Chapter 21
Ben: How are the cannoli?
Me: Did you intentionally stuff them beyond decency? They look X-rated
Ben: You were the inspiration. You bring out the best in me
Me: I knew you were going to make them btw
Ben: I know you knew
Me: And how exactly would you know?
Ben: Saw you in the fridge door, stalking me. You look ridiculously cute when you're trying not to sneeze btw
Me: Deleted. Denied till the day I die
Ben: Classic you
Me: I'm loving the cannoli though
Ben: Because you're in love with me
Me: :)
Ben: Back to denial? Back to just one kiss?
Me: It was never going to be just one kiss
Ben: :) Nope. Meet me upstairs at 4 p.m.
Me: I think we're pushing it. Not safe
Ben: I have to show you something
Me: Uhum? Like what? Anything I haven't seen before?
Ben: Guess you'll have to risk it
After I spotted the camera aimed straight at us on the rooftop, I lost it and yelled at Ben like he'd personally installed it, even though he hadn't noticed it either. But my blood went so cold that I swear my bones knocked together.
We met back there the next morning. I paced like I was about to testify in court, while Ben lied on the same lounge bed, fingers tracing our leftover marks.
He was annoyingly serene, telling me to breathe, like we weren't seconds from becoming the city's next viral scandal. André apparently swore on his kids that the camera wasn't even plugged in yet.
Would I be shocked if someone tried to blackmail me with my moral failings, though?
Not at all. I'd deserve it for being a love-drunk fool with no concept of consequence, because the truth is—we kept meeting.
Rooftop evenings, 5 a.m. gym sessions. Five times that week, if we're counting.
For the record, squats and deadlifts shouldn't be performed with Ben in the vicinity.
He flips into predator mode in seconds, and when he does, my protests don't mean much—to myself most of all—and teeth marks bloom all over my chest like proof he's been there.
And no, I'm not bragging. Nothing justifies this.
Not even the fact that my nightmares finally took a holiday.
The night I came back, Richard wasn't home. So I turned the shower into a slow cooker while waiting for guilt to land like a punch. It never came. Instead, when I swiped the fogged mirror, I saw a monster in love staring back.
But monsters shouldn't get away with things—it's inevitable that I tell him. I just didn't know how to start a conversation that breaks someone's heart.
This morning, over breakfast, I started edging toward coming clean, asked him if he ever wondered how well two people could know each other, even after years, and laughed in that brittle way that begs someone to ask what's wrong.
He didn't. Instead, he mentioned that he saw Lisa at one of his events, and the words lodged deep in my gut.
"What was she doing there?" I asked instead.
"Promoting. Good products, but their numbers don't add up, which isn't surprising. Her partner, Philip, is a known scammer. I wouldn't trust that guy with Monopoly money—" He caught the tilt of my head because that wasn't what I freaking asked. "Oh, I invited her."
"You invited her?" I frowned and blinked hard. "Wasn't she an 'opportunist'?"
"Absolutely." He shrugged in that collected way. "She must have got my phone number from Ben. We started talking—"
"I'm sorry—" I cut him off with a pissed flick of my hand. "Back up. You've been talking to Lisa? This whole time?"
"Yes." He took a sip of his coffee. "Strictly professional, and she came with Philip, so don't worry."
I cleared my throat, realizing how hypocritical I was to question him. "No. I don't worry about that."
"Even if you did worry—which you don't have to—she'll probably move back to New York anyway," he added, which caught my attention.
"Why?"
"Ben wants to move back."
The spoon clinked in my cup louder than it should. "What? Why? They just moved here?"
"Exactly." Another slow sip. "She's upset that he's so inconsistent."
I wanted to laugh, scream, shove my spoon through the nearest wall, but instead, I nodded.
I imagined Ben in New York—black hoodie pulled up, walking through Central Park in the rain, the skyline daring him to conquer it. And me, not invited.
I know that Ben can be inconsistent, so as a result, I'm keeping him as my secret and doing what I've never done before—live in the moment.
Wish I could say it's character growth and I'm proud.
Lucy seems to be proud, at least when it comes to my choice of nail polish. Cherry red.
Ben loves it on me, says it makes my skin look like it was kissed by sunlight. Maybe he means himself.
I snapped a photo—yeah, of my actual toes—and sent it to her. Her reply doesn't disappoint.
Lucy: What did you do to my bestie? And why am I turned on by toes?
I laugh and stand in front of my closet mirror, arching my hips like I'm one of those Insta models before I snap another: me in red lingerie, scalloped edges that tease more than they hide. Bought it only so he could take it off.
