4. Ben
4
Ben
I chitchat politely with the young woman in front of me in line at my favorite local coffee shop. Since our coffee orders were ready at the same time, I hold the door for her as she exits, but when we step outside, we're greeted by a flurry of camera clicks and people calling my name.
Fuck me.
Several paparazzi are lying in wait. The woman stands frozen, stunned by the sudden onslaught of attention.
"Sorry about this," I mutter as I place a hand on her back, gently propelling her forward and encouraging her to leave quickly. My touch seems to incentivize her. Over her shoulder, she smiles briefly at me before jumping into an old yellow Jeep.
Heeding my own advice, I adopt a neutral expression and hurry to my car, ignoring the photographers' questions.
There are only a few of them, maybe five or six, but even that number is surprising. I’m by myself grabbing a freaking cup of coffee early on a Sunday morning. There’s nothing salacious about what I’m doing except that it’s me doing it.
My best guess is that because of the mounting publicity surrounding my upcoming films, the price that tabloids will pay for photographs of me has already skyrocketed. When the demand increases, so too do the number of paparazzi trying to cash in. I'll have even less privacy than usual, which is annoying.
On my drive home, I call my personal assistant to check in.
And to give her hell about the prank she played on Friday. The little shit.
“Joanna, hey. Wanted to say thanks so much for giving me that interior designer’s number. Really appreciated that.”
“C’mon, that was funny,” she cackles, the glee evident in her voice. “I wish I could have been there to witness it! Sexiest Person of the Year calling a sex hotline!”
It's on the tip of my tongue to correct Jo's assumption that I actually called the hotline, but I don't. So much of my life is available for public consumption that I like keeping Carlisle a secret.
After I convinced her to give me her real phone number so I wouldn't have to keep using her work cell number, Carlisle and I spent all day yesterday texting back and forth. Of course, I had to provide her with my cell number too, mutually assured destruction she called it. Though she doesn't know it, she's one of only a handful of people who has my number.
I enjoy our banter and getting to know more about her. Her life is drastically different than mine, which is part of her appeal. It also helps that she doesn't know that I'm a celebrity. Since making it big in Hollywood, I've only dated a few women because it's difficult to trust people.
Jo drones on, recapturing my attention. “Did you receive a new script sometime last week, Ben? Jada said she messengered it over.”
“Uh, I got the one Jordan sent over about cowboy aliens traveling back in time to conquer the Vikings.”
I started reading it yesterday, but it's so shitty that there’s no point in finishing it. I can’t tell if Jordan gave it to me as a joke or if he seriously thought I might be interested. Knowing my best friend, I’m hoping for the former but assuming the latter.
Jo laughs. “God, that sounds just like a script Jordan would recommend. I’m talking about one called Losing Love .”
“Sounds familiar. I'll find it and skim over it today.” I blow on my coffee before taking a sip. Putting on my blinker, I turn into my neighborhood.
"Check the inbox on your desk. That's where I always put scripts." Jo has been working for me for four years and she handles all my day-to-day tasks. When I say I’d be lost without her, I mean it. “Jada’s convinced you’re going to like it, so don't skim it. Read it thoroughly please.”
“Alright.” I take another swig of my coffee, savoring it. “What’s on the agenda for the week?”
“I synced the updated schedule that Studio 67 sent over yesterday, so you should have everything loaded in your calendar. Also, have you looked at the suits that Brooke sent over for you yet? She’s coming to your house this morning to do the preliminary fittings for the Captain Commander press tour.”
“Seriously? Today? But it’s the weekend,” I grumble. Although I love my stylist Brooke, trying on clothes is one of my least favorite activities. Just give me a pair of jeans and a t-shirt and be done with it.
“You’re so melodramatic.” Jo scoffs, offering me zero sympathy, which is understandable but still annoying since I'm her boss. I only half-listen as Jo prattles on about my various commitments. “Okay, last thing. Jada’s throwing a cocktail party in a couple weeks. I RSVPed for you, but Jada’s assistant called yesterday to confirm that you’re not bringing a plus one. Do you want to bring a date?”
This is a trick question.
Do I want to bring a date? Yes. I'd love to bring Carlisle. Despite never having met her in person, her name is the first one that pops into my mind.
