Forty-One Ben
forty-one
Ben
Benny!” Ben’s mom smiled as he stepped out of the car to help get his parents’ suitcases in the trunk.
He eyed the traffic monitor warily—he’d circled the passenger pickup at KCI twice, and both times he’d seen folks in orange vests whistling at people to keep things moving—but decided to risk it and gave his mom a hug.
“Hi, Mom,” he said, inhaling her scent. Wisteria from her perfume, grape blossom from the vineyard. “I missed you.”
His mom’s eyes crinkled as she smiled at him. Her tan had deepened with the summer, and there might’ve been more silver in her hair, but her smile was warm as always.
“I missed you, too.” She gave him one more squeeze and stepped back so Ben could hug his father.
“Hi, Dad.” Ben folded his dad into a hug, careful not to bump their glasses against each other.
Ben got two things from his dad: his oval face and his bad vision.
Sean released him but kept his hands on Ben’s shoulders, looking him over with the same intensity he gave a wine tasting. He smiled, showing that one crooked front tooth that he’d spent his entire life refusing to get fixed. It gave him a mischievous look, which is probably why he kept it.
“It’s good to see you, son.”
He patted Ben’s cheek once and moved to grab their suitcases, but Ben stopped them.
“You two get in. I’ve got it.”
Once they were loaded up and on the road—without any whistling or shouting from the traffic monitors—his dad said, “That was so easy.”
Ben laughed. “Yeah, it’s a lot less busy here than at SFO.”
As they drove south, his parents filled him in on what Nate and Alex were up to, and Ben pointed out the occasional landmark, though there weren’t that many north of the river. As they neared downtown, he could point out more.
“See those four pylons?” Ben gestured toward the tall, spindly structures with art deco sculptures on top. “That’s the convention center, where the ball is. And the silver humps you can kind of see? That’s the Kauffman Center, where we play.”
As they got closer to home, Ben pointed out more mundane sights, but no less precious: Loose Park, Simon’s vet, his favorite grocery store. Finally they pulled in.
“Oh, Benny,” his mom said. “It’s darling.”
Ben liked his house, but he hadn’t seen it through his mom’s eyes.
It was darling, though. It was his.
It was home.
“Brace yourselves,” Ben warned before opening the door.
Simon came bounding over to meet her new humans.
“This is Simon.”
“Hello, Simon,” Sean said, popping an Asian squat to let Simon lick all over his face as he covered her with pets. “My favorite grandchild.”
Ben laughed and scooted by with the suitcases, getting the shit beaten out of his shins by Simon’s overactive tail.
Ben got his parents settled, Simon exhausted herself running back and forth between Sean and Judy for pets, and then they headed out for dinner.
Ben took them for Vietnamese, since everyone in his family had a weakness for ph? that bordered on the obscene.
As in, his parents made noises as they ate that Ben never wanted to hear in his life.
“Do you think I can ask for scissors?” Sean asked.
“Dad!” Ben’s dad had never stood much for the whole slurping-your-noodles thing. Back home, he trimmed them with scissors as they ate. “You can’t just ask for scissors. You have to do as the locals do.”
And there were a lot of locals. The restaurant had been packed every single time Ben had been there, and he’d come a lot. He’d even seen the mayor there once, during the lunch rush.
Still, none of them used scissors. Some twirled, some slurped, a few people used forks if they couldn’t rely on chopsticks for whatever reason. But no one used scissors.
“Fine,” Sean huffed. “Anyone going to use that jalapeno?”
Before he could grab it, Judy stole it and dropped it into her bowl. “Me.”
Ben couldn’t help the smile that stole over his face.
He’d missed his parents. More than he thought he would. He’d lived far away from them before, like when he was at the Detroit Symphony, but he’d been in his twenties and desperate to get away.
Now he wished he could see them every day (well, every week, maybe), catch up over dinner, give and get some hugs. But he loved it here in Kansas City.
Like Justin had observed (fuck Justin, but he was right about something): Kansas City was pretty amazing.
“You seem so happy here.” Sean studied Ben, noodles halfway to his mouth. “Settled.”
“I am.”
