Chapter 18
“ ‘Tonight you’re going to see one of the Riviera’s most fascinating sights,’ ” I quote, brandishing my best Grace Kelly impression while motioning elegantly down the road as we walk toward the newsstand ahead.
Ben shakes his head and throws a piece of popcorn into his mouth from the tub he took with him from the movie theater. “No.”
I do my best to look insulted while also taking a long slurp from the remnants of my jumbo soda. “What are you talking about? That was a perfect mid-Atlantic accent.”
“No, that sounded like a speech impediment.”
“That’s so insensitive. What if Grace Kelly really had a speech impediment? Maybe she adopted that accent to cover up the fact that she drops her R’s.”
“Dropping your R’s is not a speech impediment.”
“Says who?”
“Half of South Boston.”
I laugh.
The past couple of weeks have developed a sort of rhythm all on their own.
I didn’t mean to memorize Ben’s work schedule, how he has classes until three on Tuesdays and Fridays, and the occasional workshop on Saturday.
How it fits with my own schedule at Strange Brew.
At some point, though, I started expecting a text around 3:15—even earlier on the weekends—offering a walk to whatever destination is next on my list.
Last Monday, I met Ben in Beacon Hill where he had started overseeing the restoration of a townhouse on Acorn Street.
We were supposed to go to the Boston Public Library, but he gave me a tour first, and before I knew it, we had spent hours exploring the space, seeing the hidden layers they were uncovering in the walls.
On the way home I told him about the photography class in Cambridge, how I had called and discovered that I had already reserved a spot.
I cataloged all the reasons I was terrified, but all the reasons I was excited, too.
By the time we arrived back in the North End, I realized I hadn’t shut up for ages, but Ben hadn’t seemed to mind.
“You’re an interesting person, Marnie,” he said when I tried to apologize. “I like listening to what interesting people have to say.”
It was a benign comment, said in such an offhanded way that I almost missed how those words burrowed into my chest, warming my bloodstream.
The Friday before that, we finally found a branch of my bank and I cornered the manager, detailing exactly what had happened to me, while Ben made sure that I provided my photo identification and social security card (which was thankfully in my desk).
It took over an hour, but I left with a balance statement ($2,238!) and a temporary debit card to use until my new one arrived in the mail.
We celebrated by walking over to Haymarket, the endless lines of vendors set up along the street, and wandered the stalls, getting lost amid piles of radishes and apples and kale.
It was so crowded, people pressing in from all sides, but not as overwhelming as I’d thought it would be when we first arrived.
“Just focus on the stall ahead. One at a time,” Ben had said.
Which is exactly what we did. First apples. Then cucumbers. Then a selection of cheese. Then eggs. And the whole time, I watched Ben’s back ahead of me, his shoulders squared, leading the way.
I left with my tote bag packed with a dozen apples, two pounds of cheese, and something called a kohlrabi. I couldn’t have been happier.
Then today at noon, we took the T over to Cambridge to visit the Brattle Theatre, which, according to Ben, had nothing to do with the Brattle Book Shop except that they’re both named after streets, which were, once upon a time, named after the same family.
And since I’m learning to accept that nothing in this city makes sense, I just nod.
The ticket stubs from my corkboard were for Rear Window, but that wasn’t playing.
Luckily, there was a matinee for another Grace Kelly classic, To Catch a Thief.
At twelve sharp we settled into our seats inside the theater.
It feels like something set out of time, with its rows of low, narrow seats facing the movie screen, which is set deep on a stage at the front of the room.
I looked around, trying to take in every detail, waiting for something to be familiar.
Unfortunately, when the lights finally dimmed and Cary Grant appeared on-screen, the only thing I could focus on was how Ben’s knee rested against mine.
He looks down at me now as we walk along the sidewalk back toward the T.
“Want to walk around here for a bit, see if anything looks familiar, or head home?”
I pretend like I have to think about it, like I haven’t been secretly hoping we could prolong this trip since we left the movie theater.
“We can walk around,” I answer, trying to sound casual. “If you’re up for it.”
He shrugs as if he’s not opposed to the idea, then throws some more popcorn in his mouth.
“So, what do you have going on the rest of the week?” I ask as we turn the corner.
