Chapter 18 Otrivia Benson SVU
18
Otrivia Benson: SVU
We don’t talk the rest of the drive home—which is fine. Shockingly fine, considering how the threat of silence in the Lewis house was so excruciating I would have agreed to anything short of marrying Sam’s ghost to fill it. But now I’m happy to stare into the middle distance and stew in my disappointment.
Adam tunes the radio to the Christmas station without my asking, but when I hear the familiar beginning of Darlene Love’s “Christmas,” I punch the stereo button to silence her. I can’t risk ruining my favorite song by association.
At the sight of my apartment building, I leap out of Adam’s truck before it’s fully stationary.
“Thanks for the ride.”
My feet crunch into the fresh layer of snow on the curb. I hear him call out to me, but I can’t turn back. The cold air stings my eyes, and water is already pooling in the corners. If he sees me now, he’ll think it’s about Sam’s family or us, but it’s all of it. I’ll never be the person I’m supposed to be for me or Sam or even Adam.
You’ll always be a little bit Sam’s girlfriend.
I run inside to safety. My friends will be here any minute to grab me for a night out, and even though Mara and I haven’t talked since our fight, Chelsea—ever the good-natured meddler—found a bar hosting trivia two blocks away.
It’s a perfectly diabolical setup: Mara can’t resist an opportunity to train for her showdown with Risky Quizness, and I can’t avoid them if they’re within shouting distance of my window.
I peel off my painting clothes and survey my sweater drawer for options, settling on a white turtleneck sweater that I pair with black chunky-heeled boots to cancel out the Maine lobsterman effect.
At the buzz of my intercom, I release the security door with the press of a button.
“It’s open!” I answer the knock from inside my closet. “Are we walking? Because that will affect my coat choice.”
“Walking where?” The voice is low and familiar and, most crucially, not Mara’s or Chelsea’s.
I spin around, thanking all of the available gods that I’m fully clothed. “Adam! What are you doing here?”
“You left your phone in the car when you were sprinting away from me.” He holds out my mint-green case.
I grab it from him, avoiding skin-to-skin contact. “Thanks.”
“You have a nice place.” He can see all of my belongings in a single eyeful.
“It gets the job done. I hope you didn’t have to fight someone for a parking spot.”
“I did have to parallel park.” For a brief moment, he flashes his familiar smirk, but it breaks into a serious expression. “I think I gave you the wrong impression. I didn’t expect to see Sam’s parents today. They’ve never come out any other time I’ve dropped stuff off. And seeing them with you—”
“I know. It was uncomfortable, considering…” I trail off, anxiety swimming in my gut. Adam’s face is drawn with dread and disappointment. Everything in his expression says this is goodbye. The condo’s packed, and we’re over: Sam’s friend and the eternal almost-girlfriend.
I’m overwhelmed by one true and undeniable fact: this can’t be over. Last night’s kiss changed everything for me, and no matter what we call last week’s—a mistake, a lapse—I’ll never stop replaying it in my mind. I’ll be old and gray describing the hungry look in his eyes to fellow retirees on the shuffleboard courts.
I take his hand, lacing our fingers together. “We can’t leave it like this,” I plead, my words floating off on a puff of air.
His face reacts, but I can’t read it. I hold his gaze, memorizing his bottomless mahogany eyes just in case. Outside, the snow continues to fall, but my focus is entirely on Adam.
“Ali.” His low voice is soft and tinged with awe, like I’m something rare.
“No one else calls me Ali.”
“Does it bother you?”
My heart sputters beneath my ribs. “No, I like it.”
Light dances across his eyes as he decides what happens next. Anticipation teases at every nerve ending. “Ali.” His thumb swipes across my palm. I press my eyes shut and feel it everywhere.
A distant shout from out the window drops between us like a bucket of cold water.
Adam’s forehead creases in confusion. “Is someone yelling for you?”
“What?”
“Al! Al! Al!”
Adam drops my hands, and disappointment shoots through my abdomen.
I force the crank on the living room window and see Chelsea hanging out of Mara’s Jeep, yelling up to my apartment. Her blond blowout is perfect, and her burgundy sweatshirt is oversized in that way that makes petite people look even more petite. “There you are. I thought I had the wrong apartment. I’ve never Romeo’d you before.”
I cup my hands around my mouth. “I think you Romeo’d everyone in Lowertown.”
Chelsea’s eyes gape. “Do you have a man up there?”
I glance at Adam, feeling my face redden, before calling out to my friends, “I’ll be right down, okay?” I close my window and face him.
He clears his throat. “You’re busy. I’ll go.”
I can feel him slipping out of my grasp like sand.
Please, don’t go, I want to shout. I have so much to say to you, and I need more time than the two minutes before Mara starts honking.
“Adam.”
We’re frozen at the window when Chelsea busts into my apartment with a reluctant Mara in tow.
“Is everyone decent?” Chelsea’s cheery voice might as well be a door slamming shut.