Can I bring a date? No. The first genuine connection I’ve formed with a woman in years, and I can't pursue it for a variety of reasons, both personal and professional.
“No date. Unless you want to come with me? Not as a date. Obviously. No offense.”
“None taken,” Jo laughs. “Normally I’d love nothing more than to sit through a boring industry dinner and talk shop with a bunch of old gray hairs, but that's Harry and my two-month anniversary and I've made special plans for us.”
“You're already planning your two-month anniversary?" I love to give Jo shit, which works out well since she dishes it out just as often. "Wait, wait. You've only been dating Henry—"
"Harry," she corrects.
God, I can't keep up with Jo's dating life. As my assistant, she has her shit together, but man, her dating life is a revolving door of weirdos.
"Right, Harry. You guys have only been dating for a few weeks, but you've already made plans to celebrate your two-month anniversary?" I barely hold in my laugh. "Have you even had your one-month anniversary yet?"
"What can I say? I'm an optimist when it comes to love. Maybe my optimism regarding love will rub off on you someday soon."
"Doubtful. "
Jo’s one of the few people privy to the truth behind the downfall of my relationship with my ex-girlfriend. It ended nearly three years ago but the pain and mistrust from my breakup with Kelsey linger.
Thinking about my ex dredges up feelings that I would rather stay buried. Nothing good comes from dissecting the demise of my relationship with her.
After hanging up with Jo, I park my car and as my garage door shuts behind me, I vow to shut the door on my memories of Kelsey too. I want to focus on the future, not the past.
I let myself into the backyard and drop onto one of the loungers by the pool to finish my coffee and enjoy the beautiful fall morning. Then, like I did all day yesterday, I grab my phone to text Carlisle.
You up yet?
I wait impatiently for a few minutes before she responds.
CARLISLE
Barely. Why are you up so early on a Sunday?
I'm a morning person, so I've been up for hours.
CARLISLE
Okay, Grandpa.
Grandpa?
CARLISLE
Sorry. Do you prefer Boomer? Old timer? Geezer?
I love how she teases me and gives me shit. I've become accustomed to women routinely fawning over me, which is mostly disingenuous and gets irritating after a while.
But not Carlisle. Oh no, she enjoys taking my ego down a few notches.
You're cranky this morning. Send me your address. I’ll have coffee delivered to cheer you up.
CARLISLE
Nice try, but I’m not giving up my address that easily.
(In case you end up being a weirdo after all.)
Still hung up on that possibility?
CARLISLE
Maybe.
Fine. No coffee for you. (Read that in the Soup Nazi’s voice.)
CARLISLE
???
You don’t know who the Soup Nazi is? You've never watched Seinfeld reruns?
CARLISLE
At first, I was kidding about the grandpa jokes, but… seriously, how old are you?
Seinfeld is a classic. It should be required viewing for all TV watchers.
And to answer your question, I’m 30. You?
CARLISLE
Just turned 23.
As with all the tidbits of her life that she shares with me, I file that piece of information away in my brain.
What are you up to today?
CARLISLE
Gotta get ready for the week—GTL.
GTL? You lost me.
CARLISLE
You know, from Jersey Shore . GTL = gym, tan, laundry. But my GTL is grocery shop, tidy up, and laundry.
You absolutely cannot make fun of me for watching Seinfeld reruns when you’re over there quoting Jersey Shore.
CARLISLE
Fair point.
What are your plans for the day?
A little of this and a little of that. Nothing special.
Glancing at the upper left corner of my phone, I notice the time and realize that I need to get ready for my fitting with Brooke that's supposed to start in a few minutes.
I need to run. Call you later?
CARLISLE
Sounds good :)
“Fancy hearing from you again,” Carlisle chirps after answering my call on the first ring.
I'd like to think she was eagerly sitting by the phone awaiting my call, but I'm sure that's wishful thinking on my part.
“Just calling to see how your day is going. Finished all your BLT stuff?”
“GTL,” she corrects me with a giggle. “But yes, I finished my Sunday chores, so I feel ready for the week. I think it’s going to be a good one.”
“Such an optimist.”
Optimism. It isn't a concept that I usually devote much time to contemplating, but this is now the second conversation I've had today where it's been mentioned.
Perhaps it's the universe's way of subtly encouraging me to be open to new possibilities.
