August, two years ago
“That’s our time for today, Millie. Just remember what we talked about last week, about self-worth. Keep setting aside time for writing, and keep your gratitude journal up. I really think it’s helping.”
“Thanks. I will.”
I rose with a struggle from the too-deep armchair, and slung my jacket over my arm. It was roasting hot in Chicago, and I hadn’t been able to wear my blazer at all today.
I paused by the office door. “See you next week,” I said.
Nancy, my therapist, looked up from her notes and smiled. “Yes, same time.”
I dodged a drawn-looking woman with a toddler in the narrow hallway outside, and pushed my way through the heavy exit door into the tree-lined street. It was now seven p.m., and it hadn’t cooled off much in the hour I’d been inside, but at least this street was well shaded. The psychiatrist’s office was on the main floor of a brownstone in Lincoln Park, a half-hour bus ride each way from my studio apartment.
I wasn’t sure it was worth the travel, let alone the astronomical money I was paying for an hour’s therapy each week. Had been for nearly two years now. I almost could’ve bought a used car with that money.
And the gratitude journal? A good practice, sure, but definitely not solving my issues.
I stood in direct sun at the unsheltered bus stop on the busy main street at the end of the avenue. With my pale Irish skin — thanks, Dad — I could burn easily, even at this time of the evening. But there was no shade to be found here.
I pulled my sunglasses out of my purse, and waited. The bus would be sweaty and crowded. Terrific. Maybe I should save my therapy money and get a crappy car next year instead.
It had seemed like a good idea when I started seeing Nancy, who was also Bonnie’s therapist. Bonnie had been seeing Nancy ever since losing her parents, and Nancy had been an old friend of Angela and Frank Mason’s. Nancy had definitely been helping Bonnie come to terms with her grief and self-blame. Bonnie had enthusiastically recommended her when I had admitted, two years ago, that I probably needed help with breaking patterns of behavior that I was repeating again and again.
Namely, falling for unavailable men.
After starting at Magnolia, two-and-a-bit-years ago now, it had taken... oh, about a week to develop a crush on Stephen. Within two months, after working closely together on a couple of campaigns, and bantering and laughing on a daily basis, it had become clear.
I had developed very strong feelings for a very attached man.
Again.
Dammit.
I’d confessed this to Bonnie over brunch one summer weekend, and Bonnie had promptly fished out Nancy’s creased business card from the depths of her disorganized purse.
“You need to quit going after men who will never be yours, Mill,” she’d said, her glare sterner than I’d ever seen, except for maybe that time when she found the texts from Rufus. “You seem to only fall for them when you know they won’t fall for you. Or if you do date someone who is actually available to you, you reject them. But you deserve to fully love someone, and be fully loved back. You know that. For Chrissake, fix it.” She’d pressed the card into my hand, and I knew I’d be in trouble if I didn’t make an appointment.
Coming from a stoic Irish father who hadn’t believed in talking about his feelings — right up to the day he’d walked out, totally blindsiding me — and a flighty, bohemian mother whose head was in the clouds, I hadn’t been raised to express myself, or be vulnerable. But now, here I was, sharing my deepest thoughts with a total stranger on a weekly basis. For a lot of money.
“Why do you think you gravitate towards men who aren’t available to you, or reject those who are, Millie?” This question, numerous times, from well-intentioned Nancy over the past couple of years.
Because I was afraid I would be left, like my mother was, so it was easier to fall in love with men who would never leave because they would never fully be with me. And anyone who would devote themselves to me felt clingy, because I’d never known an example of a healthy relationship.
Obviously.
I didn’t need to pay anyone nearly two hundred bucks an hour to figure that out.
Mom had had a string of boyfriends after Dad had gone back to Ireland, and she’d rejected any and all who seemed like they might stick around. Instead, she had mooned after the emotionally unavailable ones, or those who had some kind of mental health issue. Sometimes both.
And Dad? I’d only seen him one time since he walked out when I was a teenager — I’d visited him for a few days in Dublin on my gap-year trip to Europe. Since then, I’d only spoken to him a handful of times on birthdays, and it had been more than five years since our last phone call. I’d heard Dad was in a new relationship now, and was acting stepfather to his new partner’s twin boys. He clearly didn’t need his adult daughter any more.
How was I supposed to be able to form healthy relationships, with those two as my models?
The only couple I’d ever looked up to had been Angela and Frank Mason, and they were gone forever.
I sighed. Still no sign of the bus, and the sun was scorching my bare arms. I slipped on my blazer for protection, even though it was way too hot for another layer.
