Chapter 20 Benji
Dante doesn’t say anything for the first ten minutes of the drive. That’s how I know it’s coming. Dante doesn’t do silence. When he goes quiet, it means he’s lining up his shots.
“So,” Dante finally says. “Are you ready to talk about him now?”
I let out a tired sigh. “I want to talk about him, Dante. I do. But I can’t. Not right now.” I stare straight ahead at the taillights of the car in front of me.
He shifts in the passenger seat, turning his body toward me with one knee up against the dash. It’s a classic Dante move—total focus.
“Why not now? I saw it, Benji. You don’t need to hide this from me. I saw it with my own eyes.”
“I can’t talk about Mickey right now. The reason is I can’t talk about him without crying, and I’m driving down a dark highway with my best friend in the car. I’ve already put one man in a hospital. I can’t take a chance of crashing this car.”
“Oh, Benji,” he says softly. He reaches over and rests a hand on my shoulder, the weight of it steadying. “It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything right now. Can I tell you what I saw, though?”
I glance over at him and nod, blinking back the blur in my vision.
“I’ve known you for seven years. I’ve seen you stroll into nightclubs, smile your ‘trouble grin,’ and pick up any man you wanted. Then a week later, you’re bored and onto the next one. In all those years, I’ve never seen you like this.”
“What do you mean?”
“The way you touched his feet. I watched you rub that cream on him. I’ve never, not once, seen you touch another man like that. And the cream? Did you think I wouldn’t notice the brand?”
I keep my eyes on the road. A truck passes in the left lane and the lights sweep through the car and disappear.
“It’s moisturizer,” I argue, though it sounds thin even to me. “His skin is dry. The hospital doesn’t take care of him properly. Someone has to do it. You should’ve seen the shape he was in before.”
“Benji. Come on. This is me you’re talking to.”
“What?”
“That wasn’t moisturizing. That was worship.
” Dante’s eyes search my profile. “You were on your knees putting cream on a man’s feet that he can’t even feel, and your face.
.. I’ve never seen you so still. You’re always moving, Benji.
You’re always multitasking ten things at once.
But in those moments, the rest of the world just stopped. ”
I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. “Do you see now? This is why I can’t talk about him while I’m driving.”
“Why don’t we pull off at the next exit? We’ll get snacks, walk around.”
“I don’t want to stop. It’ll be late enough when we get back. Let’s just keep moving.”
“Okay,” he says, but he doesn’t let go. “But I want you to say what you’re feeling. Out loud. In this car. Because I know what I saw, and I need you to say it so we can deal with it.”
“He can’t feel his legs, Dante,” I snap. “He’s paralyzed. He’s being transferred to Jacksonville soon, and he’ll be five hours away. What exactly do you want me to say?”
“Tell me how you feel about him.”
“I don’t know what I’m feeling!”
“I think you do.”
“No, I really don’t, Dante!” I let out a jagged breath.
“In the beginning, I visited because I felt guilty. Then it was gratitude for him saving my life. But now? I’m visiting because I can’t breathe if I don’t.
I don’t have a word for this. I’ve had hookups.
I’ve had those three-month things that were just about sex and brunch.
I’ve never had a man in a hospital bed who worries about whether I’ve eaten, or who solves my wedding problems from two hours away, and who looks at me like—”
I stop, the word catching in my throat.
“Like what?” Dante asks quietly.
“Like he sees the real me underneath everything,” I whisper. “He’s not bored by what he finds. He sees the Benji you see. The person — not the whole production.”
“Okay,” Dante says. “That’s what I wanted to know. What’s the plan?”
“What plan?”
“How to keep this alive. He’s transferring to Jacksonville. You’re going back to Miami after the wedding. What happens next? Have the two of you talked about it?”
“No, we haven’t. I don’t have a plan, Dante.
I have a wedding in two days and a career in Miami that I’ve spent years building.
I have a life there that actually makes sense.
And then I have a man in a bed in Tallahassee who is about to move even further away, and I don’t know how those two things fit together.
We don’t even know if he’ll ever walk again. How am I supposed to have a plan?”
“I get it, babe,” Dante says softly. “I really do.”
“I’m glad you’re here. With your help, I’m going to get through this fucking wedding first. Then I’ll try to figure it out. Okay? Can we just do that?”
“Sure, we can. But listen to me,” Dante says, his voice gaining a sudden, sharp clarity.
“Whatever you are with Mickey, it’s the version of you I’ve been waiting to see for seven years.
Don’t wait until later. Later is Jacksonville and Miami.
Distance makes it very easy to pretend none of this was real. ”
I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles ache. “The wedding first. Please. I’m begging you, Dante. I can’t handle the ‘forever’ of this right now. The wedding first. Then I’ll deal with it. I promise.”
“One last thing,” Dante says. “Did you notice how he tried to lure me into the 30A real estate market? Why would he try to recruit me to the Panhandle when he knows my entire life is in Miami? Any thoughts on that? Because I have several, which I’ll save for when you aren’t about to hyperventilate. ”
“Yeah, I noticed.” I shrug, trying to play it off, though my heart rate sped up when I heard Mickey say that. “No idea why he did that.”
