Chapter 11
eleven
BEN
I’ve been staring at this trash like it’s going to offer me absolution.
It won’t.
Because I know the soiled jeans are still there, crumpled at the bottom, even as my brain keeps replaying the incident—her body on my lap, the soft warmth of her pressing against me, the involuntary shift of my hips, the shudder, the wetness spreading like proof of my dysfunction.
But she hadn’t been disgusted.
That’s the part I can’t stop looping. She’d gone still when it happened—I felt the exact second she realized, but she hadn’t scrambled off me like I was radioactive. She hadn’t laughed. Instead, she’d tried to be kind, telling me it was OK.
And I told her to leave.
God, I’m such an idiot.
Ninety seconds was all it took. Ninety seconds of her straddling me, of her hands guiding mine to her waist, of her pressing against me in a way that made my entire system short-circuit, and my body just… betrayed me in the most spectacular way possible.
It’s the same pattern, just a new variation on the theme.
Ben Kellerman: Error 404. Manhood Not Found.
It’s the same lesson the universe has been trying to teach me since high school: every time I try to be myself, I get punished. Every time I try to fit in, I feel like a fraud. And every time I try to get close to someone, I short-circuit before I can connect.
And now this…
What rational person would stick around? Fake relationship or not?
And worse, we were already seen together at O’Neil’s. Nash saw me touch her, Stiles gave me a thumbs-up, and Rook practically threw a parade. When she runs—and she will run, because why wouldn’t she?—the mocking will be unrelenting.
I can already hear Nash’s voice in my head, the inevitable performance: “Remember when Kell had a girlfriend for like three days?”
The thought makes my stomach twist.
Desperate for a distraction, I absentmindedly reach for my phone on the desk, then stop. The screen is dark, but I’ve heard it buzzing with messages since Cass left. It’s probably the hockey group chat, but there’s also a chance she’s texted me, and I’m not ready for that.
So instead, I cross to my workbench and pick up the cassette deck, the Marantz I’d shown her before everything imploded. It’s a straightforward fix—disassemble, clean, re-lubricate, reassemble—and right now I need a problem with a solution, a task with steps I can control.
I turn on the work light, pull it close, and get started.
I remove the outer casing, exposing the deck’s guts—the tangle of gears and belts and motors that make the magic happen. The capstan motor sits at the center, small and cylindrical, and I extract it with needle-nose pliers and set it on a clean rag.
Then I start the ritual.
Q-tips and isopropyl alcohol. I dip the cotton swab into the clear liquid and begin removing the old grease. I work slowly, because one slip—one moment of carelessness—and I could turn a fixable piece of gear into worthless garbage.
But I’m also in no hurry, because finishing means dealing with all that.
My mind stays mercifully blank. There’s no room for shame or fear or the memory of her body on mine. Just the motor, the Q-tip, the patient work of restoration, and the regret that people don’t come with service manuals I can order off eBay for $4.99.
It takes hours, but somewhere around three in the morning, the motor spins freely. I test it with my finger—smooth, no resistance, like it’s floating on air—and then start reassembly. Each screw tightens in sequence, each component slots into place, chaos transforms into order.
When I’m done, dawn is bleeding through my window, the pale light harsh and unforgiving. I lean back, my neck screaming in protest, my hands reeking of alcohol and old grease. I know I should check my phone or start to clean up the mess with Cass, but I can’t face it, or her.
So I fold my arms on the desk, rest my head on them, and sleep.
My phone buzzes, dragging me back to consciousness.
My neck feels like someone used it for batting practice, because it turns out sleeping slumped over my workbench isn’t recommended by medical professionals. By now, morning light is pouring through my window, the cassette deck sitting in front of me like a witness to my all-night spiral.
As I sit up slowly, my phone buzzes again.
My stomach twists.
But before I look, I need to know if the work was worth it and if I can actually fix things, even if those things are decades-old electronics and not my catastrophically broken life. So I stand and cross to the shelf where I keep my tapes.
Most of them are compilations my mom made from her vinyl collection, her careful handwriting on the labels in faded blue ink. Jazz. Louis Armstrong, Ella Fitzgerald, Duke Ellington. They’re the soundtrack to quiet Saturday afternoons when it was just the two of us and the world felt safe.
I grab the Louis Armstrong tape and slide it into the deck.
My thumb hovers over the play button.
Please, God, just let this one thing work.
I press it.
