Chapter 10 Benji
I’m on the phone with the florist when I realize I haven’t eaten today.
It’s two in the afternoon. I’ve been awake since five-thirty because the caterer had a question about the gluten-free options that could not wait until business hours.
I answered that call in my underwear in the bathroom with my eyes closed.
Then I answered three emails from Callie’s mother about the napkin situation, which has escalated from a preference to a crisis in the span of forty-eight hours.
Then I drove to meet with the rental company about the chairs, which are wrong. They’re the wrong shade of the right color. The difference between ivory and cream is approximately nothing to anyone on earth except Callie’s mother, who can detect the distinction a hundred yards away.
The chairs will be replaced. The napkins will be folded into bishop’s hats and the florist will deliver the wildflower centerpieces in clay pots and they will look effortless and unproduced. It will cost thousands to achieve the appearance of having spent nothing.
The wedding is coming up fast and I’m barely holding it together.
My ribs still ache when I take a deep breath.
The bruise on my cheek has faded from purple to a sickly yellow-green that no amount of concealer fully covers.
I’m sleeping maybe four hours a night, and those four hours are interrupted by nightmares.
I hang up with the florist and sit in my car. I need to drive to Tallahassee to see Mickey tonight. To bring him coffee and walk into that room with high energy and entertaining stories. To make him laugh. The problem is, I don’t know if I have that version in me today.
My phone rings. Dante.
“Hey.”
“You sound dead,” he says.
“I’m not dead, I’m still dying slowly and painfully. I’m sitting in a parking lot trying to remember if I ate breakfast this morning.”
“Did you?” Dante asks.
“I had coffee.”
“Coffee is not breakfast, Benji,” Dante says. “Coffee is a liquid. Breakfast is food. They’re different categories. I’ve explained this to you.”
“Maybe I had a banana. It might have been yesterday though. The days are blurring together.”
“Benji, listen to me. I’m coming up there.”
I sit up straighter. “What?”
“I’m flying into Panama City. I’ll rent a car and drive to you. I’m staying through the wedding.”
“Dante, you don’t have to...”
“Yes, I do. I talked to you four times yesterday and each time you sounded worse than the time before. You’re planning a very expensive wedding while driving four hours a day to visit a man in a hospital while recovering from being beaten up in a bar.
You are only one person, Benji. One small, stubborn, beautiful man who doesn’t know when to stop.
Please don’t expect me to sit in Miami and listen to you fall apart over the phone when I can get on a plane and help you. ”
My eyes burn. I press my thumb and forefinger against the bridge of my nose because I am not going to cry in a parking lot. Again. I’ve already done that once today.
“The wedding is a mess,” I say. “The chairs are the wrong shade of ivory. The florist isn’t returning my calls fast enough. Callie’s mother has opinions about napkins that are going to give me a stroke. And I haven’t done the final walkthrough of the ceremony space.”
“Which is exactly why I’m coming,” Dante says. “I’ll handle the vendors, Callie’s mother and the napkins. You handle the ceremony layout, the timeline and the things that need your specific brain. I’ll handle everything else. Remember the Fontainebleau wedding?”
“The one where the groom’s ex showed up with a megaphone?”
“And you handled the bride and I handled the ex. Between us we saved a fifty-thousand-dollar reception from becoming a viral video. We’re a team, Benji. Let me come be a team.”
“What about your real estate showings?” I ask. “What if you miss an open house or a sale because of me?”
“I won’t and besides I’ve already cleared my schedule. Don’t try to talk me out of coming, because it won’t work. It’s a done deal. I made the arrangements before I called because I knew you would try to talk me out of it.”
“Okay,” I say. “Come. Please come. I’m dying here. But you’re staying in my condo and the water pressure is an insult. You’re forewarned.”
“I grew up in Hialeah. I’ve survived worse plumbing than anything the Panhandle can throw at me. I’ll text you my flight info.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too. Eat.”
I hang up and sit in the lot for another minute, the sun baking the car.
Then I pull out and swing by a gas station before I get on I-10 and buy a candy bar.
I eat it in the car because my hands are starting to shake and it could be hunger or exhaustion or the fact that my body has been running on fumes for a week.
At this point, the cause doesn’t matter.
The drive to Tallahassee takes two hours. I know every mile of it now. The pine trees, the swamps with their fences and the little cutoffs in the median where cops like to hide. It pisses me off every time I see them. But I know where those little fuckers hide now.
