8. Carlisle
8
Carlisle
W hen Harper gets home from work, she tells me hello as she drops her purse and tote bag by the door. But when she sees me lounging on the couch, she narrows her eyes and looks at me with an odd expression.
Slowly, she asks, “Why do you have socks on your hands?”
“Oh, that,” I reply lightly, downplaying the oddity of it. “My hands were cold.”
Her tone infused with suspicion, Harper insists, “I don't buy it. It isn’t cold in here.”
My phone, which is face down on the coffee table, chimes from an incoming text message.
When I don't make a move to grab it, Harper inquires, "Aren’t you going to check that?”
“Nope,” I shake my head. I know it’s from Brent— I mean, Ben —and I’m currently ignoring him.
I didn’t even know the guy existed a few weeks ago. I can cut ties with him and be just fine , I remind myself for the millionth time today.
But I am dying, literally dying, to read his latest text and respond, which is why I’m wearing socks on my hands. I can’t work my phone’s touchscreen with them on, so they’re protecting me from myself.
Because I really, really want to read and respond to Ben’s latest messages.
Luckily for me, Harper shares no such compunction. She grabs my phone and reads the text message aloud. “ Carlisle, I’m just checking in. If you don’t want to talk to me anymore, I get it, but please let me know you’re okay. This isn’t like you not to respond, and it’s worrying me. ” She whistles softly. “How long has he been texting you like this?”
“All day,” I admit morosely.
“He must really care about you.”
“No, he doesn’t. Not really.”
“Why would you say that? These texts all suggest otherwise,” Harper says as she snoops through the rest of our texting history. “What made you stop responding? What changed?”
“Ben told me last night that we could never be more than friends who talk on the phone and that he didn't want to meet in person." I throw up my sock covered hands in frustration. "What’s the point in getting to know each other further? I already like him more than I should. By cutting him off now, I’m saving myself from future heartbreak.” I slump against the couch in defeat. “Because he’s obviously hiding something big, right?”
Grimacing, Harper agrees, “Yeah, that could be a red flag. You’re probably right to forget about him.” Next to me, Harper perches on the edge of the couch when she abruptly side-eyes me. “Wait a minute. You just called him Ben. I thought his name was Brent,” Harper says accusingly.
“About that.” I fiddle with the blanket in my lap. “He confessed last night that while his name is Brent Benjamin, he goes by Ben. And before you ask, I don’t know why he originally told me to call him Brent.”
“This is so weird. Maybe he’s catfishing you?”
I shrug my shoulders.
Chewing on the corner of her lip, she prods me, “Let’s run through exactly what you know about this guy and see if we can figure him out."
Where do I even start? How do I know if what he told me is true or just another fabrication?
But like Harper, I want to figure it out. "Okay."
Harper removes her phone from her purse and opens the notes app. "His name is Brent Benjamin. Okay, got it. What else do you know about him?"
“He lives here in LA, but he travels often. He’s currently working as a bartender, but he changes jobs a lot and sometimes works multiple jobs.”
“That’s not uncommon in LA. Next.”
“He’s thirty.” I wrack my brain trying to remember any other tidbits of information he had ever let slip about himself. “He grew up in Austin and moved out here after he graduated high school. Didn't go to college. Has a younger brother.”
“Okay,” Harper murmurs, typing as I talk. “What else?”
“He played football in high school. I doubt that’s important though given that was over a decade ago.”
“You never know. I’ll include it.”
“One time he said something about how he had so many people around him all the time telling him what to do,” I add. The specifics of his comment elude me, but I remember being confused by it and not understanding what he meant.
Harper’s head pops up from her phone. “You’re sure he’s not, like, in jail, right? That would explain why he can’t meet you and why people are always telling him what to do.” She blinks, looking slightly horrified and gently sets her hand on my knee. “When he calls you, there’s not an automated voice that asks if you’ll accept a collect call, right?”
I can’t help but laugh. “No, Harp.”
“Whew, good. Then I bet he’s in a relationship or he’s catfishing you.” Harper twists her head to the side before slowly shaking it. “But it also feels like it might be something else entirely. He comes across as being so genuine in all these texts. He sounds like he’s into you.”
Hope swells within me.
“But he could be into you and be in a relationship with someone else. Both could be true, unfortunately. They aren’t mutually exclusive.”
My little bubble of hope bursts.
“Listen, here’s what I think you should do. Continue communicating. Pry for more details, and we’ll keep adding them to the list. Hopefully, he’ll let his guard down and tell you more things about himself.”
I nod. It feels good to have some semblance of a plan. Especially one that includes me talking to Ben. Eagerly, I tug the socks off my hands, so that I can use my phone again.
Harper holds up a hand in warning. “But do not allow yourself to get any more invested. Do you think you can do that? Keep some walls up?”
“I can try.”
But I’m not sure it will work. No matter how fast I lay down bricks to shore of up my emotional walls, Ben’s words have a way of seeping through my cracks and crevices, weakening my resolve.
My phone chimes with a new text message.
BEN
I miss you.
“Just call him. But remember what we talked about,” Harper mutters as she aims a pointed stare in my direction. “I don’t want you to get your heart broken when we figure out Brent-Ben-whatever-his-name-is is really a 55-year-old mechanic who’s married with four kids and living in Idaho.”
I nod resolutely. "Got it."
After a minute of hesitation, I tap on the call button and wait as the phone rings several times before rolling to voicemail. What the heck? He just texted me. He obviously has his phone on him, so why doesn’t he pick up my call?
Huffing, I turn on the TV and find a show on Netflix to watch. Harper pops some microwave popcorn and joins me on the couch. A few minutes later, my phone chimes from another incoming text and then another follows in quick succession. Harper pauses the television, as I lunge for my phone.
BEN
I’m at a business dinner and can’t talk. Call you when I finish?
Thanks for finally responding. It made my night. Seriously.
I read them to myself and breathe a sigh of relief. As much as my feelings have flip-flopped during the day, I know that there’s something simmering between us. I’m not imagining it.
“Well, spit it out! What did he say?” Harper probes excitedly, clearly wrapped up in our drama.
I read his texts aloud to her and she arches her eyebrow in surprise. “What kind of bartender has business dinners?”
I twitch my mouth to the side. “I think he means that he’s bartending at a business dinner. ”
“That makes sense.” Glancing at her phone for the time, Harper shoves one more handful of popcorn into her mouth before announcing, “I’m off to Philip’s. Have fun with Ben but remember to be careful. Keep me updated!”
“Will do,” I promise, hugging her goodbye.
Ok. Talk soon.
I play it cool and don’t type anything else, even though there are so many things I want to say.
Instead, I grab the remote and resume the show. Every few minutes, I check the time and wait impatiently for his call until I eventually fall asleep on the couch.