I’ll Be Home for Ex-Mas #2
Amazing was too mundane a word. Francesca understood beauty, she knew art, and she was acutely qualified in her appreciation of both.
Watching Benji perform never failed to snatch the air from her lungs and make her ache in ways words couldn’t fully hold, humbling her and filling her with the same awe she felt when faced with any other precious, priceless piece of art, paintings by Caravaggio and sculptures carved by Bernini.
Benji was one of the greats and she hoped he knew it, hoped he understood now why she’d had to let him go, had to set him free.
“You should’ve said something.” He frowned. “I could have gotten you into the tent. Or said hi.”
She swallowed hard and shrugged, feeling like her shoulders were screwed in wrong. “I didn’t know if you’d want to see me.”
“Frankie.” Exasperation bled into his voice. “I’m not the one who—”
“Another round?”
Francesca hadn’t noticed the bartender approach. Benji looked at her.
“Sure. Another would be great,” she said, sliding her empty glass across the table.
Benji nodded. “Thanks.”
“So I guess your parents must still live in Park Falls.” Francesca waited until they were alone to speak. “Do you make it home often?”
“Not as often as they’d like. This was going to be my first Christmas home since… It’s been three years.”
“Same. My family’s been coming to London. Which has been nice. Don’t get me wrong. Christmas in London is… It’s gorgeous. But I was really looking forward to being home this year.”
To opening matching pajamas on Christmas Eve and driving around the neighborhood to see the lights before returning home to decorate gingerbread houses while A Christmas Story played on the television in the background.
She was sure she could still do most of that, but her first holiday home in years wasn’t exactly off to an auspicious start.
“Don’t lie.” Whether it was intentional or not, Benji’s foot nudged hers under the table. “We both know what you were really looking forward to was Mrs. Leibovitz’s Christmas Snow Salad.”
“Gah.” Francesca stuck out her tongue, pretending to gag. “Gross.” She laughed. “Don’t even joke.”
Maybe it made her a bad Midwesterner, but she’d never understood the logic, let alone the appeal, of a Jell-O salad.
Benji wasn’t laughing, instead staring softly at her.
“What?”
“Nothing. Just… your laugh,” he said. “I missed it.”
Francesca’s throat was tight and aching, her chest, too, her heart throbbing inside her breast. “Benji, I—”
“One hot buttered rum,” the bartender, who had, quite possibly, the worst timing, said, setting a fresh mug down in front of her. “And another Heineken. Cheers.”
He left and Francesca was about to open her mouth, to say what, she wasn’t entirely sure, when Benji spared her the trouble and said, “So tell me about London.”
She blew out a breath. “You’ve been to London. In fact, you’ve been all sorts of places I’ve never been before. You should tell me about being on a world tour. Hell, you’ve been on two world tours now. Tell me about that, Mr. Headliner.”
He snorted and reached for his beer. After a moment, when she didn’t speak, he lowered the bottle from his lips and wiped his mouth with his thumb.
“Oh, you’re—you’re serious. Okay, uh, let’s see. World tour… It involved a lot of buses. Hotels. Planes. More airports than you could imagine.”
Francesca rolled her eyes. “Better airports than Dane County Regional.”
“Eh, I don’t know,” he said, foot bumping hers beneath the table, and this time she knew it was on purpose. “I kind of think this one has its charm.”
“Charm?” She snorted. “Okay, let’s hear it. What exactly do you find charming about this place?”
As far as small, regional airports went, it wasn’t bad, but it was a small, regional airport. Enough said.
Benji shrugged, the dimple in his left cheek deepening when he smiled. “Might just be the company.”
Her face burned, and she knew she was blushing. He was an even more terrible flirt than she remembered. “You’ve played at Wembley! And Madison Square Garden. For Christ’s sake, Benji, you played at the Olympia. Come on.”
His smile didn’t quite fall as much as it flattened by small measures until he was left wearing a pensive frown.
“Yeah, it’s…” He paused like he was choosing his words carefully. “It’s been the stuff dreams are made of.”
She leaned back in the booth, her stomach a sudden jumble of knots. “But you’re happy, though. Right?”
“Most of the time,” he said quietly, and Francesca exhaled, unclenching her stomach.
Most of the time was better than none of the time. “I’m glad.”
“And you?” he asked. “Are you happy?”
“I’m—”
Francesca didn’t know what to say. Was she?
She stared at the table, at Benji’s hands resting atop it, the fingertips of his left hand calloused from years of fretting the strings of his guitar.
She knew that she had taken too long to reply already, but she couldn’t recall the last time anyone had asked her that question.
