11
“There they are, setting up food by the grill.” Benji spots Rita and Mark. Catching my first glimpse of those two is like seeing Santa Claus and Rudolph on Christmas morning. I’m giddy.
As we approach, I take Rita in. She looks like a model from an L.L.Bean catalog. Petite with transition sunglasses and blond hair pulled back halfway and clipped in place with a tortoiseshell barrette, she’s perfectly PG standing there in a floral day dress holding a package of hot dog buns. I can hardly believe that between her and her husband, there’s fifty years of sobriety.
Their high times were in the ’80s—Quaaludes for him and heroin for her, Benji said. Now, they’re totally clean and normal, and have a trendily named son who goes to a really expensive private preschool. I wonder if any of the other moms know the lady running carpool on Wednesdays has done blow off a motel nightstand about a thousand times.
“Allie, dear. Finally.” Rita pulls me in for a hug. Reality reveals she’s more soft-spoken than smoky, so there’s that mystery solved.
Mark embraces Benji. Then we rotate to the right like we’re changing positions in a volleyball match.
“Sorry, I should have mentioned hugging is an NA thing,” Mark says to me as he encases me in his Tommy Bahama polo shirt.
“It’s a good thing I wore deodorant,” I say with a smile.
I don’t actually mind the hugging, but I do feel a bit guilty for not having made it to a meeting myself where I could have already learned this firsthand. Going with Benji to an open meeting or finding a support group of my own is something I’ve been meaning to do ever since he pledged to get sober, but I haven’t pulled the trigger. I’ve Googled them, sure. Even wrote down some addresses and times, but when push comes to shove, I still can’t quite picture sitting in a room full of people whose lives took such different paths than my own.
I’m realistic. I know not everyone who attends those meetings has a supportive girlfriend like me. Not everyone lives in a cute little apartment furnished mostly by CB2. Not everyone eats $400 meals for free at restaurants that are impossible to get into. I’m afraid that the stories I’d hear from the faces I’d see would be impossible to shake. And until I get more used to this life, I need to stay away from the darkness as much as I can. I need to stay focused on Benji and Benji alone.
“Hey, Rita, where should I put these?”
I already saw the food table behind her, but I play dumb in order to buy myself a minute alone on the short walk over there. It’s a heavy moment, seeing for the first time the only other people in this whole city, this whole world, who have prioritized keeping my boyfriend safe and healthy. I know we haven’t had a chance to talk much yet, but I already like them. Probably because I share something with them that no one else does: an inexplicable belief in Benji.
Benji didn’t have time to cook something special for the picnic, so I grabbed a package of premade vanilla cupcakes from the bakery section of the grocery store earlier this morning. They have pink and green frosting and a little plastic palm tree decal on top. I catch myself scoffing a bit at such a quotidian confection. If it’s not emulsified, deconstructed, double-boiled or sous vide, I don’t really eat it these days. Part of me misses the days of microwaved chicken nuggets, but TV dinners do not make an Instagram-worthy picture. I look around at the other selections people have brought—Doritos, Funions, Oreos—and realize what we brought fits in just fine. However, seeing that there’s nothing anonymous about Benji Zane being here, I just hope people aren’t disappointed with our contribution.
I crack open the plastic container to make the sugary six-pack feel more inviting. For the sake of nostalgia, I swipe a finger along the inside rim of the cupcake packaging, collecting the partially dried frosting stuck to the plastic. The simple sweetness is like holding every one of my childhood birthday parties on my tongue at once: unhurried and uncomplicated, just sugar and butter and simplicity.
I leave the cupcakes and go sit down next to Benji on a picnic blanket. Mark and Rita are in those zero-gravity camping chairs you see in SkyMall.
“We’re so glad you could make it today,” Mark says. “Rita’s always so worried no one will show up to these things and I tell her, ‘So what, honey? We’ve got a babysitter. We’re by the lake. We’ve got Chex Mix. What else do we need?’”
I’m not sure what turnout they’re used to, but there’s about eight of us here for the picnic. After an initial round of hugs, everyone is now off doing beachy things: Frisbee, swimming, putting ketchup on a burger. From the outside, I can’t tell who the sponsors are, how long anyone has been sober or what drugs everyone has been addicted to.
“So tell us what’s new, Miss Allie,” Rita says.
“Let’s see...my college roommate is getting married, a Starbucks is opening in our lobby at work and I’m apparently the only person who didn’t go to the Lady Gaga concert last night.”
“Was it sold out? Did you check StubHub?” Rita asks.
“I did. But they were, like, $400 a seat or something ridiculous like that.”
“Whoa! That’s like some Benji Zane pop-up prices,” Mark chimes in.
I dig his sense of humor. He’s very Bob Saget from Full House, feathered haircut, dad jeans and all.