Thoughts of Mom reminded me that it was probably time for our weekly check-in text. I’d gotten used to texting her on the bus ride home from therapy, when our relationship — even with all its flaws — was on the surface of my thoughts.
I fired off a text.
Hi Mom. Hope you’re having a good week and your knee is feeling better. I’m doing fine and work is good. Planning a road trip to the Carolinas with Bon in September, so we’ll try to swing by and see you for a night. I’ll let you know. Take care, M xo
Slipping my phone into my purse, I glanced up to see the Number 22 bus approaching. As I stepped on and tapped my pass against the reader, my phone dinged. That was quick. Mom usually didn’t reply to my texts for hours, if not days. I squeezed through the cluster of passengers who were refusing to move along the bus, pulling my phone out of my purse.
It wasn’t from Mom.
BEN CELL
Hey, you free tonight? Got 2 tickets to Black Lotus at Howl at the Moon, starts 9pm. Wanna join? I can be there at 8 if yes. :)
I smiled, and looked up to find myself inadvertently grinning at an old dude who was staring at me from his seat. I blushed, and turned my attention back to the text.
Ben, inviting me to a fun cover-band gig on a Thursday night. We’d seen the band together before, along with Bonnie and Amber, several years ago, and I’d said how much I enjoyed them. He must’ve remembered. That was... thoughtful of him.
I checked the time. It was 7:32, so I had no time to go home and change first. But I could get off the bus at Grand and walk to the club, and be there just after eight. The satin camisole and tailored pants I was wearing weren’t what I’d pick for a gig night, or a date night, but they’d be fine.
Not that it was in any way a date night. Not at all. It was only Ben, knowing that I’d probably be available, and the venue wasn’t too far from my place. He’d probably bought the tickets for an actual date and the girl had canceled on him last minute, or something.
I replied to his text.
Sure, I’m game! I’m about a half-hour away from Howl right now, so I can meet you there just after 8. Thanks for thinking of me! Will be fun. See ya soon.
I hit send, then instantly second-guessed my word choices. Was that text overly breezy? Like, trying-too-hard breezy? Why in the world had I written “ya” instead of “you”?
I shook my head, and put my phone back in my purse as the bus rattled along Clark. The air was ripe with stale sweat, and a massive guy beside me had his armpit dangerously close to my face. The old dude on the seat was still grinning at me, his teeth crooked and rakish. I gave him a small, thank-you-but-please-don’t-talk-to-me smile back and tried to avoid further eye contact, while turning to dodge armpit guy as much as possible, for the rest of the ride.
Off the bus, it was finally cooling down on my walk to the bar, the tall buildings providing shade from the low sun. I made it to the venue and spotted Ben already inside, standing at a small high-top table near the side of the stage, wearing a close-fitting black T-shirt. He beckoned me over with a wave and that wide grin of his.
“Snagged the last table for us.” He sipped on his beer, looking very proud of himself. He knew from experience how much I preferred having a table, even at a gig.
I laughed. “Thank you. I appreciate the effort.” I ordered a vodka soda from the server. “This was a fun idea. Thanks for inviting me.”
Ben nodded, still smiling. “Thanks for coming. I wasn’t sure you would.”
What did that mean?
“Well, I was free, and I’d just finished up with an appointment, so I was already out and heading downtown anyways,” I replied, with a false nonchalance that Ben would see right through.
And why was I even trying to be nonchalant with him? It was just Ben.
But it was kind of different, being here with only him. We hadn’t really spent that much time together just the two of us — it was almost always the three of us, with Bonnie. And sometimes four of us, before he split up with Amber.
It had taken Ben way too long to break things off with Amber. He and I had spoken about how his relationship was at a now-or-never crossroads, over that lunch with Bonnie on her deck, three years ago now. I’d gotten the distinct impression at the time that, because Amber was spoiling for a proposal ultimatum, he was going to end things with her imminently. But it had taken him nearly another two years to finally break up with her. He’d kept saying that he couldn’t do it to her, as she’d invested so much time in him. But Bonnie and I knew he was never going to propose. So he’d only ended up wasting more of her time.
Not that I had a leg to stand on, when it came to relationship choices. I was two years into my job at Magnolia, and still swooning over Stephen.
I thanked the server for the ice-cold drink, and took a long sip. At least I was here, on a night out at a music venue, in the company of somebody who had always been there for me. And obviously it didn’t hurt that Ben was a very good-looking and entertaining guy to be with. Even more entertaining recently, since he’d finally gotten out of that God-awful relationship.
