Chapter 7
SEVEN
The first week of November dawns cold and bracing, matching Ben’s mood.
After spending the bulk of Sunday both hungover and viciously down on himself, he battles his way grimly to the office on Monday morning, regretting, as always, the fact that New York’s eye-catching skyscrapers have the unfortunate side effect of creating, in certain weather, a series of interconnected wind tunnels.
He’s buffeted along Forty-Second Street, and then blown sideways onto Sixth Avenue, before managing, barely, to make his way into his own office building.
Another sign of the state he’s worked himself into: He doesn’t even make a cursory stop by twenty-seven on his way to the Gastronome offices.
Instead, he guilelessly and with malice aforethought hits thirty-four when he gets in the elevator, and makes sure to stand in the back, so if the doors do open on his more usual floor, none of his coworkers can catch a glimpse of him.
He’s the first in, when he gets to the test kitchen; this doesn’t surprise him, as the chefs here, like chefs in general, are typically a later crowd.
Really, Ben should continue through the test kitchen to the editing bay, where someone else will inevitably already be working, and where he truly belongs.
But Pete is supposed to film today, the first of three Thanksgiving videos they’re set to turn in this week, and Ben doesn’t see the point getting ready anywhere but here.
He’ll just end up drifting in while Pete films, using a variety of excuses to explain his presence, before eventually sticking around, trying to make it seem organic and natural and like that was his plan all along.
Ben’s had enough of being organic and natural.
He’s had enough of silly little plans built around a silly little idea of some silly little life Ben’s not even sure that he wants, and that isn’t possible or remotely in the cards for him in any case.
Pete’s not suited to this job; Pete’s got a boyfriend; Pete’s having a panic attack after every shoot, at minimum.
Ben’s vague, gauzy plan, the one he had not allowed himself to so much as think about but had been drifting loosely towards even so, is not going to work.
And, anyway, while all this has been going on Ben’s been doing what, exactly?
Ripping Pete to shreds for the entertainment of the masses, that’s what, while Pete lived his long, unrelenting nightmare, more or less as a direct result of Ben’s tendency towards evisceration.
There’s nothing he can do about it now—for better or worse, that’s the job, and it would damage both of their careers if he abruptly changed the whole tone of the show.
But the other thing Ben’s been doing—the dancing around what he’d normally say, what he’d like to do, here in the Gastronome offices, because he wants to…
to… impress Pete, or whatever? Give a convincing impression of being someone cooler and more cavalier than he is?
That’s going to have to stop, and it’s going to have to stop right now.
Someone is going to have to get bossy, and insistent, and demanding.
Someone is going to have to make this easier for Pete, since it’s clear he can’t make it easy for himself.
So Ben sets up at the station next to Pete’s that he knows is always empty, hooking up his laptop to his external hard drive and prepping programs he won’t need for hours yet. Then he sits and waits to execute his plan.
Pete comes in first—also not a surprise.
He’s almost always the first cook in, which Ben knows is because he has a complicated daily system timed out with the ferry ride from Jersey City; if he’s ever more than five minutes late, it’s always because he’s missed his boat, and will be delayed at least half an hour.
He smiles when he sees Ben; Ben tries to smile back.
“Ben, hey! I’m glad you’re here—I was hoping I’d catch a moment alone with you.
” Pete lowers his voice in spite of the aforementioned solitude.
“I just… I wanted to thank you for the other night, for being so chill, and everything. I tried to find you again at the party, but I couldn’t, so, just. Thanks. I appreciate it.”
“Oh,” Ben says, blinking. He’s spent the past thirty-six hours steeping in a simmering tea of self-loathing, born partially of hangover and partially of realizing the sheer depth of the trouble he, specifically, has brought upon this specific man; he wasn’t exactly expecting thanks.
“That’s—don’t be stupid, it was nothing. You don’t have to—just—forget it.”
“Oh, you’re one of those people,” Pete says musingly, as if to himself.
Bristling in spite of his better instincts, and biting even though it’s obvious bait, Ben snaps, “I’m sorry, one of which people, exactly?”
“You know,” Pete says, taking off his jacket and folding it precariously over a stool, “people who can’t take gratitude, or a compliment, or whatever. Look, I’ll prove it: Your editing is really good.”