Me: What do you think? Too try-hard?
Lucy: 10/10 on the whoremones
Lucy: But I'm pissed at you. If you're this far, you owe me an awful lot of details
Halfway through my apology text, a knock freezes me mid-typing. I whip my head to the door.
No way it's Ben. He wouldn't come here, would he?
Then again, with him, you never know. Last night, he texted me every five minutes, asking whether I'd made it home from yoga, and if I was alone. I wanted to ask if he was low on blood sugar and it manifested as clinginess.
Instead, when I got in, André cornered me in the lobby like an accomplice in some romantic heist.
"He made me swear I'd deliver it personally when you're alone," he said, handing me a small envelope.
Inside: a note in Ben's doctor-scrawl that reminded me of a heartbeat, caught on paper that said, Wild and free, like you and me. And two dandelions. My favorite flower.
Impressed at the fact he remembers and how he managed to get them way out of season, I went from furious for involving André, to sending him a one minute-long video of me kissing my phone-camera.
"Coming!" I call, throwing on a bathrobe and springing to the door, half-praying it's Jessica because Richard forgot his wallet or something.
I swing it open and nearly choke on air.
"Mom?"
There's Lydia Foster, in her usual glory—her mahogany curls glossy, green tweed dress tailored to perfection, and she's holding a powder-blue pastry box like it's the royal treasure.
"Em!" she chirps, breezing past me without even the ghost of a pause.
I haven't even closed the door yet and she's already rearranging my fridge. "I brought Richard his favorite. You know how he loves my lemon biscuits."
She turns and scans me head to toe. She does that. A lot.
"Good," she finally lands. "I thought you were deep in your writing and forgetting to eat, but you look... good."
In her native tongue it means: You've gained a few pounds, but congrats to me for framing it as a compliment.
But honestly, that's the least of my problems now. She shouldn't be here when I'm meeting Ben in an hour.
"What are you doing here?" I ask, cinching my robe tighter.
Her eyes follow the knot, and she clutches her chest. "Oh god, tell me I didn't interrupt you two from making me the world's most perfect grandchild?"
My eyes shoot wide. "No, Mom. Richard's at work," I mutter.
"Oh." She frowns, eyes on the robe to the point I check if my lingerie peeks out. I think it doesn't? Then she sighs dreamily. "That man. Does he ever rest?"
I fake a laugh and do what any self-respecting daughter does in a crisis: Turn around and text Ben behind her back.
Me: Mom just showed up. I'm sorry. I'll text you when I'm done. Pray for me.
Meanwhile, Mom walks around our house and offers her best critiques.
The curtains? Too sheer. The countertop? Apparently, it's a petri dish. I should clean daily because everyone knows dust leads to asthma.
I just keep nodding absentmindedly. Believe it or not, this is her mellow.
It's kind of funny, if you squint, but mostly sick. The day I became Mrs. Lawson, my mother started treating me better, like I'd finally done something right in my life, or like landing a rich husband had redeemed the rest.
She sits on the barstool while I stand by the fridge, hoping that could save me, but now it's my hair.
She points at it. "Why are you curling it like this? I told you a million times that straight hair looks more polished. The curls make your cheeks full."
"I didn't curl it. I just didn't straighten it. Plus, I was born with this hair." I look pointedly at her blow to make her realize my waves are inherited from her, but I know she'll never admit anything is her fault.
At least, over the years, I've learned the trick. If I want her to stop dissecting me, all I have to do is redirect to her.
"How's the boutique?"
Boom. Like magic.
She smooths her skirt and smiles brightly. "Thriving. Thanks to Elaine, we've got women driving in from all over the coast. High-end clientele only. I've really elevated the place."
Mom gifted Richard's mother three custom dresses, of better quality than the rest. Not because she wanted Elaine to wear them to the charity luncheons, but because she's generous, pure of heart. Definitely not strategic.
"Call Rich," she says suddenly. "Tell him I'm here."
I frown. "I don't call him to work. He's always busy."
"He can make time for his favorite mother-in-law," she counters. Then, a sugar-coated cyanide order: "Call him."
I suck in air. That tone makes my nerves bristle, but I don't want to argue, so I sigh and dial.
Please be in a meeting. Please be in a meeting.
Second ring and Richard picks up, voice slightly worried. "Em? What's up? Everything's fine?"
Goddammit.
Before I can answer, Mom yanks the phone out of my hand.
"Hello, my golden boy!" she sings and tosses me a look, like I should take notes on her maternal seduction.