We chatted easily about the play he was co-directing while writing his own next piece, and about my demanding work projects, and how proud we both were of Bonnie’s success at the store. As the roadies were finishing the stage set-up, I was reminded of a thought I’d had on the bus.
“How did you have these tickets available so last minute, anyways?” I asked Ben. “Like, were you supposed to be going with someone else who canceled?” I lifted my glass and raised my eyebrow exaggeratedly at him over the rim. “Did you have a date bail on you? Be honest!”
A tiny crease appeared at the top of Ben’s strong nose, and the corner of his lip turned down ever so slightly.
“No... no.” He stopped, his gaze wandering to the stage. The roadie was high-fiving the band’s charismatic frontman, who picked up an electric guitar as the other band members settled. “I, uh, bought them a few weeks ago. I remembered you liked—”
“Good evening, all you Howlers!” the singer yelled into the mic, interrupting Ben and drawing my attention back to the stage. “Oh yeah! Let’s kick this off with a classic!”
The band soon got both of us bopping along, then fully dancing, bar stools pushed away, with song after song of Americana rock and old favorites. Ben was an easy mover, unselfconscious as he danced beside and occasionally with me, laughing as we amused each other with increasingly silly moves. Turned out Ben’s Running Man was quite accomplished, and he looked genuinely impressed at my knee-knocking Charleston.
With the crowd singing along at the tops of their voices, and the stack of speakers probably only ten feet away, there was no chance of hearing my phone dinging. But it was lying face-up on the high-top beside us and, as the audience applauded, I glimpsed it flashing with a text notification.
Probably Mom, replying to my earlier message. With Ben having slipped out to the bathroom between songs, it wouldn’t be rude to check.
Once again, though — not Mom. It was a text that had come in about a half-hour ago, but I’d been having such a good time, I hadn’t noticed.
STEPHEN CELL [9:29PM]
SOS!! Emergency! Need to fix Actively online ad ASAP, the link is wrong. Do you have your laptop at home? I left mine in the office as I’ve been out with clients. Heading into office right now, but not sure how to fix it without your login. Can you do it from home, or come in?
My stomach performed a little flip.
Stephen needed me.
But also, crap. I was really having a good night with Ben, and it was nice to be on the arm of a man who made me feel good about myself, for once.
Still, this crisis wasn’t an ideal situation. The Actively campaign had been set up in my account, so Stephen probably wouldn’t be able to fix the link himself. He’d be almost at the office by now, which meant I’d have to go into the office, too. I’d also left my laptop at work, not wanting to haul it to my therapist’s, so I couldn’t fix the problem remotely.
Ugh, sorry. My laptop also in office, and I’m not home right now. I can be there in 20 and we can fix it. Sorry if your evening with the fam got ruined. See you at 10:20-ish.
Ben wove his way through the crowd back to our table. “Who are you texting?” he shouted in my ear, over a rousing rendition of “Hotel California.”
I turned to speak directly into his ear, our noses almost touching in the movement.
This was probably the closest, physically speaking, I’d ever gotten to Ben.
He smelled really good, this close.
“Work emergency — sorry. I gotta run to the office and meet a colleague to fix it.” I pulled back and grimaced at him, waving my phone as if to prove the emergency was real.
Ben’s face noticeably fell, and his mouth twisted in clear disappointment. He leaned in again. “That Stephen guy?” He drew back, assessing me for a response, his eyes flitting between each of mine.
My stomach did another somersault. I must’ve mentioned Stephen a few times over the past couple of years, for Ben to remember his name. But all I felt, under Ben’s appraising gaze, was embarrassment.
I nodded, and gave an exaggerated whaddya-gonna-do shrug. Ben raised his eyebrows and parted his lips, like he was going to say something, then closed his mouth again. He looked hard at me once more — making some kind of decision.
Then he nodded, just once, slowly.
“See ya,” he mouthed at me over the din.
He turned back to the performers before I could mouth anything back. Instead, I put my hand on his lower arm, just for a second, then grabbed my blazer off the bar stool and made my way outside into the warm night.
I rushed through the streets to the office, my stomach churning. I’d had to leave the gig — it was a work emergency. I hadn’t had a choice.
Had I?
Well, maybe I could have texted Stephen my account login, so he could have fixed it himself. But that would have been a total cop-out, given Stephen was heading into the office at this time of night and he had a young family at home. It would be shitty of me to leave him to fix what was at least 50 percent my mistake.
So why did it feel even more disappointing to have left Ben standing alone in that bar?