“It’s good to see.” He leaned in. “Now, when do we get to see Arya? I thought maybe he’d come to dinner with us.”
Ben’s blood turned to ice.
Shit.
He’d been so stressed about the ball, so depressed about the breakup, he hadn’t actually told his parents.
“He’s at work,” Ben said cheerily. “You’ll see him later.”
Shit.
Shit shit shit!
What was wrong with him that he lied to his parents rather than give them an honest, uncomfortable truth? He’d lied when he started dating Arya, and he was lying again now that it was over.
And shit. He’d lied to them, said he broke things off with Justin because of compatibility, rather than tell them that Justin wanted an open relationship.
What was it about him that made him avoid just… talking to people about things?
Oh… oh fuck.
Arya had called him out on that, hadn’t he? That Ben would do anything to avoid an uncomfortable conversation. Even if it hurt him more in the long run. And hurt Arya, too.
A cacophony of shame and guilt and regret crashed in his rib cage, resonating all the way down to his toes.
His parents loved him. He knew that they loved him.
They’d supported him when he came out. They’d supported him when he wanted to study music instead of enology.
They’d given him every safety net he needed, as much space as he wanted.
They loved him, and they deserved the truth from him, so why couldn’t Ben just give it?
Well, he was going to. Starting now.
“Actually,” he said, twirling his noodles.
Okay, starting after one more bite. He slurped up the rice noodles, spooned in a bit of the broth—seriously, he’d never had such good ph? in his life—but then he set his chopsticks and spoon down.
“I need to tell you something.”
Ben’s parents stared at him, his dad still with noodles dangling from his mouth.
Ben wanted to laugh, wanted to put this off, even if only for another second, but he had to do it.
“We broke up.”
Telling his parents the whole story was beyond embarrassing.
Not only for having to fill in details he’d omitted for months, like the reason he and Justin broke up, or, for that matter, Justin borderline stalking him since coming to Kansas City—but also for having to admit to all the mistakes he’d made with Arya.
Ben had never thought of himself as a bad guy, but he’d treated Arya pretty badly at the end, hadn’t he?
“Oh, Benny,” his mom said, reaching across the table. Her hands were cold and clammy from where she’d been gripping her iced coffee, but Ben took them anyway. “I’m so sorry.”
“Sorry? For what?”
“For not knowing.”
Ben shook his head. “I didn’t tell you.”
“We should’ve pushed. You’ve always been like a clam.
All your life. You keep everything inside.
Tell people what they want to hear. You remember your dad and I had to do a whole song and dance about how we weren’t sure we could afford to send all three of you to enology school, just to get you to admit you wanted to apply to music school instead? ”
“You did what?”
Ben remembered that well. Overhearing his parents worrying is what had convinced him to finally tell them he wanted to study music performance.
Ben’s dad laughed. “Son. Did you really think music school was less expensive than enology?”
“I…”
Shit.
“We had to coax what you really wanted out of you. It’s like you were afraid we’d be disappointed or something.
But, Benny, we only want you to be happy.
” Judy sighed. “Maybe that’s why I pushed you getting back with Justin so hard.
I thought he made you happy and you were just being stubborn.
I didn’t know how badly he hurt you. You didn’t tell us. ”
Ben scratched the back of his head.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “You deserved the truth.”
“Let’s make a deal,” his dad said. “You tell us the truth from now on. And we won’t trick you into letting us support you. All right?”
Ben let out a hoarse laugh. All the hot soup was making his throat goopy. And it was definitely the soup making his eyes water. Not wanting to cry.
“All right.”
“Now,” his mom said. “About Arya…”
Ben shook his head. “It’s over, Mom. I… I said some things I really shouldn’t have. I really hurt him.”
Guilt knotted in Ben’s stomach.
“Everyone fights,” Sean said. “It’s what you do after that counts. Do you love him?”
Did Ben love him?
He’d been so scared of even thinking it. Too worried that Arya would bolt the second things got too intense.
Arya had said he was new at being someone’s boyfriend. But Ben was the one who’d gone and acted like he’d never been with someone before. Like he didn’t know how to communicate or compromise or offer grace.