The motor engages with a smooth, quiet hum. The tape spins, the reels turning in perfect synchronization, and after a heartbeat of static, Louis Armstrong’s gravelly voice fills the room, warm and clear and achingly familiar. There’s no grinding or seizing, just music, the way it’s meant to be.
The repair is flawless.
The satisfaction should be profound. Instead, it’s hollow.
Because fixing a cassette deck doesn’t fix me.
With a sigh, I turn off the tape and pick up my phone. Unlocking it, I find approximately a million messages in the hockey group chat, a missed call from my mom, some emails and calendar reminders, and three new text messages from her.
She texted first.
Reading them knocks the air out of my lungs, because none of them are a polite “this isn’t working out” message. Instead, she’s checking in. My mind screams that this is a trap, that she’s just being nice, but I unlock the phone anyway, my heart hammering, and read.
Cass:
You awake?
We should probably talk about last night.
Ben… Please…
I stare at the messages, reading them over and over like they’re in a foreign language I’m struggling to translate. But she deserves a response, so my fingers hover over the keyboard, and I type and delete three different responses before settling on something pathetically simple.
Ben:
Yeah. I’m awake. Sorry.
Her response comes almost immediately.
Cass:
For what?
My chest tightens. She’s going to make me spell it out.
Ben:
Last night. For asking you to leave. For… everything.
Cass:
Stop.
You have nothing to apologize for.
I pushed too hard, too fast. You weren’t ready. That’s on me, not you.
I blink at the screen, my brain refusing to process the words. Something loosens in my chest—a knot I didn’t realize I’d been holding.
Ben:
You didn’t.
Cass:
What happened is just biology. You’re a twenty-year-old guy. A hot girl was grinding on your lap. Your body did what bodies do.
A hot girl.
She thinks she’s hot. Or she knows I think she’s hot. Either way, the casual confidence in the statement—the way she just drops it into the conversation like it’s objective fact—makes my face burn so hot I’m surprised my phone doesn’t melt.
Ben:
I kicked you out. That was shitty.
Cass:
You were mortified. There’s a difference.
One’s an asshole move. The other’s just human.
I exhale slowly, reading the words again. She’s giving me a pass I’m not sure I deserve.
Ben:
I thought you’d want to cancel everything. The arrangement.
There’s a longer pause. I watch the three typing dots appear, disappear, then appear again. Each second stretches like taffy. Finally, she replies.
Cass:
Because you came too fast?
The bluntness of it makes me want to throw my phone across the room and never emerge from under my bed.
Cass:
Ben, I’ve had guys finish before I even got my bra off.
We’re fine. The arrangement continues. Unless YOU want out.
Relief floods through me so fast it almost hurts.
Ben:
No. God, no. I don’t want out. I don’t want to explain to the guys that my (fake) girlfriend dumped me after a week…
Cass:
Then we’re good.
I stare at my phone, my chest tight with a confusing mix of relief and disbelief. She’s not running. She’s not disgusted. She’s… normalizing it. Making it feel less like a catastrophic failure and more like an awkward moment between two people figuring things out.
We’re good.
The conversation shifts. I can feel the tension easing.
Cass:
So what are you doing right now?
Ben:
Just woke up. Fell asleep fixing that cassette deck I showed you.
Cass:
Wait, you actually worked on that thing all night?
Ben:
Yeah. I needed to think. It works perfectly now.
Cass:
The five-dollar miracle lives.
I stop typing, stunned, because most people don’t care. She remembered what I paid for it.
Ben:
I mean, it wasn’t that hard. Just had to clean out the old grease and re-lubricate the motor. Anyone could do it if they took the time to learn.
Cass:
“Wasn’t that hard” says the guy who just spent all night hunched over a workbench with Q-tips. You’re allowed to be proud of your work, Ben.
The casual validation makes my throat tight.
Ben:
I guess. It’s just what I do. It helps me clear my mind.
Cass:
Yeah, I know that feeling. Like when I play… well, except when people tell me my amp is a piece of shit…
A spark of protective anger flares in my chest. Her amp isn’t shit. It’s got character.
Ben:
It’s not. You can fix the amp without losing your sound.
Cass:
THANK YOU! I want to punch them because they don’t hear the warmth and the character it gives the music.
You really think it can be fixed?
There’s something vulnerable in the question—something that makes me want to fix more than just her amp.
Ben:
Yeah. I do.
I hit send, hoping it’s an exchange about more than just the amp.