9. Ben
9
Ben
T o call the gathering at Jada’s mansion a dinner party is misnomer. It’s an industry business meeting disguised as a social event, fueled primarily by egos and alcohol.
Throngs of people are scattered throughout the first floor of Jada’s impressive home. Hushed conversations are peppered with polite laughter as everyone remains on their best behavior. But it doesn’t take long before the alcohol kicks in, and the volume increases substantially. That’s when the real wheeling and dealing begins.
From across the room, I see one of the Studio 67 marketing executives, Paxton Varner, striding towards me.
I clap him on the back. “Paxton. Good to see, as always.”
“You ready for the next month of publicity?” He rubs his hands together, anticipating that the films will translate into box office gold during the holiday season.
“As ready as I can be. I’m looking forward to the travel,” I lie glibly. I’m not looking forward to it at all, but it’s a necessary evil when you’re an actor.
“Great, great. When I touched base with Jada, it sounded like she has your side of things covered. Publicity prep gets underway next week. ”
As actors, we undergo extensive media training before promotional tours. We rehearse fielding questions and run through practice interviews until it becomes second nature. Everything is selected beforehand—the movie clips, the funny stories we share, the interview questions—to lessen the likelihood that something unexpected pops up that could sabotage the movie’s publicity plan. However, reporters love to go rogue and insert unapproved questions during interviews, especially if there’s any hint of something scandalous brewing in an actor’s personal life.
Paxton drones on while I sip my glass of red wine, grateful for the cushion that alcohol provides. “You and Willa will be front and center, obviously. The test audiences love your chemistry, so we want to play that up by having you to do mainly joint interviews.”
“Sounds like a good plan,” I readily concur. Sharing the spotlight with Willa will make the press tour easier and more enjoyable.
“I thought you’d be happy. I believe Willa will be here tonight too." Paxton smirks at me and adds, "But you probably already know that.”
“That's what I heard,” I reply benignly, ignoring Paxton’s implication that Willa and I have an ongoing personal relationship. Which we do, but it isn’t romantic.
After meeting at a casting call years ago, Willa and I became fast friends. When we read jointly for our roles in Captain Commander , our natural rapport translated well onscreen, much to the delight of the film’s casting agents and producers. While we play romantic partners in the film, we’ve never been anything but friends in real life, though rumors have circulated in the tabloids about us before. Anytime two single stars are photographed together, people speculate that they’re dating, so I’m not surprised that Paxton has heard the rumors .
A few minutes later, I excuse myself and slip into the bathroom to check my phone again before we sit down for dinner. Still nothing from Carlisle. I knew what I said last night would upset her, but I didn’t realize that it would be the impetus to ghost me.
In desperation, I shoot off one more text to her.
I miss you.
I wash my hands and walk into the hallway when I feel my phone vibrating in my suit pocket. My heart rate accelerates. Praying that it’s Carlisle calling in response to my latest text, I turn my heel, but don’t manage to get far before I’m stopped and pulled into a conversation with two Lyonsfilms insiders.
Unwilling to screw up this opportunity, I briefly engage with them. We talk about Losing Love, and I mention my interest in the film, but my mind is splintered. At the first lull in conversation, I politely excuse myself and move to a deserted hallway to discretely check my phone.
I smile widely as relief floods my body when I see that Carlisle called. Quickly, I tap out two texts to her, and I’m thrilled when she replies.
With a smile still on my face, I walk back into the main living area feeling much calmer. I spot Willa near the front door, and she eagerly motions me over. Grateful to see a friendly face, I navigate my way through the mass of people to reach my pint-sized co-star, greeting her with a kiss on the cheek and a long hug.
“Benji! Or do you prefer to be called by your title as the Sexiest Person of the Year now?" she teases.
When Willa first started calling me Benji, I made the mistake of objecting too strenuously, so, of course, the nickname stuck. I’ve learned to tolerate it, but she is absolutely the only person who is allowed to call me that. But I much prefer Benji to the other option she mentioned.
It's been a month since that magazine article came out and Jordan and Trevor have only stopped ribbing me about it in the last few days.
Rolling my eyes, I tease Willa back, "You sound jealous, Willa. Don't worry. I'll put in a good word for you next year."
She gives me a playful shove. "How are you? How are things?"
“Good. You still seeing that douche from the Dolphins? What’s his name again? Darrin?”