“I’m going to a Sox game with a friend. How about you?”
“Well, I have my next cognitive therapy appointment on Friday, so hopefully my doctor can tell me when all this is going to start paying off. Then my friend Sara is flying in from California with her husband on Saturday and we’re going to grab dinner,” I say.
“She set Matt and me up so I think she’s a little overly invested in finding out what went wrong. ”
It’s meant to come out as a joke but Ben only nods.
“I’m glad she’s coming out here,” he says.
“I know. I’ve missed her. And that’s saying something because I don’t even remember the last time I…” My words falter when we turn the corner on a neat row of redbrick colonial buildings behind an iron fence on the other side of the street. “Wait. Is that Harvard?”
“It is,” Ben replies, barely looking over.
“The Harvard of Elle Woods fame?”
His brow furrows. “I don’t know what that is.”
I roll my eyes. “You need to see so many movies.”
He seems to accept this, then motions over with the popcorn. “Do you want to go in?”
I gawk up at him. “Can we?”
“Sure. We can’t get into any of the buildings, but Harvard Yard is open to the public.”
We cross the street and enter through the iron gate.
A compact array of brick colonial buildings envelops us, their neat rows of windows looking down at us in a way that feels weirdly intimidating.
But then, within a few steps, a sprawling green space opens up.
The grass is bisected by a series of paths laid out at perfect geometric angles, and shaded by the tall trees scattered across the lawn.
Their lanky branches shoot out in all directions, awash with red and gold foliage that softens the hard lines of the architecture around us. The perfect balance. I love it.
We walk slowly, no destination in mind, just following the straight paths that overlap each other. Students pass, backpacks thrown over their shoulders, conversations unfolding in low tones.
On the far side of the yard, a large sign sits in front of a building touting its recent renovation. I can’t quite tell what they did since it looks exactly like all the others, but when I turn to Ben to ask, he’s frowning at the sign.
“What?” I ask.
“I put in a bid to work on that.”
“And they didn’t take it?”
He shrugs, even though it obviously still bothers him. “It happens.”
I look back to the redbrick building in front of us, and think of how much it could have been improved through his work. “I’m jealous.”
“Of what?” he asks.
“You.” I turn to look back up at him. He has the collar of his work coat popped up to protect his neck from the chill, but it still leaves his cheeks pink. “You love carpentry. You found your thing.”
“My thing,” he repeats, but in a more skeptical tone.
“The thing you’re supposed to be doing,” I say.
“I’m jealous of that. I have no idea what my thing is.
I didn’t even really know I was supposed to be looking for it.
When I was young, my grandmother talked about her life so much, I thought it was normal to spend a few years traveling halfway around the world to volunteer at an ashram, then leave to bake bread in Italy.
So I grew up thinking I could do anything.
That it wasn’t so much about one particular job, it was about the experiences. ”
“A dynamic life,” Ben says offhandedly.
My brow furrows. “What does that mean?”
“It’s something Oscar Wilde said. I don’t remember the exact quote, but the gist of it is, if you are born knowing exactly what you want to do, you’ll inevitably become it.
It’s like a punishment. But if you wake up every day never knowing what that thing is, then you’ll never be limited in what you can do.
You’ll live a dynamic life. That’s your reward. ”
I smile. “Do you feel like being a carpenter is a punishment?”
He throws some more popcorn in his mouth. “I certainly never planned on it.”
“What were you going to be?” I ask.
“A doctor.”
I blink, not sure if I misheard him. “Are you serious?”
He nods.
How can he be so casual about this? It feels huge, like when I found out Dakota Johnson is a nepo baby. “What happened?”
A moment passes as he gives the question some thought. I’ve learned over the past few weeks that he does that a lot. Ben Morgan is careful with words. Every sentence feels deliberate, like he’s weighed it, turned it over in his head, examined it from all sides, before it’s uttered.
“My mom always made a joke about how she needed a doctor in the family. Then, in high school, I ended up doing well in biology and chemistry. My teachers told me how I would make a great doctor. So I went premed in undergrad. And when I got into medical school, my mom was so happy. I thought I was, too.”
Ben’s words from last week echo back in my head: You can’t fake happiness.