“Thanks for that, Chels.” I shuffle Adam in the direction of my friends and follow behind. “Chelsea, Mara, you remember Adam.”
Chelsea greets him with a hug, and now we’re all stuffed in my tiny entry.
“Adam.” Mara widens her eyes at me. It’s not as discreet as she thinks it is. “Glad you could join us tonight. We’re a teammate short and need the numbers if we want to dominate. Do you know facts about any sports other than football?”
Adam blinks in the face of Mara’s competitive ferocity. “Hockey and a little basketball.”
Mara clasps his hand in hers, closing the deal. “Perfect.”
I shake my head at them. “He said he’s leaving.”
“I can stay if you need me.” Adam looks at me as if waiting for my approval. It makes my pathetic heart leap in my chest.
Mara pulls her beeping phone out of her pocket. “Our main rival’s there, so we need the win.”
I reach into my closet behind her for my jacket. “How do you know Risky Quizness’s schedule?”
Mara absently shoots off a text. “I do my research. I follow the team members on my catfish Instagram. That’s how I knew this guy’s a Vikings fan.” She tilts her head at Adam without looking up from her phone.
I narrow my eyes. “You stalked him?”
Mara shoos away my concern. “Lightly. The most basic of recon.”
“What did this invasion of his privacy produce?”
Mara’s unruffled. “Mostly public information. I did one sketchy thing, but he was clean, so no harm.”
“Mostly?!” I squeak just as Adam responds, “So I passed the background check?” He’s fighting an indulgent smile that puts me immediately at ease.
Chelsea pops an eyebrow. “You reshare too many pictures of chairs in your Instagram stories.”
“Yeah. Cool it on the chairs, bro. Mix up your content strategy,” Mara piles on.
I raise my hand in Adam’s defense. “He likes chairs, guys. Let him live. Now, are we doing trivia, or what?”
Adam bounces on his toes, nearly concealing his amusement and possible aftershocks of his earlier caffeine overdose.
Mara finally stuffs her phone in her pocket and accepts his enthusiasm as a formal request to join our team. “Know that if you choke on any Vikings questions, I’ll forgive, but I’ll never forget.”
···
“So which member of Risky Quizness are you catfishing?” Chelsea furtively examines the group across the room as we settle into our usual table. It’s one of those anonymous modern bars that pops up in any vaguely historic building in Saint Paul: infinite craft beers on draft, warm wood accented with brick, and high industrial ceilings bedecked with Edison lightbulb fixtures. It’s the kind of place that is always enjoyable and never memorable. “?‘Glasses,’ ‘Beanie Boy,’ ‘Handlebar Mustache,’ ‘Too Tall,’ or Amélie Haircut’?”
Adam, like every oblivious man ever, openly gapes at the subject of our gossip. “That table over there? None of them have facial hair.”
I gulp my complimentary water, already overheated by the proximity of Adam in the crowded bar. “The guy in the Hawaiian shirt shaved the ’stache last summer, but it’s all we’ll ever see.”
“Poor Handlebar,” Chelsea says, pouting. “We should give him a new signifier. Unless Mar caught feelings in her catfishing scheme. Then we should really learn his given name.”
“I don’t actively reel anyone in, but I use Ashleigh with a gh to keep tabs on my nemeses,” Mar explains, perusing the menu lazily, despite never having once deviated from her deceptively nonalcoholic drink of choice: soda water with lime.
“A person probably shouldn’t have more than one nemesis,” I say into the void. Mara spares me a glance.
Chelsea and Mara discuss fake Ashleigh and her interests in knitting, Grey’s Anatomy, and Target designer collaborations, until Mara pulls the profile up on her phone. “Only Beanie and Too Tall followed me back.”
“I think Ashleigh and Too Tall would make a cute couple. She could knit him an extra-long scarf!” Chelsea claps her hands together gleefully.
“Too Tall doesn’t know how to turn off geotagging, so he’s the most useful for my purposes.” Mara winks conspiratorially.
“What constitutes ‘too tall’?” Adam squints at the Risky Quizness table, searching for clues.
“If you have to duck when going into the bathroom at the Pizza Lucé on Selby.” I tap his forehead lightly, and he nudges me with his shoulder. Just like that. Like we’re two people who touch each other affectionately.
“Too Tall hit his head on the ceiling there and bled all over the place. We’re talking The Staircase– level blood splatter. Total gusher.” We collectively wince at Chelsea’s visceral description.
Adam turns to face me, deep brown eyes catching the light of the Edison bulb over our table. “And now it’s all you see.”
A smile sneaks across my lips before I can contain it.
Mara points to Adam, disrupting our flirtatious exchange of glances and half grins. “I wouldn’t worry, Bob Vila. I’m the one who prefers men not to loom over me. Alison likes ’em tall.”
Hot embarrassment creeps up my neck.
