Chapter 12
Bennett
Going out to the car for their bags, Bennett pulled his jacket tighter around his torso. It was cold. That wet kind of cold that penetrated everything. He opened the trunk, noticing that another car had parked on the other
side of the street, a little ways down. Was that . . . Will and Jenn? He was about to jog over when he saw Will’s hands gesticulating.
He squinted, trying to make out what he was seeing. Ah. A fight.
Returning his attention to his own business, he yanked out the overnight bag he and Olivia were sharing. He’d give Will and
Jenn their privacy. Let them work it out. That was marriage. He could relate. His stuff with Olivia always came up right before
some big event, like Easter dinner with her parents, for example, which had been incredibly awkward, because then you had
to pretend everything was fine, and Olivia was very good at doing that, which always cast an uncomfortable seed of doubt for
Bennett. If she could pull off the gracious act so easily, how could Bennett really know when she was truly okay or just pretending?
Speaking of which, why had she chosen this moment, of all moments, to stop pretending and finally talk about five years ago?
He wasn’t angry. He’d had a long time to work through his anger. Just . . . on edge. The truth was, he hadn’t known for sure. He’d had good reason to think Olivia and Phelps had slept together. He’d processed it as if it was fact. But in the absence of a full confession from his
wife or friend, there was always the possibility that it wasn’t true. The death of that possibility did hurt, but it was cool—he’d
built an entire fortress around this problem. It was an arrow nicking the solid wood of the gate, that’s all.
He got it, why Olivia had sat on her secret. That’s how she was. Not a verbal processor. She was deep. Mysterious. It’s part
of what had drawn him to her, after all.
His friends? They were different. Balls to the walls. They wore their problems on their sleeves. Like when Phelps’s restaurant
deal went up in literal flames. Phelps had gone on a bender, and no one knew where he was for two days. Kylie, who he was
married to at the time, though not for much longer, called Bennett. Even though it was just two weeks before New Year’s and
they were going to see each other anyway, Bennett ended up driving to Michigan City. Will drove in too. They split a hotel
room at the Red Roof Inn that smelled like old cigarette smoke. When Phelps showed up the next day, nursing a hangover the
size of Indiana, he made no pretense about anything being fine.
Yes, the very thing that had drawn Bennett to Olivia in college during that art history course was her poise. Sure, there
was her timeless, Old Hollywood beauty—you couldn’t exactly miss that—but it was her composure, not her looks, that set her
a head and shoulders above all the other women Bennett had known. When she agreed to that first date, Bennett’s self-esteem
had soared. If he was capable of attracting a woman like that . . .
Now he wondered. Would it be better to trade poise for honesty? Even if it was uglier up front, even if they had to figure out how to fight productively and there were some hurts along the way, surely they’d be closer in the long run . . .
No. He couldn’t start thinking like that. He had made his choice five years ago to deal with Olivia’s cheating privately, honorably,
to not export all his shit onto anyone else. To stay in his marriage. And not just in body, but in spirit. His dad, according
to all appearances, had stayed with Bennett and his mom. But Jim Rhodes wasn’t really there. Wasn’t engaged, unless he was
dumping on them. Didn’t ever ask Bennett questions, just unloaded his political opinions and his anger and his bitterness.
Bennett had vowed he would never be like his dad. If Bennett was staying with Olivia, not only was he all in, but he was not
going to make her the dumping ground for his negative emotions. So during the Year from Hell, he’d worked through all of it
on his own.
The hardest thing was the possibility that Rosie wasn’t his. Based on the math, she could be Phelps’s or Bennett’s. During
the pregnancy, he thought he’d made his peace with never knowing, but then she was born and looked nothing like her sister,
Norah, and Bennett temporarily lost his mind and did a deep dive into his uncle’s carefully assembled ancestry records. If
he could just confirm she looked like someone from his side . . . Finding John Rutherford Rhodes, scowling out of that sepia-toned picture from the 1800s with his rifle
and his beard, looking like the original gangster, had felt like a tiny miracle. Not an assurance by any means—but a possibility.
A hope. Something to hang on to in the tempest of newborn life that followed.
The choice to keep everything to himself had been clear, in a way. Blow up his life and lose the two people he loved most,
Olivia and Phelps, and possibly also Norah and definitely Rosie. Or, take it like the man his father never was and forgive,
even if they never asked forgiveness. Be the family man he’d always wanted to be.
He’d gotten to the point where he could even look kindly on the betrayal.
Phelps’s restaurant had burned down two weeks before the party, Kylie had served him divorce papers, and even though Phelps still pulled himself together enough to host the party, he wasn’t his normal, cynically cheerful self.
He was in a bad place. Much like Olivia, who had gone through the miscarriage that year, and some kind of depressive episode, which Bennett connected not just to the pregnancy loss but to her loss of independence, since Norah was such a needy toddler.
Both Olivia and Phelps were weak going into that party.
Vulnerable. Could Bennett really destroy all their lives for a single mistake they’d made from a place of duress?
Bennett leaned against the open trunk and exhaled, nice and long.
It was his choice. He’d made it. He was secure in it. But . . . could he really walk into the party and not say anything?
Olivia had pried the lid off their nasty secret, and now it was out there, stinking things up. Undoubtedly, in the house right
now, she was telling Phelps that Bennett knew. She’d forced Bennett’s hand, and now Bennett would have to talk to Phelps,
man to man. Still, the party didn’t have to be ruined. He’d catch Phelps alone, Phelps would apologize, then Bennett would
tell him all had been forgiven years ago. Done and done. Bennett had put this whole sorry business to bed once before, and
he could put it to bed again.
