Chapter 7
Benson
Twenty more minutes of this thesis.
Lucy is reading her own thing across from me. She has her Real Analysis textbook open, and her pencil touches her lips and teeth more times than I can count.
I keep my eyes on the screen the entire time, acting like I haven’t noticed what she’s been doing this whole time.
I’m finding her awfully easy to be around.
I had braced for the anxious, awkward, geeky girl that my sister painted her out to be, and the captain-meets-introvert friction, but none of those things are happening.
She’s not a nerd. She even dresses like a normal person; jeans, tee, and white socks.
Her purse is brown, her laptop has no stickers. She’s neat and organized.
She closes her laptop before I close mine. I start putting my things back in my bag. I look at the wrappers and grab them before she can. I hold them in my hand and hold the door open for her.
“Are you walking home?” I ask without much thought to how it sounds until it’s in the air between us.
Luckily, she doesn’t find the question odd. “Yes.”
“I’ll walk with you.”
She looks at me for a second too long, hesitant, but something registers and she says, “Okay.”
We walk towards the elevator. I throw the wrappers in the trash and press the elevator button.
She’s clutching to her purse, staring forward.
I tell myself that this is fine because I have a real reason to talk to Gianna.
It’s about Mom’s birthday, which I have been meaning to coordinate with her for two weeks. This is fine. She lives with my sister.
Late afternoon Camden U, students are between classes. They’re walking about. Some stare, most smile and wave. Lucy is shorter than I realized, so I shorten my stride without thinking about it. I have been shortening my stride for Gianna since I was thirteen.
“Everybody stares at you,” she whispers shyly, looking up at me. In the tutoring room, she was confident and outspoken, but out here, she’s in her shell.
“Really?” I ask, glancing around. I catch a few eyes, but that’s nothing new. “People don’t stare at you?”
She shakes her head. “No, definitely not.”
I change the subject. “How’s your Real Analysis class?”
She lifts a shoulder.
Then I explain, “I saw your textbook.”
“Right. Yeah.” She looks around. “It’s hard, but I like it.
We’re doing measure theory now, which is––” She chews her bottom lip like she doesn’t know if she should keep talking.
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and I catch her eyes looking down, concentrating on something.
Then she looks at me. “It’s the part of math where you start asking what you’re even allowed to do with infinity.
You can do less than you think. You can do more than I thought you could before this week.
There’s a thing called the Cantor set that’s basically a fractal made out of removing the middle third of a line over and over forever, and it has zero length but uncountably many points in it, which doesn’t make any sense. ” She glances at me. “Sorry.”
I have no fucking clue what she just said, but I roll with it. Put me in skates and slap my ass.
“What got you into liking numbers?” I ask.
She chews her bottom lip. “It’s reliable.”
I hadn’t expected that answer, so I look at her face. She’s serious. “Reliable,” I repeat.
She nods. “It never changes. I can always make sense of it.”
My eyebrows raise. Fuck, that’s deep. Maybe even a little sad. I look down at her again, but she’s staring forward.
“Why are you walking with me?” she asks.
My phone buzzes in my pocket and answer simply, “I need to talk to Gianna.”
“But you never come over.”
I swallow, feeling my phone vibrate again. “Yeah, and it’s my senior year before I enter the draft, so I need to make the most of it. I feel shitty that I’ve only come over a handful of times.”
“Wait,” she says. “You’ve come over before?”
I nod. “You weren’t ever there.” And now that I’ve said that aloud, I’m sure my sister has kept her in the dark about my past with her friends.
“Oh.”
I pull my phone out of my pocket as we keep walking.
Bricker (S&C): Lift moved to 7am sat. Bricker (S&C): Don’t be late. Me: Got it.
I pocket it. “Sorry. Hockey thing.”
She smiles at me, and she’s holding onto her bag against her chest tightly. We turn the corner onto Main. The Vietnamese place is open. The smell of broth hits the corner.
“This is where I live,” she says, like we hadn’t just accomplished that I’ve been over.
I nod. “I recognize it.”
She unlocks the downstairs door. The stairwell is narrow. I keep my hands at my sides on the way up. She unlocks the apartment door at the top and pushes it open.