I’m going to make an official complaint to Mickey about it. Cops shouldn’t be allowed to hide behind bushes in the median. This stretch of interstate is bad enough without having to worry about those assholes in the bushes all the time.
I shouldn’t call them assholes though. At least not out loud. Mickey’s a cop too. Or he was a cop. Damn, now I’m sad again.
The drive usually gives me time to switch gears before I see Mickey. Today I don’t have enough left in me to switch into anything.
Before I reach Tallahassee, I spot a sign for a fast-food burger place and pull into the drive-thru. I have no idea what Mickey likes to eat besides pizza, but he’s a big man and I’m guessing he’s not picky.
I order three hamburgers loaded with everything and four large fries. I add a couple of fried apple pies and an extra-large sweet tea for him.
While waiting for the order, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the drive-thru window and frown. I’m thinner than I was a week ago and darker under the eyes. My friends in Miami wouldn’t recognize me.
I’m wearing a T-shirt and jeans because my nicer clothes need washing. I didn’t have time to think about what I was putting on, which alone is a sign I’m in trouble. I’m a walking disaster by the time I reach his door and knock.
“Get in here,” he calls out, because we’ve already moved past the part where he pretends I might be a nurse.
I push the door open. He’s sitting up in the bed. His eyes track to me, that quick sweep from face to feet, and today the sweep stops on my face and stays there.
“Jesus, Benji,” he says. “What happened to you today?”
“Hi to you too.”
“Sit down before you fall down. You look like hell.”
I roll my eyes at him. “Thanks a lot. Is that how you greet all your guests?” I hand him the bag of food and drop into the chair beside him. My ribs protest and I try not to wince.
He takes the bag from me. His arms are getting bigger.
I don’t know if it’s the physical therapy or if I’m just noticing it more, but his arms have changed.
Thicker through the forearm, harder at the bicep.
The hospital gown sleeves are pushed up to his elbows and the skin is tan against the white cotton.
He’s been lying in a bed for days and he still looks stronger than most men I know who go to the gym every day.
“I brought greasy junk food,” I tell him. “Hamburgers and fries. There’s extra salt and ketchup in the bag. Plus, a big sweet tea. And apple pies. I didn’t know what you wanted.”
“Thanks a lot,” he says. “I appreciate it more than you know. You’re single-handedly keeping me fed. When’s the last time you slept though?”
“I sleep plenty.”
“How many hours?”
“A few here and there. I’ll sleep when I’m old.”
“How many?”
I glare at him. “Is this what you’re like in cop mode? Four hours. Maybe. Sleeping is for sissies.”
“You can’t keep going like this,” he says.
“Yes, I certainly can. Watch me. The wedding is in days, Mickey. The chairs are the wrong shade of ivory. Callie’s mother has been calling me four times a day about stupid shit.
I need to do a final ceremony walkthrough, confirm the DJ and deal with the caterer’s gluten-free menu.
I’m doing all of this while driving four hours a day to bring you food because I physically cannot make myself stop.
So don’t even start in about that. I don’t want to hear it. ”
It comes out in a rush, my hands doing half the talking. I’m leaning forward in the chair and my ribs are yelling. The exhaustion is pressing down on me. He doesn’t need to see me like this. He needs someone with positive energy who can brighten up his room.
“How are your ribs?” he asks. “You winced when you sat down. Still hurting?”
“They’re fine.”
“You never got the X-ray.”
“I’ve been too busy. I’m fine. They’ll heal. They’ve taken a beating before and I lived.”
“Damn, Benji. Do you make a habit of getting beat up? You need to stop coming every day. You’ve got a wedding to take care of.
You’re not sleeping. You’re not eating. Your ribs are hurt and you haven’t seen a doctor.
You’re going to collapse from exhaustion.
Stop worrying about me. I’m in a hospital.
I’ve got doctors and Tex is coming. You don’t need to be here. I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not,” I say. “You’re lying in a hospital bed and you can’t feel your legs.
You’re telling me you’re fine the same way I’m telling you my ribs are fine, which is to say we’re both full of shit and we both know it.
It is what it is. We’re both fucking liars. Admit it. It takes one to know one.”
He shakes his head at me then digs into the bag of food before placing it all on his tray table. I grab a hamburger and push everything else towards his side of the table.