“Bennett!” A car door slammed. Will had just exited his car and was crossing toward him, a backpack looped over his shoulder,
a big smile on his face.
They hugged.
“All good with Jenn?” said Bennett. He couldn’t help but notice that Jenn was still sitting in the car.
“Oh . . . yeah, she’s just taking a minute.” Will lowered his voice. “We had a fight literally as we pulled up. Obviously,
she doesn’t want to be here.”
“Olivia wasn’t thrilled about coming either,” admitted Bennett. “It’s hard to get away, you know? With the kids being so little. And she doesn’t like to use up favors with her parents.”
“Yeah,” said Will, but he looked disoriented, like he wasn’t tracking with Bennett, even though he had three kids of his own.
“Who’s watching your kids?” said Bennett. They were standing in the gravel that abutted Phelps’s front yard—no sidewalks out
here in the county. The sleet wasn’t strong, but the crosswind really made it sting. Did Will want to wait here until Jenn
exited the car?
“Jenn’s mom,” said Will.
“That’s great!” said Bennett. “The best kind of babysitting is free babysitting, am I right?”
“Yeah,” said Will, but his expression was unhappy.
Huh. Was everything okay with Will? Maybe his friends weren’t all as up-front and honest as Bennett had credited them a minute
ago. Then again, the night was young.
“You’re going to have to give me the full recap,” said Bennett, slapping Will on the back. “It’s been ages since we’ve talked.”
Had it been a year? Or—God—over a year? Life with small children, he thought. Seeing Will was making Bennett realize that, though he’d kept up with Phelps, the rest of them had drifted a
little. He missed the rock-solid feeling of knowing the ins and outs of everyone’s life.
“It has been a while,” said Will, finally moving toward the house.
“I was just remembering when you and I drove up here, when the restaurant thing went down,” said Bennett as they headed for
the front door, wanting to relish the unity of that moment. It had sucked for Phelps to lose Rock the Clock, of course. But
he and Will had been a true team.
“When was that? 2013?”
“2014,” said Bennett. “Right before the last party, remember?”
“Crazy times,” said Will.
The building had been torn down. There was a Louisiana Kitchen there now. Bennett had even guiltily stopped there once, for
their Cajun fries.
They’d all eaten at Rock the Clock. Phelps had even worked there as a server for a summer or two. It was their preferred high
school spot, and those old vinyl booths had witnessed many an angsty philosophical debate about things like the existence
of God or the ideal boob size—the last, more of a debate between Phelps and Doug, as Bennett begged them to be more enlightened.
He hated that it was gone.
“Well, at least that happened before we invested, right?” said Bennett, wanting to find some silver lining. “Can you imagine,
if we put all that money in, and then it had gone poof?”
Will didn’t respond right away.
“What?” said Bennett. They were on the front stoop, but Will didn’t put his hand to the doorknob.
“Actually . . . I gave Phelps the earnest money.”
“What?” said Bennett. “I thought the bank loan . . . Wait, what?”
“I guess Eddie wanted some cash in hand, and it was the quickest way.”
“So when it burned down, Phelps gave your money back,” prompted Bennett. He said it confidently. But he had a bad feeling
about this.
“Well . . . no.”
Bennett gaped. He couldn’t believe it. Or .
. . could he? An old memory pulled itself up from the depths.
Once upon a time, Bennett had lent Phelps two hundred bucks to help get Bunny’s engagement ring.
Phelps had sworn up and down he’d pay Bennett back within the month.
Bennett had never seen a penny of it. But that was water under the bridge.
“How much was it, Will?” he said, casually. They’d go inside in a second. After they finished this conversation.
“It doesn’t matter. It’s in the past.”
“But Phelps tried, right? He tried to get the money back?”
Will looked miserable.
Suddenly Bennett was remembering more about the two hundred dollars. It was back when Bennett wasn’t exactly swimming in cash
himself. He was in college. He was living as frugally as he could, trying to save, because his parents had nothing, and Bennett
knew big expenses were coming, namely student loan payments. He had wanted that money back, Phelps had promised to pay it
back, but month after month, no money showed up. At the time, those two hundred bucks had given him some tortured nights.
Ultimately, he’d decided it wasn’t worth bringing up. Not worth the cost to the friendship. But it hadn’t been as easy to
let go as he’d just told himself.
“How much?” he repeated.
Will forced an apologetic smile, like he couldn’t believe what he was about to say.
“Fifteen thousand dollars.”
The door swung open to Phelps’s smiling face.
Immediately, Will shot Bennett a look—so quick Bennett might have missed it if he wasn’t paying attention, but he read its
intensity perfectly. Don’t say a word to Phelps. Please.
Fine. He’d stay out of it.
“You guys just gonna stand there in the sleet?” said Phelps. “Hey, where’s Jenn?” His gaze moved behind them. “Still in the
car? She okay? Need any help with luggage? Hey, what’s the vibe here? What did I miss?” Phelps’s eyes swiveled from Will to
Bennett and from Bennett back to Will.
Bennett’s heart was pounding but he clapped Will on the back to urge him inside.
“Nothing, man,” said Bennett, stepping past his oldest friend, who had slept with his wife and stolen fifteen grand from Will.
“We’re good.”