Chapter 15
The sky is dark when we emerge from the T stop at North Station. The cool air bites at my cheeks as we walk toward our building, and it feels so good I barely notice that muscle memory kicks in when we reach our neighborhood. I know to turn left at the same time Ben does.
The smell of car exhaust fades under the aroma of garlic and cheese as we pass a pizzeria with its door open.
The din from its small dining room spills out to the road, mingling with the sound of a church bell somewhere nearby.
Just ahead, a bakery on the corner has all of its lights on, bright white and shining like a beacon.
The streetlamps come on a moment later, sending a muted glow across the cracked pavement, and I steal a glance up at Ben’s profile. Even with the stubble, which at this point probably constitutes a beard, I can see the sharp angle of his jaw, how it’s at odds with the softness of his mouth.
He has a girlfriend, a small voice in the back of my head reminds me.
I quickly turn away. I haven’t thought about Lauren since we left the museum, but the moment I remember, I can’t think of anything else.
Guilt gnaws at my belly, not just because I’ve spent the entire afternoon with another woman’s boyfriend, but because at some point, I’d forgotten why I’d gone to the museum in the first place.
I’d been too busy enjoying myself. I wasn’t being flippant just with Ben’s relationship but with my recovery.
By the time we reach Prince Street, I have turned the problem over in my head so many times that I blurt out, “I don’t think I’m going to need help finding my way around for much longer.”
His eyebrows bob up. “No?”
“Nope. I recognized most of the streets when I was walking to meet you earlier. I even found that coffee shop from my box of memories yesterday.”
His gaze stays on me, waiting for me to continue.
“It’s this place called Strange Brew,” I explain. “There was a napkin in my memory box from there. It had a number written in the corner that I thought might mean something, so I stopped by.”
“And?”
“Apparently I work there. Which is confusing because I’ve never been a barista before. Not that I have anything against being a barista, it’s just that in California I worked in recruiting. I was supposed to keep doing that after I moved here.”
“Recruiting,” he repeats, like he might have misheard me.
“It wasn’t my dream job or anything,” I reply. I hate how defensive I suddenly sound. “But my company lined up a position for me in their office here, so I accepted it.”
“Why?” he asks, his voice cutting straight through to the heart of it: Why keep working in recruiting if it wasn’t what I wanted to do?
“Because it was a staff job with benefits and a 401(k),” I reply, forcing a smile so the admission sounds less pathetic. “You know, the important things.”
“Were you happy, though?”
The question lands like a lead weight in the center of my chest. I want to say yes, or at least offer a more nuanced version of the truth, but it would still be a lie. And I don’t want to lie to him.
“No,” I admit. “I wasn’t.”
He nods, not in agreement, but as if he understands. “My mom always says you can’t fake happiness.”
No, I want to say, stealing another glance up at him. You can’t.
We walk for a few minutes before he asks, “Why did you go to the coffee shop on your own?”
“I didn’t want to bother you in case you were busy. Or, you know, if someone found out I asked you to go to a coffee shop with me and they thought it was a date or something.”
He glances down at me, and there’s a new crease in his brow.
“Because I don’t want to come between anything, especially when you’re volunteering your time to help me,” I say quickly. “Or have her thinking that I’m trying to insert myself—”
Ben stops, the solid line of him now planted in the center of the sidewalk, as he cocks his head to the side, like he’s trying to see my train of thought from a different angle. “What are you talking about, Marnie?”
“It’s nothing, just…” I sigh, then squeeze my eyes together as if that will make this less awkward.
“I don’t want your girlfriend thinking I’m trying to steal you or something, especially since I already feel like I’m using you a little bit.
Ruining your relationship would just be the icing on this awful cake, you know? ”
“No, I don’t know,” he says.
“When we got home from the bookstore the other day, your girlfriend didn’t look too happy to see us together. To be honest, she looked like she was ready to gouge your eyes out. Or mine. Maybe both.”
It takes a moment, but the confusion in his expression clears. “You mean Lauren?”
“Yes,” I say. “Lauren.”
“Lauren’s not my girlfriend, Marnie.”
I pause. “She’s not?”
“She’s my sister.”
My eyes widen as my mind reviews our thirty-second interaction under this new lens. “I thought… the way she was acting, and then the way you were acting…”
“She was waiting on me to get some furniture out of my workshop. She and her husband bought this old house near my mom earlier in the year and they’re trying to open an antique shop up there. I get her deals on stuff that comes up through my projects.”
“Oh,” I say, working to realign these new facts in my head. “So not your girlfriend.”
“Not my girlfriend.”
“Is there a girlfriend?”
He narrows his eyes a bit, like he’s trying to decide the best way to answer. “I don’t really do relationships.”
I nod as if I understand, completely ignoring the sharp jab of disappointment between my ribs.
“I get it,” I say, trying to sound casual. “Considering I don’t even remember leaving my last relationship, I’m not looking for one right now, either.”
I hate that he doesn’t question it.
We walk the rest of the way back to our building in silence. When we arrive at the front door, Ben steps ahead, using the streetlamp to find the right key on his ring. I try not to study the soft silhouette of his lips when he’s concentrating, the line between his brows. I fail miserably.
“Hey, Ben?” I say.
He looks up, pinning me in place with his gaze. I didn’t realize how close I was standing. Too close. But I don’t step back to give us space. I’m too invested in how he’s looking at me, a perfect mix of curiosity and apprehension. The varying shades of brown and yellow in his eyes.
“I just wanted to say thank you,” I say.
“For what?” he asks.
For listening and showing up and helping me figure out how I got here, I think.
For never making me feel like I’m a burden or a chore.
There were a million reasons flying through my head, and I know if I start listing them, I’ll never stop.
So instead I just smile and say, “For today. For everything.”
“You don’t have to thank me, Marnie,” he murmurs, his voice so deep now I can almost feel it in the air.
“Yes, I do. All I wanted was directions, and I ended up hijacking your entire afternoon. And evening. You could have had plans.”
“I didn’t.”
“I know, it’s just…” I try to gather my thoughts, work to break the tension that has landed in the middle of the sidewalk. “You’ve been so nice and helpful, and I truly appreciate it. But I also feel like I’ve used you a little bit.”
His head tilts to the side, considering me for a moment. “It’s all right, Marnie. You can use me anytime.”
Then he blessedly turns to the door again, completely missing how I stare back at him, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, like I could self-combust right there on the sidewalk.