a full week now.
I can only imagine what Bennett said to her nephew to make him bolt out of Fino, which means I can only imagine what she thinks of me now …
It’s been eight days since I sent Bennett my phone number, and I haven’t received so much as a confirmation email or text of any kind—not that I expected him to take me up on that offer. Someone like him isn’t going to say, “Gosh, you know what? You’re right. I’m unhappy and I sure could use a friend!”
Men like that don’t do vulnerability.
They’re insulted by help, affronted by the assumption that they’re lacking in any way, emotional or otherwise.
But I haven’t a single regret, and I’ve slept like a baby every night since. The email I almost sent in place of that one was nasty and bitter and frankly, written from a dark place inside of me I never knew existed.
I couldn’t bring myself to send it. They weren’t things I’d ever say to anyone to their face, so typing them in an email seemed cheap and low.
Heading to the teacher’s lounge to run off a few copies before my kids come in from afternoon recess, I slide my phone from my back pocket while I wait for the antiquated machine to collate and staple. Only the second my screen comes to life, I’m greeted with a text from an unfamiliar local number and the words: CALL ME.
Stomach twisting, I realize this could be a number of people … but in my heart of hearts, I have a feeling I know exactly who it is.
And he’ll just have to wait.
Eighteen
Bennett
* * *
“About damn time,” I answer when she calls me at a quarter past six Friday night. I mark my page in Plato’s Republic and rest it beside my whiskey.
“Bennett?” Astaire’s voice is a confused brand of sugar-sweet on the other end. “I thought that was you …”
“I’m going to text you my address. Come over at eight.” Texting someone to have them call you so you can tell them you’re going to text them seems infuriatingly convoluted—but I wanted to make sure we were on the same page, wanted her to know my invitation is serious, and I wanted to guarantee my invite wouldn’t be ignored.
And maybe I wanted to hear her voice.
“I have plans.” She pauses, followed by a short exhalation.
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“I don’t understand what this is about.”
“You will.” I rotate my tumbler on the coaster and take a sip, staring into the fiery inferno that is my limestone-wrapped fireplace. “When you get here.”
With that, I hang up. I’m certain her curiosity is unbearable after a week of radio silence, but I had my reasons—reasons I’ll be sure to share with her when she comes.
Because she is coming.
“Are you going to tell me why you invited me over?” Astaire stands in my doorway, a thin veil of floral-and-musk perfume emanating off her cloud-colored jacket as she grips her purse strap.
“Anyone ever tell you you’re adorable when you’re trying to be serious? Come in.” I move out of the way and watch as she steps into my foyer, the expansive space almost swallowing her whole as her ballerina flats pad softly against the shiny travertine tile.
Turning to me, she tilts her head. My gaze lands on her full mouth, which is barely shiny enough to tell me she slicked on a coat of lip balm before she came here.
This woman is a beautiful mess of contradictions—all of which I intend to use in my favor tonight.
“You said you didn’t want to be just a couple of strangers arguing on the Internet.” I take her jacket. “So I thought we should argue in person.”
“Seriously? You invited me to your place so we could … argue … in person?”
“Amongst other things.” I place her jacket in my coat closet but she retains her purse as if it’s her lifeline, as if I’m a crazed serial killer and she’s prepared to whip out a can of expired mace she’s been carrying around for years. “May I offer you a drink?”
I point down the hall and head for the bar.
She follows, keeping a careful distance.
“I’m afraid I don’t have champagne so I won’t be able to make those cocktails you were so smitten with the other weekend.” I peruse my collection of imported hard liquors. “But I’ve got just about anything else your little heart desires.”
“Water would be great. Thank you.”
I turn to her. “Don’t insult me, Astaire.