A teasing smile pinches the corners of Adam’s eyes. “Too Tall. Handlebar Mustache. Am I ‘Bob Vila’ when you talk about me?”
Mara nods. “Yep.”
“Sometimes ‘Hot Adam,’?” Chelsea says over her.
“We don’t talk about you!” I choke out, but not quick enough to beat the others or prevent Adam’s self-satisfied lean against the table. I chug the rest of my water to cool my red-hot cheeks and hope for a well-timed natural disaster to divert everyone’s attention.
“Focus up.” Mara’s eyes sharpen as she enters competition mode. “Since you’re playing with us tonight, Adam, you’re eligible to play in the tournament on New Year’s Day if—and only if—you prove useful to me.”
“Don’t listen to her. There’s no pressure.” I cover Adam’s hand with mine but then lose my nerve and remove it to tuck my hair behind my ear, like this series of movements was utterly intentional. Luckily, Chelsea gives Adam a friendly shoulder pat that I hope cancels out my too-familiar touches. Look, Adam, we touch each other here. All friends do.
Chelsea eyes the bar. “Don’t be dumb, and you’ll do fine. I’m putting in an order for tater tots. Anyone thirsty?” Adam and I both want IPAs, Mara asks for her standard soda water, and Chelsea trots off to fetch them along with her typical order—whatever beer is light and cheap.
“We’re a pretty tolerant team. You can be dumb and quiet, but you cannot be dumb and persuasive . No convincing Al to back your wrong answers. Team rules,” Mara decrees.
Chelsea finally returns with a tray of beers and the quiz sheet, which Mara immediately snatches to study the image sections on the back. “Who’s the host?”
Chelsea sighs in relief. “Darren. We can use either name.”
“Mara got our first team banned by insulting the host,” I murmur to Adam.
“I wasn’t insulting Stu. I was describing him. He’s the one who didn’t like what he heard.”
I lean closer, and smell oranges and wood shavings. “It was a whole ordeal. We changed our name, and Mara dyed her hair brown for a couple of months.”
Chelsea leans across the table. “Her reverse Sydney Bristow. Oh! We should keep Sydney Quiztow in our back pocket for when your thing with Risky Quizness escalates to criminal levels.”
Mara looks to the ceiling. “It wasn’t a disguise. It was an unrelated hair mistake. Are we Otrivia Benson: SVU or Marquizka Hargitay tonight?”
Under the table, Adam’s hand swipes against my knee, and it sends a jolt up my spine.
“Let’s be bold,” he says, and I try not to notice what the words do to me. “Go with the original.”
Playing as Otrivia Benson: SVU, we coast through the first few categories. Adam answers a few but primarily watches our practiced game of mental table tennis with awe. The general trivia round is reliably straightforward. Round two perplexes the neighboring teams with a series of pop culture questions in the form of palindromes, but Chelsea inexplicably knows every answer. By the end of the second half, we’ve only been stumped by two questions.
The music turns back up to the typical Saturday night bar volume—too loud—and Mara leaves to submit our sheet for scoring. On his way to the bathroom, a stranger thanks Chelsea for inspiring him to reconcile with his mom, a life-altering conversation I’m assuming Chelsea squeezed in while picking up our tater tots.
I take a swig of my beer and freeze, feeling the heat of Adam’s mouth on my ear.
“You guys are incredible.” His breath makes me squirm in my seat.
I turn my head toward his, only slightly. It’s so loud that he doesn’t move away. His nose—his lips—barely graze my cheek.
“It’s Mara, mostly. She’s always been a trivia and crossword addict, and if you play enough, you catch on to the structure—hear variations of the same questions.” I manage to make words come out of my mouth, but he’s watching me with an intensity that sucks the air from my lungs.
He places a hand on the back of my chair, turning his body to face me dead-on. I scooch forward, and our knees puzzle-piece together until my leg can’t feel anything but his, like he’s water and I’m weightless in a pool of him.
How could I be this consumed by him and belong to anyone else?
“This is fun.” He tilts his head back slightly and I get an even better angle of his boyish grin. I’m desperate to get a peek inside his brain. What could possibly be making him smile like that?
“And that surprises you?” I push myself closer until our bodies are entwined.
He presses his lips closed and inhales. The music lowers so Darren can make an announcement, and Adam’s knees knock mine as he turns back toward the table, like our physical closeness was merely a matter of bar acoustics. Just when I’m getting used to the loss of his accidental touch and the subsequent drop in temperature, he shakes his head and takes a slow sip of his beer. I track the movement like a creep.
That mouth kissed me, I think . Twice.
He catches me staring, and I don’t even have the good sense to be embarrassed. My eyes must look wild, because his expression is thrown by them.
“You can’t look at me like that, Ali.” His pleading tone is confirmation he’s feeling this same torturous pull.
“Like what?” I tease, my voice low, leaning so close I have to crane my neck back to look at him.
I consider a retreat until his hand grabs my thigh.