“And, Benji, what about you? Have you perfected the recipe for, I don’t know, gourmet mountain lion meatballs?” Rita waves her hand and looks to the sky with a smirk. She’s just like everyone else who thinks he’s a genius with a knife, but for some reason, when she voices it, I’m not annoyed. I’m proud.
“Well, we’re actually opening a restaurant before the end of the year. We secured the space on Friday.”
I have to hand it to Benji—or, rather, his extremes. Unless he’s being especially subtle because he wants something, he just throws it the fuck out there. Whatever “it” is. I’ve called him on this behavior before, but he either doesn’t realize he’s doing it or doesn’t care. To Benji, the idea of chatting through this kind of stuff first is totally foreign. It’s his life, he thinks, so he can disseminate information about it however he wants. It’s part of his impulsiveness but it’s also part of his joie de vivre, I guess.
“Oh. Wow. You’re kidding,” Mark says. He and Rita look exceptionally inquisitive. Their kind eyes are alert but wary, cautious. I don’t blame them for not immediately offering their congratulations, but I’m expecting it soon.
“Yeah, it’s a 2,000-square-foot space over on Randolph Street. We submit the funds Monday.”
“No shit,” says Mark. I didn’t peg him for a curse-word kind of a guy. “So you found an investor, I take it?”
Benji’s rolling through the news like he’s talking about his morning routine. But Mark pausing to confirm an investor is involved at least indicates to me that they’ve somewhat discussed this before. I’m sure Mark is just as shocked as I am that a) it happened and b) this quickly.
“Yeah, Craig Peters.”
“Peterson,” I correct.
“Whatever. He’s some hedge fund dude. Ultra wealthy, has a couple spots in the ’burbs, wanted to make a move in the city and now I’m his guy in the kitchen.”
Mark squints and nods. “Are you two...similar? You and this Craig guy? I mean, does he get the things you want to do? Your style? Does he know anything about you or your past?”
What Mark is really asking is, How the hell did you pull this off? I’ve had a front-row seat to the whole show and I still have no idea.
“Yeah, he knows about it, and he’s cool with it. I’m also part owner so he’s going to have to remain cool with it, too, if you know what I mean.”
There he goes again, cracking his knuckles and bringing those tats into frame. Stand down, I want to say. Mark is on our side.
“I see. And did you have a lawyer look over the agreement? Make sure everything’s kosher?”
“It’s just a gentleman’s agreement for now,” he says. “The final inspection is Monday and if the space checks out, we’ll make it all official next week.”
Rita and Mark both pause to take a sip of their strawberry lemonade. I can’t read anything in their mannerisms and they don’t exchange so much as a raised eyebrow. My heart sinks a little bit, but I give them the benefit of the doubt. This is a lot to take in, and studied encouragement is kind of their thing.
“I’m going to grab my sun hat from the car, if you’ll excuse me.”
And just like that, Rita exits stage right and Mark hops up to go flip some burgers, leaving just Benji and me on the plaid blanket.
“Do you think they’re excited?” I ask. “They didn’t really say much.”
“Don’t worry. Mark and I will talk about it more during our session this week. He just doesn’t want to be rude. These picnics aren’t supposed to be about coursework or betterment. It’s a day where we can just be normal, you know?”
That makes sense so I drop it. Admittedly, I’m a little bummed I won’t get to hear Mark and Rita do their thing, but I respect the process.
After noshing on hot dogs and salty snacks and tossing a stick to a dog who’s loving the cool waters of Lake Michigan, we cab it back to Lincoln Park. Just your average Saturday.
Except every other Saturday hasn’t ended with an urgent text from Rita telling me to call her immediately.
It’s almost impossible to have a private conversation in my studio unless one of us is in the shower or taking a shit in the bathroom with the fan on. When Rita’s text comes through, Benji is eating crispy chicken thighs he just made and watching an episode of Pawn Stars.
“I’m going to check the mail,” I tell him.
“I’m about to go down for a cigarette, I can do it,” he says, licking the grease off his fingers and springing up from the sofa.
“Nah, it’s okay—just smoke out the window.” Normally I’m against enabling, but I need Benji to stay put while I talk to Rita. The urgency in her message is making my palms sweat.
My secret hiding space for calls like these isn’t actually the mailroom; it’s the storage units on the top floor. I take the elevator all the way up and get off on a cold, dark floor. I find a dial to a fluorescent light timer to my left and crank it a half turn. I’ve just bought myself twenty-two minutes of harsh lighting. I walk through a row of steel cages dotted with Master Locks. None of these are mine, but when I get to the end of the lockers, just below the stairwell to the locked roof access, there’s a floor-to-ceiling window facing downtown—the Hancock Building, Lake Shore Drive, the Lincoln Park Zoo, they’re all visible from up here. Why they’ve made the best vantage point in the whole building a space to store off-season ski equipment is beyond me. But when I find my seat on the cement floor, I pretend this is my living room as I look out at that million-dollar view. This is where I take my most private calls.
