I keep this going, but I just can’t seem to stop. I think back to Grant’s words. Everything I'm doing does matter. I can explain it away as innocent but I am well aware that my thoughts are anything but. I need to get over this. Not just for Will’s sake, but for hers.