Elbowing me in the stomach, she admonishes me. “Shut your mouth, you asshat. You know his name is Baron. You just don’t like him because you’re not a baseball fan.” She shrugs, smiling mirthlessly. “But we broke up last year."
Fuck, last year. I've seen Willa countless times at studio events and some group outings with mutual friends, but I realize guiltily that I haven't done much but scrape the surface with her.
"What happened? I thought you guys were serious."
"It was too hard with my shooting schedule and his constant traveling during baseball season. We never saw each other.”
“If he let you go, then he’s stupid, Pipsqueak.” I appraise her with calculating eyes. Despite her flawless appearance, contradictory words, and smiling face, I see right through Willa’s cheery facade. “Seriously, how are you?”
“I’m okay, but I’m not great,” she concedes with sadness tinging her large green eyes. A heavy, silent moment is shared between us before she swats playfully at arm, attempting to lighten the mood. “I always knew beneath that rugged exterior that you were a giant softie.”
Lightly, I touch her arm giving her a quick squeeze. “I’m here if you need to talk. Or just hang out. ”
“I know. And thanks, Benji.” Willa tucks her arm in mine and pulls me along behind her. For only being five foot nothing, she’s decidedly strong. “C’mon, let’s piss Jada off and rearrange the place cards so that we can sit next to each other at dinner. We need to catch up properly. How’s Jordan? Got any new projects in the pipeline?”
Spending the rest of the evening hanging out with Willa is the perfect antidote to the stress of trying to land a new movie deal, and our conversation keeps my mind from straying to Carlisle too often. But as soon as Jada releases me for the night and the valet hands me my car keys, I dial Carlisle’s number. It’s later than I’d like, but I don’t even consider waiting to call her back until the morning.
“Hello,” she greets me sleepily.
“Hey, I’m sorry to wake you, but I had to hear your voice,” I say, shrugging out of my jacket before starting the car.
“It’s okay. I’m glad you called.” She sounds slightly more awake now.
“I’m happy to hear that. Since my ten phone calls and twenty-nine texts went unanswered today, I wasn’t sure you’d want to hear from me again.” I’m exaggerating. I only called her four times and texted thirteen times.
“I must admit, they didn’t do much to persuade me you aren’t an obsessive stalker,” Carlisle snickers. She pauses before adding, “But you continue to confuse me. I don’t understand what you want from me, Ben. After what you said last night, why keep communicating?"
"Because I missed you."
“Ben, I don’t know what’s going on between us, but given that you don’t want to meet, we’ll never know what could develop between us. And that frustrates me. What if we miss out on something good because you’re too scared to pursue this legitimately? ”
“One of my buddies told me something similar when I told him about you today,” I quietly admit.
“You told your friend about me?” She sounds surprised.
“Actually, I told two friends about you.”
“I don’t get it. You place limitations on our friendship by saying that we can never hang out in person, which makes me feel like my presence in your life is insignificant. But if that’s true, then why are you talking about me to your friends?”
“You’re not insignificant, Carlisle.” I counter her assumption without hesitation. “I told them about you because they could tell that I was preoccupied. I can’t stop thinking about you.”
“God, Ben. Just stop,” she snaps. “When you say things like that, and it feels like you're toying with my emotions.”
“I’m sorry, Carlisle.” Agitated, I run my hand through my hair. Having arrived home, I click the fob and wait for the gates to slowly separate before I roll through them and drive up the private road which leads to my house. I park in the garage and exit my car, slamming the door behind me. “I’m being selfish, but I realized today that I can’t let you go. I should protect you and keep you away from the insanity of my world, but I can’t bring myself to do that.”
“Maybe I’m a glutton for punishment, but I don’t want to let go of you either. I don’t want to say goodbye because I want to explore this connection between us. What are we? Just friends… or something more?”
“Do we need to label it?” My words hang in the air, and my chest feels heavy as I wait, hating the strained silence.
“I don’t do well with ambiguity, Ben.” Carlisle hesitates. “For my peace of mind, can you at least answer a few of my questions? Please.”
“As long as you’ll answer some of mine too. ”
“Okay,” she breathes out a sigh of relief at my acquiescence. “Are you married or in a relationship?”
I answer quickly, not wanting to give her reason to doubt my veracity. “No, I swear to you that I’m single.”
“Do you have a criminal history?”
“Again, no.”
“Are you gay?”
“Nope.” If only she knew how much I fantasized about her, then she never would have deigned to ask me that. “I think it’s my turn to ask a few questions now, don’t you think?”
