Chapter 21
The Red Sox win, seven to three. Afterward, “Dirty Water” by the Standells—a song that sounds cynical but Ben assures me is a very beloved ode to the nearby Charles River—echoes across Fenway Park while Ben, Pete, and I spill out of the stadium onto Lansdowne Street.
The reverie from inside continues with the crowd clogging the road, who sings and cheers and yells en masse all the way to the Kenmore T stop.
I try not to focus on Ben’s hand that’s gently settled on the small of my back, keeping tabs on me in the chaos while subtly directing me where to go.
He’s just being considerate, I tell myself.
Meanwhile the rest of my brain zeroes in on every one of his fingertips, the exact place I can feel them on my skin through my sweater.
We have to wait on the platform as three trains come and go, so full of fellow fans that there’s no room for anyone else.
By the time we do manage to squeeze in, someone is playing the Dropkick Murphys from a Bluetooth speaker, trying to get everyone to sing along, while at the other end of the car someone yells, “SHUT THE FUCK UP!”
I grip the metal bar above our heads and try to hide my smile in the sleeve of my sweatshirt. Ben is smiling, too, that crooked grin that seems to only affect one corner of his mouth. Beside him, Pete is trying to organize the packed car into rounds for the chorus.
We get off when the train pulls into Haymarket, and by the time we emerge out of the station and onto the street, Pete has decided that we’re not going home quite yet.
“Lauren’s waiting for us at Durty Nelly’s,” he says, reading a text from his phone. The street is dark but he charges ahead, his screen illuminating his face as he guides us down a narrow road lined with buildings that look like they’ve been there since the Revolution.
Just as my brain starts to get turned around, Pete whistles, waving us to the corner where a bar is waiting with its doors open.
As soon as I step inside, I’m met with a rush of sound.
The bar is crowded, people in jerseys and jackets and the intermittent T-shirt all wedged shoulder to shoulder, talking and laughing so you can’t hear any of the televisions mounted above.
The ceiling is low and copper-tiled, refracting the blue and red and yellow light from the collection of neon beer signs on the walls as we enter.
Pete walks ahead, both hands aloft like he’s a celebrity greeting his adoring fans.
“Seven to three, baby!” he yells.
Everyone seems to know exactly what he’s talking about and begins to cheer. The only person who looks unimpressed is Lauren. She’s sitting at the end of the bar near the door, a disappointed look on her face as she watches her husband soak up the applause.
“Is he already drunk?” she asks Ben as he and I approach.
“Pretty close,” Ben replies grimly.
“Great,” she murmurs. “Exactly how I wanted to spend my Thursday night after a long day at work.”
Then Pete’s eyes lock on her, and his face splits with a wide grin.
“My love, my light—”
“Don’t you dare,” Lauren says as if she knows what’s coming.
“My bliss!” he exclaims, falling forward to envelop her in his arms.
She pushes him off her, cringing. “You smell like beer and regret.”
He laughs, like this is standard operating procedure for the two of them, and Ben turns to the bar, looking for someone to take our drinks order.
“You’re Marnie,” Lauren says, as if noticing me for the first time. “The neighbor, right?”
“That’s me,” I say, doing an odd wave, silently praying she doesn’t remember that I was with Ben a few weeks ago when he left her waiting for a half hour out on the sidewalk.
“You were with Ben a few weeks ago when he left me waiting for a half hour out on the sidewalk.”
I cringe. “Yeah. Sorry about that.”
“Oh please,” she says, rolling her eyes as she nods to where Ben leans against the bar beside me. “My brother has never been on time a day in his life.”
“Yeah, but he always picks up the bar tab,” Ben replies.
“Not as magnanimous as you think when I’m stuck drinking seltzer because I have to drive him home.” She motions to Pete, who’s standing a few feet away singing along to “More Than a Feeling” now playing from the speakers overhead.
Ben chuckles. It’s a lovely sound, rough and deep, and makes me wonder about the other sounds he makes when he lets his guard down.
And now I’m blushing.
A bartender arrives a moment later and takes our order—a lager for Ben, a seltzer for Lauren, and a Diet Coke for me—then disappears as Pete pulls Ben into a conversation he’s having with a nearby group about the Red Sox’s bullpen.
Ben’s expression turns grim, like this is the last thing he wants to do right now, but I can’t help smiling.
