Marriage Matters - By Cynthia Ellingsen Page 0,111

was there and we were all talking about it and—”

“Shit.” Chloe gripped the magazine tight.

“Will you ever forgive me?”

“Of course,” she said. “But right now, I’ve got to go.”

Hanging up the phone, Chloe bolted out of the kitchen and into the hallway. There, the music was even louder. It pounded the walls so hard she was surprised the peeling yellowed paint didn’t just drop off in strips. It wouldn’t be long until the crabby lady downstairs called the police.

“Ben,” Chloe cried, banging on his door. “Open up!”

The rare occasions that Ben got upset, he had been known to work on a design project and let it take him over for days. He’d put every ounce of anger and energy into whatever he was creating and forget about silly little things like eating, sleeping and bathing. Ben joked that it was his artistic temperament, but Chloe found nothing funny about watching her best friend sink into oblivion.

Based on the pounding music, she knew he was doing exactly that. Sally told him about the engagement, and he was hurt Chloe hadn’t said anything. She could picture what was happening behind that apartment door. Stacks of design journals would be out, the computer would practically be smoking and Ben would be tugging away at his hair, at least fifteen cups of coffee in.

“Ben,” Chloe called again. “Open the door. Don’t make me go get my key!”

The lock rattled and the apartment door flew open. Chloe was hit with the smell of burned coffee and old pizza. Walking in, she saw that the shades were drawn. The room was as dark as a tomb, other than the glowing white light of Ben’s computer. He was standing in front of it, pacing like an artist in front of an easel. He was wearing a pair of tight gray jeans and a fitted blue T-shirt, practically vibrating with raw energy. She couldn’t help but think that he looked even better than he did on the night of their date but just as quickly, she pushed that thought away.

Ben turned to her. “Welcome to the cave of creation,” he cried.

That’s when Chloe noticed the two streaks of black under his eyes. Like he was a football player or tribal warrior.

Or a total psycho.

Chloe marched over to the windows and threw them open. A gust of icy air shot in the room and she wrapped her arms around herself, feeling the material of her sweatshirt turn cold and stiffen. She stalked over to the stereo and flipped off the music.

Ben put up a hand to shield his eyes. “What, exactly, do you think that you’re doing?”

“What do you think you’re doing?” Chloe demanded. “How long have you been holed up in here? When was the last time you ate something besides . . .” She eyed the tower of empty pizza cartons that were stacked up on his coffee table. They were, of course, arranged in an artistic pattern. “Cardboard and grease?”

“Cardboard and grease.” Ben nodded enthusiastically. “I like that.” He turned back to his computer. Chloe took a few steps forward and saw at least five windows open on the screen, each with detailed graphic designs. As always, they were brilliant.

“That’s a little better than your face paint,” she said. “What’s up with that, by the way?”

Ben ignored her. He continued to pound away at the keys like some crazy pianist. She noticed that he was unusually tan. Hopefully, he hadn’t been outside, running in the cold with his shirt off.

“You are acting like a psycho.” Chloe nudged him with her toe.

Hitting Save, he closed the computer. “Why do you even care?” he asked, turning to her.

“Why do you think, you dumb ass?” she cried. “Because you’re my best friend.”

Ben glared. She half expected him to tackle her, with those stupid black streaks on his face. Instead, he stalked over to the coffeemaker and refilled his cup. Chloe noticed that instead of plugging the coffeemaker into the wall, it was attached to an extension cord that led to the kitchen. “Why,” she couldn’t help but ask, “didn’t you just plug that into the wall out here?”

“The coffeemaker is a part of the kitchen,” he said. “The cord is symbolic.”

“Please tell me you’re drunk.”

“Stone sober.”

“Ben,” Chloe groaned, sinking down into the couch and burying her head in her hands. “Do I have to call your mother? Tell her that you’ve finally, officially, lost your mind?”

Ben’s blue eyes blazed. “I’ve lost my mind?” he demanded. “You busted into my