I didn’t expect sympathy back then—didn’t want it either. I was grateful to have a job (my internship quickly turned into a paid position), and when Benji hired me I was thrilled to have a pay raise and move to a more casual work environment—Benji’s awesome house.
Which is probably why lounging at his breakfast bar and chatting over enchiladas feels like a natural part of my day.
“Well, it’s very good,” I comment about the margarita.
“I’m sorry, Cris.” Benji, suddenly sincere, places his hand on my knee. It isn’t a sexual touch or an inappropriate one. It should be bland at worst, friendly at best. So why do I feel electricity shoot from his fingertips, up my thighs, and straight to my—
I fake a cough, moving my leg out from under his hand. He hops up to pour me a glass of water. I wave him off and take a gulp of my margarita instead. “I’m fine. Honest. And why are you sorry?”
He takes his seat and regards me like I’m daft, or suffering from short-term memory loss. “Because you were stood up.”
“Oh, that.” I momentarily forgot why I was here. I’d rather be here than out with that A-hole anyway.
“His loss.”
I offer my best friend a warm smile. He’s sweet.
“Give me your phone.” He holds out a palm.
“No.” I’m already suspicious of his motives. “Why?”
“I’ll set up your next date. I can’t bear to watch you go through this again. Maybe I can offer some insight. I am a guy, you know.”
“You are a guy,” I agree, mentally adding a few adjectives. Hot. Gorgeous. Funny. Intelligent. Good with his hands… I mean because he woodworks as a hobby, not that he—never mind.
“Show me the candidates.” He claps once. “Let’s do this.”
“Hard pass, boss. I’m not letting you choose.” I’m embarrassed about not being able to make it through a dinner. Tonight I didn’t even make it to a dinner. The last thing I need is Benji going through the candidates on the app and pointing out how small their hands are.
His turn to give me a bland blink. “Cris, it’s eight thirty at night. I am not your boss right now.”
“Don’t play the best-friend card. I wouldn’t let any of my friends choose my date.” I fold my arms over my chest in challenge.
“Is your phone in your purse?” He’s already off the stool and rounding the couch where my purse is sitting. Unattended. Rather than dig through my personal items, he plunks the bag onto my lap. “Do you need a shot of tequila to bolster your courage?”
“If I have a shot of tequila, I’ll have to sleep on your couch.” I swear I see a flash of heat…or something…in his eyes. It banks instantly when he smiles, making me wonder if I imagined it.
“No tequila. Got it.” He holds out his hand. “Phone.”
I fish my phone from my purse. I do not hand it to him. “Here’s the deal. You see only the screens I want you to see. And you can have a vote, but not the final say.”
“Deal.” He holds up a finger. “But you have to set the date for this weekend, and you have to insist on picking the restaurant. Also, if there’s a picture of his hands I want to see it.”
I burst out laughing. I knew it.
Half an hour and more laughter later, both plates of enchiladas have been annihilated and we’ve combed through the database on the app. We’ve narrowed my options down to two men. Benji approves of neither but admitted they were as good as we were going to find on the “stupid app.” He maintains this is a compliment to me rather than an insult. I remind him I know whose side he’s on.
Mine. Always. That’s how he became my best friend, after all.
“Should we flip a coin?” he asks.
“No. I choose Dennis. Except he shares a name with my brother, which is a little disturbing.”
“Agreed. What about the other guy? What’s-his-name.”
“Rick.”
He makes a face. “If you must. Make sure he’s available this weekend. Do you need help drafting your message?”
I whip my head around. “I’m insulted. Do you know how many emails I draft on any given day? I am capable of texting coherently.”
He holds up his hands in surrender. I type in a message to Rick, telling him I’m available on Saturday. I look up to ask Benji if I should suggest Italian food, but he’s staring forlornly at his margarita glass, so I don’t.
“Done,” I say after I hit send.
“Which restaurant did you pick?” His smile appears a touch disingenuous, but it is going on eleven o’clock, so maybe he’s just tired.
“Piccoly’s.”
“Italian. Nice choice.”
“Hey, if I’m lucky I’ll get to eat there.”
His laugh is forced. I assume I’ve overstayed my welcome.
“I’m going to go. Thank you for the recap dinner.”
“Sure you don’t want to practice not blurting out how green you are at this whole dating thing before you go?”
“Absolutely not.” I shoulder my purse. “If I practice I’ll sound like I practiced. I want to be genuine and see what happens.”
“Well, we have all week.” Again with the dark, contemplative look. It’s so foreign parked on his face I don’t know how to react. He’s typically a happy person. I’ve always found it remarkable how a kid could lose both his parents and come out the other side as optimistic and pleasant as he did.
Dennis lost his parents too—though our mother is very much alive, “lost” seems an apt descriptor—and we had him in and out of school psychologists for years. Thank God I had power of attorney and no one looked too deeply into our home life. I wonder if Benji went through a dark period when he was a teenager. I never asked. It seems like I should have asked sooner since I’ve known him for ten years. We only became close recently, so now it’s like I can’t ask. We talk about current events and physical fitness. We talk about work. Talking about my dating status and how to proceed is new. And weird.
He opens the front door and I step over the threshold, turning to say goodnight. He leans one hand on the door over his head and props his other hand on his hip. His hair is stylish and messy. His eyes are tired in a good way—the way that makes me imagine snuggling against him on the couch and listening to jazz while sipping a glass of wine. Then retiring to bed for a little fun…
I stop short of imagining more, lest I have to go home and have fun without him. It’s never as satisfying as I hope, and I usually feel guilty for objectifying him afterward.
“Night, Cris,” he says, looking tall and strong and delicious and perfect.
“Night.” I turn and walk to my car, waving one last time. He waves too, and then shuts the door.
Chapter Five
Benji
I’m carrying a bag filled with sushi rolls, hand rolls, fried rice, garlicky green beans, and various other foodstuffs from a sushi restaurant in Grand Marin. I could’ve ordered pizza, but in the event Cris’s date doesn’t work out—a high probability at this point—I want to be ready with a meal that will knock her socks off.