Chapter 19 #2
“Tell us the story again,” Martina gushes, her chin in her hands on the other side of the table.
They love my stories from Spain. Well, they love my stories about Ricardo from Spain, mostly.
I’ve had several drinks, and the night is winding down.
Mancandy stayed safely tucked away—a secret until the very last moment when I had to tell someone lest I end up on the side of a milk carton or the front page of the newspaper.
I rattle on about the time he scooped me up on the handlebars of his bicycle and rode me through the farmers’ market on a Sunday afternoon.
It was romantic in the best kind of way.
I’ll never mind repeating that story. He was suave and spoke with a slight accent because his dialect was from a smaller town toward the south, and I broke up with him before I moved to Japan.
“I don’t know why you didn’t stay with him. He was so obviously into you.”
Raising my brows, I say, “Yeah. If you’re into that sort of thing.
” My sort of thing is a little more stable, but it was fun while it lasted.
The red straw between my fingers, I swirl my drink that’s mostly ice water at this point.
“Thanks for welcoming me back. You know how to make a woman feel special. Somehow my mom baking a pie just wasn’t as fun as this.
” Everyone at the table giggles, and we toast, some glasses a little more sloshy than others.
A song, one of my favorites, starts thumping through the speakers.
We all stand to dance, or as the alcohol dictates, sway along to the beat.
I’m hot when the song finishes, a sheen of sweat glistening on every part of my body that isn’t covered by the black dress.
The cute bartender stops by our table to clear our empties.
All it takes is one look at each other to know we’re all on the same page.
“Until Janine’s birthday next month, then?” I ask.
We make plans for the weekend after next.
Janine is turning thirty-five and wants to make a big deal of it, figuring it’s really the best birthday to go all out for.
It’s the age where you’re definitely not a child anymore, but you’re still fresh-faced.
It’s a good birthday. We make our way to the front door of the club, holding on to each other as we go.
When the cool SoCal air hits us, I see my Uber, the same one who dropped me off.
“It’s no Ricardo. But he’ll do for the night,” I joke and tip my imaginary hat in Martina’s direction.
A sad smile plays on her lips as she holds me by my shoulders. “It’s going to happen for you soon, Harper. I can feel it in my bones. You glow in a world of darkness.”
She hugs me, and I wave her off. “I’m not a lightning bug.” I think better of it. “Maybe I’m a different breed of lightning bug. I shock potential mates. To death.”
“You’re sick, Harp.”
I get into the back seat of the white car and roll the window down. The neon lights of the bar shine behind Martina’s head. “I’m joking. I bet you’re right. Thanks for tonight. Lo pasé muy bien. Ricardo would have approved.”
Shaking her black curls around her head, she smirks. I wave, and we set off for home. There are at least twenty emails that need my attention. Even still, after years, after our lives have passed us by, I find my thumb hovering over Ben’s number in the wee hours of the morning.
I don’t call him. I like to think I’m stronger than that. Tapping his name, I send him a text: They played your song at my party tonight.
It’s two a.m., so I don’t expect him to reply.
His response: I am everywhere. And then another right away. I hope you danced.
We’ve held fast to the decision we made two years ago.
Friendship only. The year before I left to travel was difficult—my body and heart wanted nothing more than to stay wrapped up in his arms. Right around the time when I felt like there was no way I could keep my promise and honor the only decent decision I’ve made regarding Ben, my mother told me to get the hell out of here.
In the nicest, I’m your mom, and I want what’s best for you, type of way.
Then the year away changed everything, and I knew I’d finally gotten over my hang-up on the man, the myth, the Benny.
I don’t need him to complete me like I once thought.
I never needed any man for that. The best thing you can do when you’re lost in a sea of doubt?
Get lost in another country by yourself.
If you can’t travel to another country, drive a few cities over, park your car, and wander.
Listen. Open your heart to the possibility of being enough on your own.
See you at Ma’s on Sunday?
Ben texts again.
I glance at my lap and smile. Ma is my mom, not his.
I’m making dinner Sunday! Come early and help me.
I send back.
Done. I need to get some sleep. Gotta be up in a couple hours. Text me when you get home. Is the Uber driver a creepy fuck?
We round the corner to my neighborhood as I reply.
Ha. Ha. No. Seems a nice lad. Tall. Dark. Handsome. Wait! How did you know my boyfriend wasn’t driving me home?
The gray bubble pops up as he types his response and then disappears when he deletes whatever he was going to send.
I wait. We pull into my drive, and Ben still doesn’t text back, so I pocket my phone.
Thanking the driver, I wait for him to pull away to unlock my front door and go inside.
I shower because my hair smells like stale cigarettes and I have raccoon eyes.
It’s almost three thirty a.m. when I finally down some Tylenol and crash into bed.
My sheets are cool against my bare legs, and the temptation to check my laptop for a message from Mancandy is strong.
Luckily the vodka is stronger, and I fall asleep a few seconds later.