Chapter 3 #3
Ben looked past him toward the windows, where the vineyard had disappeared into darkness and only the faint reflection of the restaurant remained: candles, wineglasses, Mark across from him with one hand still resting near his phone.
There had been a time when that question had made Ben defensive, mostly because he hadn’t yet trusted his own answer.
Leaving tech had looked, from the outside, like a reaction.
People assumed burnout was a collapse, when in his case it had been quieter than that.
He’d simply woken up one day inside the life he had built and realized he could not feel the edges of himself anymore.
“I miss parts of it,” he said.
Mark nodded, waiting.
“I liked building things. I liked solving problems with smart people. I liked the early years, before everyone had lawyers on the email threads and every decision required twelve meetings.”
“You were good at it.”
“So were you.”
“I still am.”
Ben smiled. “You are.”
Mark seemed pleased by that, though he tried not to show it. That was another old thing between them, the way Mark could receive praise only if it arrived casually enough to pretend he hadn’t needed it.
“I just build different things now,” Ben said.
For once, Mark didn’t immediately answer. His phone buzzed again, and this time he glanced down, read whatever had appeared on the screen, and turned the device over without responding.
“That sounds peaceful,” he said finally.
“Sometimes.”
“And sometimes?”
“Sometimes clients want deer-resistant gardens with flowers deer enjoy eating.”
Mark laughed. “So people are still people.”
“Unfortunately.”
The entrees arrived, and conversation moved with them.
Mark talked about expansion into Asia, about Melanie wanting him home more, about his son refusing all driving advice from anyone with a valid license.
Ben listened, asking enough questions to let Mark know he meant it.
He knew Mark loved the work. He also knew love did not prevent exhaustion.
People loved marriages and jobs and homes and still needed somewhere to put down the weight of them.
Halfway through his salmon, Mark set down his fork and smiled at him.
“You know what’s annoying? You don’t seem like you’re trying to convince me.”
“Of what?”
“That you’re happy.”
Ben considered that.
“Would it help?”
“No.” Mark laughed softly. “That’s the irritating part.”
Ben smiled and reached for his wine.
“I am happy,” he said, and the simplicity of saying it still surprised him sometimes, not because happiness itself was constant but because he no longer felt compelled to translate it into terms other people understood.
Mark sat with that a moment. “I think I’m jealous of the certainty.”
“You’re not uncertain.”
“No, I’m busy. Different camouflage.”
That made Ben laugh because it sounded like something Mark would say after two glasses of wine and then deny later if quoted.
Still, there was truth in it. Mark had always been brightest in motion, and maybe some people needed motion the way others needed quiet.
Ben had spent years thinking one of them must be wrong.
Age had made him less interested in verdicts.
“You love what you do,” Ben said.
“I do.”
“Melanie loves you, despite the hours.”
“She does.”
“Your kids still speak to you voluntarily.”
“Mostly when they need money.”
“That counts.”
Mark smiled, looking down into his glass. “So what, you’re saying I shouldn’t run away and become a florist?”
“I’m saying you’d be terrible with flowers.”
“I would.”
“You hate delicate things.”
“I do.”
“And mornings.”
“Also true.”
“So maybe don’t.”
Mark laughed, and the moment eased back into ordinary friendship.
Dessert came eventually, because Mark had insisted no international crisis should prevent the consumption of chocolate cake, and by then the restaurant had thinned out around them.
A few tables remained occupied, their conversations low and blurred by wine and good lighting.
Mark took one more call, shorter this time, standing near the front window with his back partly turned, one hand in his pocket, head bowed in concentration.
Ben watched him and felt no judgment. Only recognition.
He knew that posture. He had lived inside it for years.
When Mark returned, he looked apologetic again.
“Don’t,” Ben said.
Mark sat. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was.”
“I know.”
Mark smiled. “God, you’re calm now.”
Ben laughed. “You make it sound medical.”
“It might be.”
“Talk to your doctor if symptoms persist.”
“That’s exactly what I mean. You used to be intense.”
“I used to be tired.”
Mark’s smile faded a little, not from offense but because the sentence had landed somewhere real. He nodded, picked up his fork, and took a bite of cake.
After a while, he said, “What about women?”
Ben looked at him over his coffee. “That was graceful.”
“I waited until dessert.”
“You’re very restrained.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
“And?”
Ben smiled. “Nothing serious.”
“No one?”
“There’s a project.”
Mark’s expression changed immediately, but he was smart enough not to pounce.
“A project,” he said.
“A yoga studio.”
“With people in it, presumably.”
“Usually.”
“And one of these people?”
Ben looked down at his coffee, amused despite himself.
Rachel had not been on his mind all through dinner, exactly, but she had surfaced once or twice in the quieter spaces, not as a possibility so much as a recent fact he hadn’t finished examining: a woman in sage leggings handing him coffee, talking about places for people to sit after difficult classes, smiling when she admitted she had spent years trying not to inconvenience anyone.
“She’s one of the owners,” he said.
Mark waited.
Ben laughed. “That’s all.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re waiting seems very loud.”
“I’ve been married twenty years. Aggressive silence is one of my remaining skills.”
Ben smiled, and Mark let it go, which was one of the reasons Ben had kept him in his life all these years. For all his ambition and distraction, Mark knew when to stop pressing.
They parted outside under the restaurant’s warm porch lights. The night had cooled, and Mark was already checking his phone as the valet brought his car around, but before getting in, he tucked the device away and looked at Ben properly.
“I’m happy for you,” he said.
Ben nodded. “I know.”
“No, I mean it. I think I spent a long time waiting for you to come back.”
“So did I.”
Mark smiled. “And now?”
Ben looked past him toward the dark vineyard, where rows of vines disappeared into shadow.
“Now I think I’m good.”
Mark accepted that with a nod, hugged him once, and climbed into the car.
At home, the house was quiet in the ordinary way it was quiet most nights.
The neighbor’s cat was already waiting on the back patio when Ben got home, sitting beside the basil pot in the expectant way she’d adopted eighteen months earlier when she’d decided, without consulting anyone, that he belonged to her.
Ben fed her, watered the herbs, and stood for a while with the back door open, letting the cool air move through the kitchen.
He poured himself a glass of wine, and his mind moved back through the evening: Mark’s phones on the table, the photographs of children, the easy old laughter, the question he no longer minded answering.
Then, without much ceremony, he thought of Rachel. He simply remembered her in the courtyard, holding a mug of mint tea and saying she had spent a lot of years trying not to inconvenience anyone, then moving on almost immediately as though she hadn’t said anything worth noticing.
The cat pressed against his ankle with proprietary force.
Ben looked down at her.
“You’re very demanding,” he said.
She blinked without apology.
He smiled and reached to refill his glass.