“Where is my sister?” I mutter, stepping inside.
I can hear her — there’s music, low, and the sound of dishes. Gianna turns around, and her face rearranges.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she says, turning off the sink. She looks at Lucy, and then back at me. “Are you here to hang out with Lucy?”
“No,” Lucy and I say in unison.
Gianna looks between us like she doesn’t believe it. “No, Benson. You cannot be walking her home.” She wipes her hands on her pants and sighs. “Are you freaking kidding me? See, there’s a reason I didn’t––”
“Relax, G. I wanted to ask you about Mom’s birthday.”
“Haven’t you ever heard of a freaking text message?” Gianna scoffs.
“You know I suck at texting.”
She squints at me. I have lost every stare down I have ever had with my sister, and I am not going to win this one.
“Fine. Are you hungry?”
I smile at the offer. “Starving.”
“Great.” Gianna looks over at Lucy walking into her bedroom, and then starts muttering to herself under her Camdenth.
The apartment is small and warm. Gianna goes back to the sink, and I stand in the middle of the room, taking it all in.
There’s a photo on the bookshelf of Gianna’s high school graduation.
I’m in it, in a Camden U hoodie, making her laugh.
There’s a photo on the small table by the door.
That one is family Thanksgiving three years ago.
Mom and Dad on the couch, me and G on the floor, the dog photobombing.
I walk to the fridge, looking at the photo on it.
It’s me in my Camden U Wolves jersey mid-laugh with G under my arm.
It’s been on this fridge for, I’m guessing, a while because of the amount of oil it’s collecting.
“Why do you have pictures of me?” I ask.
Gianna scoffs, “What do you mean? You’re my brother.”
“Should I have pictures of you around my house?”
“The Hawthorne House? No, thanks, big bro. Keep me out of those shenanigans.”
I look back at that photo. “How long has this been here?”
“Since forever.”
“So, years.”
She nods. “Yep.”
I turn. Lucy is at the kitchen counter holding a glass of water.
This girl has been looking at this photo of me, happy as can be, for years.
I’m not going to lie, the discomfort in my chest makes the air feel sparse.
Is this why she panicked when she saw my name?
She’s had my face in hers every time she opens her damn fridge?
I take the picture off the fridge and lean over the counter, looking at it.
“This was a good day,” I say to no one in particular, but I know Lucy’s listening. “I had just made the winning score. It was the night I knew I could do this for real.”
“Whatever,” Gianna laughs. “You were always going to make it, Benson. You’re relentless when you have your mind set on something.”
Lucy and I lock eyes for a moment. She takes a sip of water, and I turn to put the photograph back on the fridge.
“So, Mom and Dad are driving up for the opener. October ninth, which is a Friday. Dad booked the hotel a while ago.”
“He always books too early.”
I agree. “He always does.”
“Are they doing the whole weekend?”
“Driving up Friday afternoon. Leaving Sunday morning. Mom wants brunch Saturday before they go. I told them we’d do dinner Friday after the game. Either the place by the rink or the Italian place Mom liked last year — she keeps bringing it up.”
Gianna folds the towel into thirds and sets it on the oven handle. “I’ll make the reservation at the Italian place. She’d kill me if we did anywhere else.”
“Thanks.”
She looks across the kitchen at Lucy. “Lucy, you should come.”
Lucy looks up from her glass. “What?”
“To dinner with my parents after the opener. October ninth. It’s a Friday.”
Lucy doesn’t move. “Oh. I — Gianna, that’s okay. That’s—”
Gianna smiles. “It’s not a thing. My parents are great. Mom will love you. Dad will ask you a hundred questions about math, and he’ll be obsessed when he finds out you’re a math wizard.” She shrugs. “You should come to the opener too.”
The air tightens, and it’s because Lucy freezes. She doesn’t know what to say.
Gianna rolls her eyes. “You never come.”
Lucy gulps. “I thought we had a pact in place.”
Gianna looks at me. “Tutoring broke that, didn’t it? And Benson isn’t going to steal you from me.” She turns her head, staring right at me. “Are you, Benson?”
I shake my head but keep my eyes on Lucy. I don’t know where her confidence went, but it makes me feel uneasy seeing her like this.