I love this. It’s a side of Ben I haven’t seen yet, a view into his life that I haven’t been privy to, and it’s so comfortable, so perfect that…
oh God, I think I might be falling for him even more.
“Have you been to Fenway before?” Lauren asks, startling me out of my thoughts.
“No. I haven’t even been to a baseball game before,” I reply, working to appear relaxed.
“What’d you think?”
“It was incredible.” I smile. “Thanks for letting me steal your ticket.”
“Thank my boss. He’s the one who decided to load me up with three hours of work at five p.m.”
“Ouch. I’m sorry,” I say. I remember those days at Probus.
Sara and I would be packing up to leave, minutes from powering down our computers, when one of us would get an urgent email with some inane assignment that had to be completed immediately.
We’d always stick around and help the other one finish it.
At the time, it was almost fun, because we were there complaining together.
But once she was promoted out of our department, the novelty wore off.
“It’s fine,” Lauren says, waving me off. “I’m planning to quit in a few months, so they’re only getting me at fifty percent anyway.”
“That’s right. Ben said you were opening an antique shop.”
“It’s not really an antique shop. That’s just the easiest way to describe it.
Actually, it’s more of an architectural salvage place.
Pete works in construction and Ben is all over the city doing these renovation projects.
Between the two of them, they see so many people gutting their homes of these beautiful original pieces just to put in something modern and impersonal.
So I thought, why not take that stuff and sell it to people who will appreciate it? ”
Lauren talks about her shop the way Ben talks about carpentry: with such deep love and admiration that I can’t help but smile.
“That’s incredible.”
She scoffs. “Hardly. I spend most of my free time looking through old banisters and faucet handles.”
“It still sounds like more fun than I’ve ever had at work,” I say.
“That just means you need a better job.” She laughs.
I laugh, too. Because maybe it is just that simple.
As the night progresses, the crowd grows, absorbing us into its fray.
I don’t even mind when our small group gets separated and I find myself seated next to an older man in a Ted Williams jersey who’s explaining baseball’s infield fly rule to me.
I try to listen, but I can barely hear him over Pete, who is a few seats down arguing with a group of strangers about the Red Sox’s chances in the playoffs, while Lauren sits next to him, rolling her eyes like she knows he’s setting himself up for disappointment.
The whole scene is punctuated by the smell of stale beer and sweat and fryer oil permeating the air.
It should make me feel claustrophobic and anxious, but it doesn’t. I feel comfortable. Relaxed, even. There’s a rough familiarity here, as though everyone intrinsically knows how to lean in close, how to cheer in unison, how to ride the same pulse that keeps the energy alive.
The man beside me is now describing the bench-clearing brawl he witnessed against the Devil Rays in 2000, waving his arms as beer sloshes from his glass, when I catch sight of Ben. He’s on the other side of the room now, nursing a bottle of Sam Adams, when his eyes lock on mine.
You good? he mouths.
Without the sound, I can fully appreciate how his full lips form around the words, how the hard line of his brow softens ever so slightly with concern as he does.
I’m falling for you, I think.
I’m fine, I mouth back.
He doesn’t look away, and neither do I. It feels like I’m locked into some impossible force. It’s useless to try to fight it, and it suddenly occurs to me that I should stop trying. Just give in to it and—
“What do you think?”
I blink back to the man in front of me. I’ve totally missed whatever he’s been talking about for the past couple of minutes, but smile anyway.
“Sorry?” I ask.
“I said it’s getting crowded,” he repeats. “What do you say we get outta here?”
He bobs his eyebrows at me, just so there’s no doubt as to his meaning.
“Oh. Um,” I stutter, so busy trying to think of what to say that won’t hurt this man’s feelings that I forget to curb my nervous tic. I automatically run my fingers through my hair, sending my bangs into high alert. “Well, I haven’t finished my drink yet.”
The man glances at my watered-down Diet Coke, then back to me. “I got plenty of soda back at my place.”
I laugh a little too loud as my eyes dart around the room, hoping to find something, anything, that can extract me from this situation without embarrassment. Then, miraculously, the crowd parts as Ben approaches with his empty pint glass.
Relief sweeps through me as I smile at him like he’s the Coast Guard and I’m stranded on a lifeboat.
His eyebrows stitch together, confused, but he doesn’t question it as I loop my arm in his.
The older man eyes the two of us suspiciously.
“Oh, look! It’s my boyfriend. Ben. Ben is my boyfriend,” I reply a little too quickly.