And Ben wanted to give that grace. He wanted a do-over.
He wanted Arya back.
Shit.
He did love Arya.
He bit his lip and nodded.
No, that wasn’t right. He had to say it aloud, didn’t he?
“I do love him,” he muttered.
“Well, if he’s the one, then you have to get him back.”
“I don’t know how.” Ben ran a hand through his hair and blew out a breath. “What if he doesn’t want me back?”
“Your dad and I have hurt each other before,” his mom said, looking toward Sean and taking his hand. “And the first step is always apologizing. After that, you’ll have to trust your heart.”
It was raining the day of the Philharmonic Ball.
Not just rain—a full-on thunderstorm.
Thankfully they were all tucked cozily inside the Grand Ballroom, with the rain lashing the windows, the lightning flashing across the southern sky, thunder rolling across the roof.
The stage was set for the Philharmonic to play.
Dinner was finished, hundreds of dirty dishes piled high in the service corridor behind the ballroom.
People milled about, getting drunk at the open bar, but not too drunk: Justin was around somewhere, making sure folks got the right level of buzz to donate a bunch of money to the Philharmonic, but not so inebriated they threw up, died, or, worst of all, suggested three-ways with their ex.
“It’s almost time,” Maurizio said. They were dressed to the nines, in a tuxedo shirt and jacket, but with a sparkling black skirt instead of the pants.
Ben nodded, tugging on his own shirtsleeves. He was in the nicest concert suit he owned—a Hugo Boss that always made him feel sharp and powerful—but tonight all he felt was itchy.
The two of them were tucked into the little vestibule separating the service corridor from the ballroom, spying on the crowd.
A blast of hot air from the service corridor accompanied Carley into the vestibule. She wore a stunning silver dress that made her look like some sort of moon goddess, a headset over one ear. She’d stepped up after Arya had left, and everything was going perfectly.
Everything except that Arya wasn’t here. And Ben wished he were.
Ben wanted to ditch the whole shebang, run through the rain to Arya’s apartment like they had that night so long ago. Or just show up at Aspire and find Arya was already there, a glass of wine in hand, a smile on his face when he saw Ben walk in.
Shit. He needed to focus.
He did love Arya, and he did want to apologize to him. Tell him he loved him. Ask if they could try again, promise to be patient this time, promise to be a better communicator.
But he needed to get through this ball first.
His stomach had twisted itself in knots again, and he didn’t even know why he was so nervous.
All they had left was the concert. Mahler wasn’t that complicated, even with the blaster bang (beam, damn, Carley had gotten it stuck in his head now, too).
After that, the DJ would take over so all their drunk donors could dance the night away.
“Copy that,” Carley said into her headset. She turned toward Ben, her curly hair bouncing against her shoulders. “It’s go time.”
There was nothing quite like playing music live.
Even though the acoustics in the ballroom were heinous (a far cry from the perfection of Helzberg Hall), and the occasional roll of thunder provided counterpoint to their performance, it was still invigorating.
Ben’s music lived inside him as he played.
Martina’s harebrained blaster beam scheme worked perfectly. The audience oohed and applauded every time it reverberated through the room, a bass note so profound Ben felt it in his taint.
Ben caught his parents at their table house right, smiling and applauding and trying to take photos of him. Ben laughed and smiled at them, but not too obviously. He was a classical cellist, not some rock guitarist. But no one could fault him a little wink.
They came to the last song—a selection from Ravel’s Boléro—and Ben lost himself in performing, in relief that the night was nearly over, that he was where he belonged.
Martina dropped her hands as the last notes rang out. The audience broke into applause. She turned back to the musicians, gesturing for them to rise and bow, as the house lights came up. Ben stared out into the house, taking in the whole crowd for the first time that night.
He smiled at his parents in their VIP seats, spotted the Holbrooks toward the center and gave a little wave, but then he froze.
A flash of a smooth brown head, reflecting the warm lights, caught him. It couldn’t be.
But he blinked, and it was. He stood there, in the last row house left, next to an older woman with blond hair. The last man he ever expected to see.
The one he most wanted to.
Arya.