“Did that count as your first one?” Her dulcet tone sounding playful for the first time during this conversation.
“Nice try, but no. We’ll even the score—are you in a relationship, have a criminal history, and are you gay?”
“No, no, and no.”
“Okay, now without overthinking it—”
“Oh, jeez,” she mutters.
“You’re already overthinking it,” I tut. “If you had to put a label on us, what would it be?”
“More than friends, but I’m not sure exactly how much more,” she whispers after a lengthy pause.
“I agree with that assessment.” Hearing confirmation from her that she’s into me, even a little bit, has calmed some of my fears and made me happier than I’ve been all day.
Sounding a little flustered, she says, “This is totally superficial, but what do you look like?”
“I’m tall. I have dark brown hair and hazel eyes. I work out a lot, so I’m physically fit.” Cheekily, I add, “My mom says I’m handsome." I omit what the commenters on my social media accounts say regarding my appearance because some of them are fucking feral. "What about you? A little quid pro quo.”
“I’m just your typical blonde hair, blue-eyed girl.”
I believe her to be anything but typical, but I don’t have any time to contemplate that thought further because her next question jerks me back to the present.
“Back to you now, Ben. Last question. Are you catfishing me?”
I freeze as my mind goes blank, and I grapple with how to answer that question honestly. Catfishing is when someone conceals their real identity. I can’t deny that, even though I’m not doing it maliciously. “Uh—”
“See? That pause is so telling. It’s a simple yes or no question!” Her agonized tone causes my nerves to recoil. “This is why I didn’t respond earlier, Ben. Anytime I think I’m getting to know the real you, you pull back, and I’m left doubting everything you’ve told me.”
This is the moment that I should come clean and confess who I am, but she already doubts me so much. If I tell Carlisle that she’s speaking with one of Hollywood’s most eligible bachelors, she’s more likely to think I’m psychotic than take me at my word.
And it’s all my own damn fault for not being honest with her from the beginning.
Backpedaling, I plead, “I swear, the only thing I lied to you about was my name, and that wasn’t technically a lie since Brent is my first name.” Damn, I remember one more lie I told her during our initial conversation. “Well, I’m not a bartender anymore either.”
“What the hell, Ben? What have you told me that is true?” Her southern twang returns with a vengeance, and with it comes her fiery temper. “I cannot keep doing this. Have a nice life.”
“Wait! Stop, don’t hang up,” I blurt out as panic sets in. “Listen to me. Please keep talking to me.” My heart speeds up as I feel the pressure to placate her and keep her on the line. “I really like you, Carlisle, and all I’m asking for is a little time,” I beg. “Keep talking to me for the next week, and then if you still want to meet me, we can.”
A week will allow me enough time to meet with my publicist and plan the best way to introduce Carlisle to the world, assuming all goes well between us when we meet. If our connection is as strong as I believe it to be, then my team needs to be prepared for the onslaught of added publicity that a new relationship will certainly generate.
And if our face-to-face meeting leads to nothing, then no harm, no foul. Better to be over-prepared than under-prepared.
Carlisle is quiet and as much as I want to fill the awkward silence, I don’t. I give her time to mull over my offer.
“Okay. But I’m telling you, Brent Benjamin, that I am going to want to meet you in person, so if you try to wiggle your way out of this, we’re done for good,” she warns sternly, reminding me of how my mom used to scold me as a kid.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Now that the crisis has been narrowly averted, I walk into my house, throwing my keys and wallet onto the kitchen counter before heading into my study. Sitting at my desk, I open the calendar app on my computer and pull up next weekend's schedule. Miraculously, I have most of Sunday available, except for a studio meet and greet in the evening. I block the rest of the day off, so Jo won’t fill it with anything else.
“Let’s plan for next Sunday during the day. I have a business commitment in the evening, but my day is free. Does that work for you?”
“It does. What do you propose we do at this meeting?”
“You can call it a date, Carlisle,” I chide her. “Isn’t that what it is? ”
“I suppose so.” She pauses. “But if it turns out that you’re a 55-year-old mechanic living in Idaho with a wife and four kids, then it is not a date.” Carlisle adds emphatically, “Not a date!”
A loud laugh escapes my throat. I lean back into my leather chair and put my feet on my desk. “Wow, that’s oddly specific. But I promise you that I’m none of those things. So, I think it’s safe to say that we’re going on that date next week.”