Dante gives me a look that says he knows exactly how much I’m lying, then reaches over and turns on the radio, filling the car with a driving beat that drowns out the need for more words.
As soon as we get back to the condo, I collapse onto the sofa and text Mickey.
Benji: Home. Dante survived the drive. Goodnight, Mickey.
I wait, watching the three dots dance and then vanish.
Mickey: Goodnight, Benji.
Two words. No joke, no sarcasm. Just goodnight. I read it three times hoping it’ll say more.
Dante and I go to bed early. Tomorrow will be a war of white linen and last-minute crises, but as I close my eyes, all I can see is Mickey’s face.
The next morning, we’re up at five-thirty. Dante is in the kitchen making strong Cuban coffee—he brought his own supplies because he refuses to drink anything else—and I’m at the table, my laptop glowing in the pre-dawn dark as I finalize the timeline.
By seven, we’re at the beach house. Callie calls, already sounding like she’s underwater.
“Benji, I don’t know if the dress fits. I think it’s tighter in the bodice and the wedding is tomorrow. I can’t breathe.”
“Callie. Listen to me,” I say. “It’s nerves. Your body changes with stress and water retention. The dress fit perfectly at the last fitting. It fits now. Have you eaten?”
“I had a smoothie,” she says.
“Have a piece of toast. Drink water. Do not try that dress on again until your seamstress is there tomorrow. She’ll handle everything. You’re going to be beautiful. Do you hear me?”
“You promise?”
“I promise. Go eat.”
I hang up and Dante hands me a thermos of coffee. I drink it standing in the great room, looking at the Gulf through the terrace doors. The bamboo arch is silhouetted against the water, pale gold against the deep blue. It looks stunning.
At noon, I’m on the terrace with my stopwatch, calculating the “bride’s pace”—forty-two steps, twelve seconds for the music to build, three seconds for the turn.
“Dante, move the bamboo poles two inches to the left,” I call out.
My phone vibrates. I pull it out, expecting a caterer’s crisis. Instead, I see Mickey’s name.
Mickey: Hey. Got some good news. A bed opened up at the rehab place this morning. They’re transporting me this afternoon. Leaving around 3. Heading to Jacksonville.
No, no, no.
My heart starts beating faster. I read it three times. He’s leaving today. In two and a half hours, he’ll be loaded into a van and driven five hours away. I’m standing here with a stopwatch still running in my hand, and I can’t even get to Tallahassee in time to say goodbye.
“Benji?” Dante is watching me. “What’s wrong?”
“He’s being transferred. Today. Now. They’re taking him to Jacksonville at three.”
“This soon?” Dante asks, stepping toward me. “You said it might be days.”
“I know!” My hands are shaking. I text him back, my thumbs clumsy.
Benji: Today?? Mickey, I can’t get there. The wedding is tomorrow. I’m physically sick over this.
Mickey: I know. It’s okay. This is a good thing. I’m lucky a spot opened up. This is what I’ve been waiting for. Don’t worry about me. Handle the wedding. I’ll text you when I’m settled.
Handle the wedding.
He’s being handed over to strangers in a transport vehicle, and he’s still trying to keep me grounded.
Benji: I didn’t get to say goodbye, Mickey.
Mickey: It’s not goodbye, is it? It’s just a different address. You already looked up the drive time, remember? 5 hours and 40 minutes. Very doable. Your words.
I have to look away because the screen is blurring. He’s using my own optimism against me. He’s leaving, and I didn’t get to put cream on his feet one last time.
Benji: Don’t forget the cream on the nightstand! Take it with you.
Mickey: Already packed it. First thing in the bag.
I take a breath. He packed my cream first.
“Benji.” Dante’s hand is firm on my shoulder. “It’ll be okay. We need to keep moving and finish the timeline. I’m here.”
I put the phone in my pocket and force my lungs to work. “Okay,” I say. “I can do this. Where were we?”
We finish the timeline. We walk the aisle until the path is burned into my brain. The afternoon is a haze of white fabric and glass cylinders. At three o’clock, I’m tying white ribbon around the arch and my phone buzzes.
Mickey: In the transport. Heading east on I-10. The driver is playing country music and I can’t change the station. Help!
I laugh and press my forehead against the rough bamboo. I show Dante the screen. “Country music is an assault on everything I believe in,” he says. “Tell him I’m praying for him.”
Benji: Country music for four hours? That’s cruel and unusual punishment. Dante is praying for you and I’m contacting your attorney.
Mickey: I don’t have an attorney. I have a wedding planner who moonlights as a skin care specialist and a stalker. Close enough.
Benji: When you get settled, text me. I don’t care what time it is. Text me. I’ll be thinking about you.
Mickey: I will.
I finish the ribbon and don’t look up until the arch is perfect. This is the job, and I’ll do it well even if it kills me.