She was living her dream, doing what she’d always wanted, so everyone probably just assumed…
“Frankie?”
Benji was staring at her, gaze piercing, his eyes searching hers. He looked concerned.
“Most of the time,” she said, and they shared a smile.
“You’re really not going to tell me about London?” he prodded. “Come on. I want to hear about the Courtauld.”
“The program was great. I graduated in June, and I’ve been interning at the Tate for the last six months.”
As of last Monday, her internship was officially over, and her new job didn’t start until after the new year.
Benji grinned. “That’s awesome. You love the Tate.”
“I do.” And she loved that he remembered. Not that she should be surprised. She’d never kept her love of the museum to herself, and unlike a lot of people, Benji paid attention.
“You know, I actually went the day after the concert. We had a day off before we had to leave for Paris.”
“To the Tate?”
“Mm. I remembered you telling me about The Lament for Icarus. How it was your favorite. I wanted to see it.”
Feelings Francesca had tried to repress a long time ago stirred inside her chest. “That’s how you spent your free day in London? Going to see my favorite painting?”
“To be fair, I went to the Tower of London and Buckingham Palace too.”
“Good choices.”
“I do have a question.” He leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, and dropped his voice. “Spotted dick.”
Francesca laughed, glad she hadn’t taken a sip of buttered rum because she’d have likely choked. “I’m no expert, but I’d say you should probably talk to your doctor.”
Benji groaned out a laugh and hung his head. “I walked right into that one, didn’t I?”
“You really did.” She grinned. “It’s pudding, by the way. Steamed, with raisins. Don’t ask me how it got its name. I didn’t ask.”
“Heeey.” The bartender sidled up to the table and set down both her check and Benji’s, looking almost sheepish.
“So, no rush, but I wanted to tell you we’re going to be closing soon.
We’re normally open until eleven or the last flight leaves, but we thought we’d stay open a little later given the circumstances. ”
She followed his gaze as it flitted to the clock on the wall showing it was nearly quarter till.
“Oh my gosh.” She dug inside the front pocket of her bag, searching for her wallet. “It’s Christmas Eve. You probably want to get home.”
“Hey, don’t worry about it. I’ve got it.” Benji tossed a stack of bills down on the table. “You can keep the change.”
The bartender stared at Benji, gobsmacked. “You sure, man? That’s, like, really generous.”
Benji ducked his head, fingers fiddling with the strings of his hoodie. The slightest flush dusted the bridge of his nose and spread across his cheeks. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
“Thanks.” The bartender swept the cash off the table. “Happy holidays, you two. Safe travels.”
“You didn’t have to pay for me,” she said, reaching for her drink. “But thank you. That was really nice of—” She yawned into her palm. “Oh, geez. Sorry.”
Benji smiled and slid from the booth. “Tired?”
“Jet lag.” She grabbed her bag. “Finally catching up to me, I guess.”
“It’s… what, coming up on six in London?”
“Something like that.”
“You think this airport has a hotel?”
“Fingers crossed?”
The gate area was practically deserted. There was a woman clicking away on a laptop that was plugged into the wall, someone else stretched out across a whole row of seats, beanie pulled down over their head, and three girls who looked like sisters huddled together on the floor playing cards.
Francesca approached the smiling gate agent standing behind the service counter. “Hi. We were both supposed to be on the flight leaving from this gate. UA—
“Eight thirty-one,” the gate agent, who looked to be around her mom’s age, said. “Your new flight is still on schedule. Weather permitting.”
“Small favors.” Francesca smiled wearily. “Is there a hotel nearby or…?”
Heather, her name tag read, winced. “There is, but unfortunately they’re all booked up for the night. The rooms got snatched up real quick.”
Francesca swallowed a groan. Of course they did. “Okay, I guess we’ll just—”
“The airport installed a few of those new napcabs earlier this year. I can’t make any promises, but there might still be one or two vacant.”
“Napcabs?” Benji asked, his shoulder brushing hers.
“You know, a sleeping pod? It’s no hotel suite, but you can lie down and get a little shuteye. Just make sure to set an alarm,” Heather cautioned. “Don’t want to miss your flight.”
Francesca didn’t even want to think about how awful that would be. “And these nap cabins are—”
“Napcabs. They’re down the hall at the end of the terminal.” Heather pointed. “Big white boxes that look like—well, to be honest, they look a little like a cross between a porta potty and a giant vending machine.” She laughed. “You won’t be able to miss ’em.”
Francesca turned to Benji and shrugged. “I guess we should probably check out the napcabs, then.”
“Couldn’t hurt,” he agreed.