“God,” Ben groans, running a hand over his face, “don’t do this to me right now. I haven’t even had good coffee yet; I had to throw out my bodega cup halfway through this morning, something went wrong when they were making it, it was like drinking a cup of straight hair dye—”
“And yet you still drank half of it,” Pete comments lightly, shaking his head, but he lets the compliment thing go. Ben doesn’t think he could take continued praise of his work from Pete right now—in his current mental circumstances, it might actually kill him.
Instead of this, he offers, “Hey, I’d drink hair dye too if it had caffeine in it.”
“I think we can do a little better than that,” Pete says, rolling his eyes. “And if we can’t, we have no business calling ourselves ‘America’s cooking standby,’ or whatever it is—”
“‘North America’s culinary stalwart,’” Ben says, without thinking. Then, as he realizes it probably makes him sound like a brown-nosing, obsessive weirdo, heat begins to prickle at the back of his ears.
Before he can rush to correct himself, though, Pete’s saying, “Stalwart? Really? That can’t be right—what does that even mean?”
“It’s like a—reliable supporter,” Ben says, figuring he might as well go ahead now.
“It’s an old-timey word, but it’s been the slogan since the magazine was founded in the twenties.
” When Pete raises an eyebrow, Ben feels the blush spill from the tips of his ears onto his cheeks as he admits, “I may—may—have been, um… a bit of a big fan. Of the magazine. As a kid.” When a grin begins to break out across Pete’s face, Ben holds up both hands and protests, “Go easy on me! Think of the hair dye! You can’t expect me to bear mockery under-caffeinated; I won’t be able to take it. ”
Pete laughs and shakes his head, but he does, encouragingly, start pulling out various items that look as though they might, eventually, produce a cup of coffee. “Is that why you’re in here, then? To throw yourself on the mercy of whatever test cook arrived first in exchange for caffeine?”
“Oh,” Ben says, sitting up slightly straighter as he remembers.
“No, actually. I’m in here because—I had an idea.
You know how you said, the other night—” He pauses, noticing Pete’s sudden wild-eyed glance around the still-empty room, and, taking pity, changes course a little.
“Just… I was thinking about what you told me, and I thought—three Thanksgiving videos in a week is probably not the best for you, is it?”
Pete’s brow furrows, his expression flickering as though unsure where to land. Eventually, he says, “It… No, to be honest. It’s not.”
“Right, so,” Ben says, and shrugs. “I sort of thought—why don’t we just, you know.
Shoot it all today? We’ve got two Thanksgiving videos due this week, and one next week, so what if we just…
barrel through all of it? I know it’ll suck, but, plus side, then it’ll be over, and it’s like ripping the Band-Aid off, right?
And I figure maybe we can give some of the staff the extra food, a surprise Thanksgiving feast, and—uh.
” Ben pauses, clears his throat, aware that he’s probably been talking too long and also that Pete’s face hasn’t moved at all since he began.
“Anyway, if you hate it, we don’t have to. Obviously.”
“No, I,” Pete says, blinking. “It sounds great, but don’t you have to turn in the first video tomorrow? If we’re shooting all day, when will you… edit it?”
“Oh, whenever,” Ben says airily, waving a hand.
“Tonight, tomorrow during the day—it’ll be fine.
” In fact, Ben rather suspects it won’t be fine, that he’ll end up working into the wee hours and will, by tomorrow, regret ever having had the whole idea in the first place; he’s made his peace with that.
There is a little Post-it note already stuck to his pillow, in case of moments of weakness, which reads, STICK TO THE PLAN. You chose this!
Pete frowns. “You’re sure?”
Ben thinks of the long comment threads laughing at the antics and mishaps of Pete in what he now knows as the early stages of a panic attack, and swallows.
What’s a sleepless night or two, really?
It’s not like he’s going to be getting much sleep, anyway.
“Totally sure. Honestly, it’ll be easier for me, too—the sooner these are in the can, the sooner I can work on them, and that gives me more time to build up a buffer.
Less stress all around. Look, I even pulled together a rough run of show—I mean, technically runs of show, since it’s multiple videos, but we’re going to do it all as one big shoot, so who’s counting—and a shopping list. I figured we could send someone out while we’re shooting the early stuff, since everything for that should be around here already. ”