“See,” Gianna smiles at Lucy.
Lucy looks at me with pink cheeks.
“You should come, Lucy,” I say easily, trying to ease her nerves.
She looks at me for half a second too long.
Gianna’s eyes flick to me.
I look at the wall. The wall has a small, framed print of a beach in Nova Scotia. I study it.
Then Lucy’s phone buzzes. “Excuse me,” she says, politely. “I need to take this.” She walks to her bedroom and closes the door behind her. I look at the closed door for half a second longer than I should.
“Seriously, Benson. Why did you walk my friend home?” Gianna whispers.
I glance at the door, wondering for a fraction of a second if a man is calling Lucy right now.
She crosses her arms, disapproval on her face. “This is problematic.”
“She didn’t mind.”
“She is being professional, Benson. There is a difference between not minding and being professional. You are her job. She’s not going to tell you no.”
“I don’t think she’s just being professional.” I shrug. “We’re friends.”
She balls her fist. “You’re friends now?”
I whisper, “She’s not as anxious as you made her seem.”
“Oh, trust me, bro. You do not want to go there.”
“What?” I ask as she shakes her head in disapproval. “What is it? Does she have a boyfriend?”
Gianna scoffs with her mouth open in surprise. “I can’t believe you’re asking me that right now.”
I lean forward on the arm of the couch. “Then why did you invite her to dinner with Mom and Dad?”
She opens her mouth.
“And you made a pact with her?” I whisper, already knowing what the pact is about. It’s about me.
She nods, crossing her arms. “Because she’s my friend, Benson. Not yours! Do you remember Kristy from high school? Ophelia? I have a freaking list of friends.”
I run a hand down my face. “How many times do I have to tell you that I’m sorry?” I place my hands in front of me and gesture. “I’m sorry that your friends meet me and are attracted to me.”
She points at me. “You’re not allowed to do it with this one. She is my roommate and best friend. I would like to keep it that way.”
I put my hands up in surrender. “I swear to you that it’s professional and nothing more.”
“You called her your friend.”
I shrug. “We’re friendly.”
“Ew,” she scoffs. “Don’t say that word again.”
I roll my eyes, knowing that I won’t win this. “Alright, fine.”
She stomps one foot and says, “Boundaries, Benson. You’re not allowed to come over here again. No walking her home.”
I inhale, meeting her eyes. “Fine.”
“Perfect. Now get out of here before she walks out.”
I blink. “Alright. I’ll see you later.” I stand up and hug her. “I thought you offered me dinner.”
“That was before I saw her blush. You’re going back to Hawthorne now.”
I shrug and head for the door. “Do what you want. She’s your friend.”
“Thank you.”
I close the door behind me. The stairwell is narrow on the way down.
I push out into the early evening and Main Street is doing its dinner-rush thing — the door of the Vietnamese place opening and closing, a couple at the corner waiting for the light, somebody on a bike with a backpack the size of his torso going by too fast for the sidewalk.
I put my hands in my hoodie pocket and walk.
I reach the Hawthorne House shortly after, and Stanley is on the porch with a protein smoothie and his feet on the railing. He sees me coming up the walk.
“Reeve, where have you been?”
I raise my hands. “You came to the library to spy on me?”
He sips his smoothie. “I had to see if my memory served me right.” He sees the look on my face and continues, “You didn’t answer hot or not, so I needed to check her out for myself.”
I don’t want to know his consensus, but he’s going to tell me anyway.
“I have to admit, Reeve. I’m a little worried.”
“Don’t be.”
“Then where have you been?”
I look at him. Is this fucker keeping tabs on me now? He needs to get a life.
He looks at his empty wrist. “For three hours after your tutor session.”
I come up the porch steps and don’t stop. I walk into the house and see Blue on the couch with his phone. I walk over to him.
“Is Stanley driving you up the fucking wall too?”
He looks up from his phone. “No. Do you want to do something about it?”
I look out the window at Stanley drinking his protein smoothie. “Not now. Maybe this weekend at the party.”
Blue nods. “First Hawthorne House party. I’m down.”
I pat his back and head to my bedroom. The party is this weekend.