Chapter 8
Liz, February 25
Today was a shitty, boring day. The school district I work for requires quarterly writing assessments to prove my students are learning. Which really just means I sat at the back of my classroom all day, watching thirty teenagers stress over essays they didn’t care about. Riveting stuff.
By the time I got home, I was exhausted and bored. It was a relief to kick off my shoes and text Ben.
Liz: I’m home. Call if you can.
Ben: No privacy right now, text instead?
Ben’s two flatmates are noisy and rather rude. Once, I called and one of them asked me what bra size I wore. He refused to give the phone back until I answered. I hung up. To be fair, he was drunk—but still, uncomfortable doesn’t even cover it.
Ben: So how was the day?
Liz: Same shit, different day.
Ben: I hear you.
Liz: How about you?
Ben: I caught part of a race after work, actually. That was pretty neat.
Liz: Like an official race or some guys drag racing up the road?
Ben’s a racing nut. He’s gotten in trouble (with me) for drag racing once or twice. Absolute worst habit.
Ben: Hahaha, official. Although you just made the coolest part of my day seem a bit less cool.
Liz: Official, planned races are less cool than dangerous, unlawful ones?
Ben: Yes. Have I taught you nothing?
Liz: Hahaha
I flip channels while I wait for Ben to start a new topic. See, I’m content with silence. Ben knows by now that if small talk’s going to happen, it’s on him. Most people would let the lull stretch until we both gave up and went to bed.
Ben: I forgot to tell you what happened to Zach.
Zach’s one of Ben’s flatmates. He drinks too much, he’s goofy, he’s a slut, and he has absolutely no filter. Once, I compared him to the dirty version of the roommate from Notting Hill and made Ben laugh so hard he couldn’t breathe.
Liz: What did he do now?
Ben: He realized yesterday the woman he’s been seeing, from Bristol, is actually the sister of a woman he was with months ago.
Liz: Seriously? How did that come up?
Ben: He went to pick her up at her flat and the sister was there!
Liz: What did he do?
Ben: Played dumb and got punched.
Liz: By which girl?
Ben: The sister. Bloody hilarious.
I chuckle, picturing Ben trying to hold back laughter while Zach nursed a black eye. A chill runs through the room and I grab a blanket for my legs. It’s late for Ben now, the hour when he’ll take the conversation somewhere dirtier—if he’s going to. Midnight Ben is different from midday Ben. Midnight Ben has needs.
And I feel the familiar tingle, remembering last night.
Ben: Send me a picture.
Ugh. I don’t want to get up.
Liz: Why? I’m in my pajamas.
Ben: Babe, it’s late. I want to see you. Send me a picture.
Liz: Not tonight. Can we just say I’ll owe you one?
Can’t we just play with words instead?
Ben: Fine. I’m going to bed. Good night.
Liz: Good night.
Apparently not.
??Just as I set my phone down, it buzzes again.
Matt: Don’t forget, game’s at 7 tomorrow. Bring your A game.
I stare at the message for a second, thumb hovering. I don’t reply. Not because I’m annoyed—just because… it doesn’t matter. Hockey Matt belongs to hockey. He pops up when there’s ice involved, and then he disappears again.
I toss my phone onto the couch cushion beside me. Ben, on the other hand, is everywhere. In my head, in my evenings, in the way I measure out my energy. He wants pictures, wants me—even from across an ocean. And I’m the one sitting here second-guessing myself.
I am not in the mood to play games tonight. Ben likes pictures and I’m not sure I can blame him. He likes to be able to see who he’s talking to. But I hate taking them, and on nights like this I dig in my heels. It’s one of the few places we clash.
As I turn up the TV, guilt creeps in. I could’ve just sent one. It would’ve taken five seconds. Maybe I made a bigger deal out of it than I should have.
But then I remind myself—why am I guilty? This isn’t a relationship. It never has been. Ben is my friend. He’ll understand.
I scold myself for worrying and doze off in front of the TV. Around midnight I drag myself to bed, plugging in my phone without a second thought.
Only when I settle into the sheets does my brain betray me. I’m actively trying not to imagine Ben on the pillow beside me, shirtless, his laugh still echoing in my ears.
It almost works.