“I try to be. What about you? Are you an optimist or a pessimist?” Carlisle asks.
I pause a few beats before answering, gathering my thoughts. “More of a realist. Some things from my past have left me guarded. I try to protect myself now by not being overly optimistic, but I try not to assume the worst either.”
“So, you’re saying you have trust issues.”
With a hollow grin, I quip, “Don’t we all?”
“Do tell, do tell,” she suggests playfully before turning serious. “But I understand what you’re saying. Once you reach a certain point in life, it feels almost na?ve to be optimistic. We all have stuff in our pasts that has the power to leave us scarred if we let it. ”
“Sounds like you’re speaking from experience, Carlisle. Care to share?”
“I was hoping this conversation was going to be about you and your trust issues, Brent.”
Every time she says my first name, it sounds odd, and my instinct is to correct her. But I don't because it serves as a reminder to keep Carlisle at arm's length. Even if I'm not sure that I want to.
“Looks like we’re at a standstill then because I was hoping it would be about you again.” But she stays silent, waiting me out until I sigh and explain further, “Most days, I have people hovering and hounding me, telling me what to do, what to say, what to wear. It’s just nice to have something that doesn’t revolve around me. I enjoy learning about you and your life. You're so refreshingly normal—”
"Normal?" Carlisle laughs. "You think I'm normal? God bless you, Brent. You just made my day."
"Yes, normal," I reiterate. "Not to be confused with average or boring, of course, because you're neither of those things. So, c'mon, talk to me. Tell me more about your life and your trust issues."
"Seriously?" Skepticism tinges her voice. "You really enjoy hearing about my life? Most people enjoy talking about themselves more than listening to other people."
"Seriously."
"You're not trying to find out details about my life so that you can steal my identity, are you? Because I will not disclose my mother's maiden name or what street I grew up on."
Chuckling, I assure her that I'm not. "But your trust issues do seem to be rising to the surface, Carlisle. Maybe we should talk about those," I kid .
She makes a funny noise, part exhalation, part groan. “In that case, I’ll take you up on your offer to talk about my trust issues, if for no other reason than to dispel you of the notion that I'm normal.”
"Thank you."
“Let’s see, where shall I begin? I already told you that my dad cut the purse strings after college graduation, but what I left out is the important stuff that preceded that." Her melodic voice grows softer, more hesitant before continuing, "I’m going to apologize ahead of time for getting heavy.”
“Don’t apologize for being real." Then, something foreign overcomes me and I elaborate. "Your ability to be real is one of the things that draws me to you.”
Way to keep Carlisle at arm's length, dumbass.
She swallows audibly. “Okay, I’ll just jump right in then. My mom died at the end of my freshman year of college from cancer, which really sucked because we were incredibly close. Growing up as an only child with a workaholic father, my mom and I were together all the time. Besides Harper, my mom was my best friend."
"Oh, shit, Carlisle. I'm sorry." I noticed during our very first conversation that Carlisle only mentioned her father, not her mother.
"Thanks." With a weighty sigh, she presses on. "Then my dad married his much younger secretary four months later because she was pregnant with twins. It was hard enough losing my mom to cancer, but to find out that my father had been cheating on her while she was on her deathbed was devastating. I felt like the rug had been pulled out from under my feet and that everything I thought I knew about my dad was wrong. The hardest part has been the feeling that my dad just replaced my mom and me. Before my mom even died, my dad had already begun creating a whole new family. ”
I grow quiet in the aftermath of her story, not because she opened up too much, too soon, but because her words resonate with me. We may live two drastically different lifestyles right now, but our traumas are similarly rooted in betrayal and deceit.
And that's kind of a mindfuck to realize how much I have in common with Carlisle.
Still awake?
CARLISLE
Yep. Just reading before bed.
Me too.
CARLISLE
What are you reading? Anything good? I'm always on the hunt for a new book.
A screenplay called Losing Love . It's fantastic so far.
CARLISLE
Wow! How very Hollywood of you, Brent!
Well, shit. As if today's earlier emotional conversation wasn't enough, here's yet another reason to shut this shit down before Carlisle finds out who I am.
My anonymity provides a safety net for me, but as Carlisle and I get more comfortable with one another, it's only natural for more aspects of my real life to bleed into our conversations.
I'm letting her get too close to me.
And that could be dangerous.