“Allie?”
“Yeah, hey, Rita. What’s up?” I say, noticing how overgrown my cuticles are.
“Are you alone?” Her usually sweet voice is now hushed. Perhaps I’m not the only one hiding out to have a private conversation.
“For the moment. Why? What’s going on?”
“Look, I’m not supposed to be doing this—calling you and all. Mark hated that I texted you yesterday. But I just... I really like you. You’re a good person. You really are. I confirmed that today. And that’s why I feel like I need to look after you a bit.”
“Well, thanks, Rita. I appreciate that.” I feel like she’s petitioning to become my sponsor and I’m not sure I need one. Or that I’m ready for this.
“That’s why I have to be honest with you about Benji.”
“What do you mean?” I know everything about him. What else do I need to hear?
“Swear that you will not confront him with this information? Just that you will just use it to make your own wise decisions?”
“Sure.”
“And you cannot tell Mark I told you, okay?”
“I don’t even have his number,” I reassure her. This is beginning to sound like the start of some juicy high school gossip and I’m not sure I want to be part of it.
“Okay. Here it goes. Benji hasn’t shown at the last four NA meetings.” Her tone is matter-of-fact.
“What? That’s impossible. Mark picked him up the other night. And I saw him leave yesterday morning with the books in his hand. He’s been going to the 10:30 a.m. one in the library basement, did you know that? Maybe Mark still thinks he’s going to the ones up off Belmont?”
“No, Allie, he hasn’t gone at all, trust me.”
“How do you know that?”
“He hasn’t answered Mark’s calls in a week. We were both shocked to see you at the picnic today. That’s why I texted you. To ask if you were coming.”
And here I thought she’d just wanted to know how many hot dogs to get. Could there really have been another reason?
“Okay, so what are you saying?” I catch sight of a deep wrinkle creasing my forehead in the faint reflection of my face in the glass. I get up and start to pace.
“I’m saying, he’s relapsing. I can’t say for sure if he’s actually done anything hard yet, but I’m telling you he’s about there.”
My feet freeze. There’s no way. NO WAY, my mind screams. I live with this person. I’m pretty sure I would be able to tell if something was off. And as far as I know, Benji is still the same old sober guy, eating food on my couch, watching TV.
Plus, there’s zero possibility that Benji would jeopardize the deal on Randolph Street. I’ve only met Craig once, but I don’t see him tolerating a lot of drug-addict behavior from the chef supposedly at the head of his next enterprise. And Angela? Forget about it. That woman takes no shit, period. She’d chop his nose off with a butcher knife if she suspected he was snorting coke.
And again, and most importantly, I haven’t noticed anything.
“I really don’t think he’s up to anything, Rita.” My tone is direct without being defensive. I don’t want to disrespect the wife of a guy who’s helped Benji come so far.
“I didn’t either. But now I do,” she says, still treading lightly.
“I’ve been watching him like a hawk. He doesn’t do much besides these pop-up dinners, the occasional business meeting and his NA stuff.”
But as I say this, a small voice in the back of my mind starts to pipe up about the Locator app. I haven’t checked it in forever, because there has been no activity to speak of. Now the voice says I should rummage through Benji’s history when I get off the phone, just to be safe. It wouldn’t hurt my peace of mind—or Rita’s—to know for sure that Benji has been where he’s said he’s been for the past few weeks.
“Look, I appreciate that you love and care for him, but I’m not so sure he’s being forthright with you, Allie.” Again, Rita shows her mastery of the polite understatement. What she means is, “I think you’re being fucked over and you’re completely blind to reality.”
“And if he isn’t,” she continues, “then let me just tell you this: you do not want to get in the ring with an addiction like his. You are never going to win.”
I take that statement as the threat it’s intended to be. I don’t like that she’s challenging me, undermining not only the work that Benji has done the last 100 days, but also all the shit I’ve put up with since Day One to make it work with this guy.
“Isn’t there supposed to be some level of anonymity with this whole program? What is your intention here?”
Up until now, I considered Rita to be the fairy godmother of recovery. Now she’s spreading rumors to me about Benji’s attendance—or lack thereof—and it feels like some sort of a shitty retaliation tactic. Was it something I said?
“My intention is to prevent him from taking you down. Financially,” she clarifies.
“Excuse me?”
“I had a boyfriend just like him twenty-five years ago. It started off innocently enough. He got me high at a party. Then the next day, then the day after. You’d be surprised how quick an addiction kicks in when you’ve got the hots for someone and your serotonin is out of whack. From there, he convinced me his habit was our habit and somehow I should be the one to fund it. Before I knew it, I had lost $28,000. Do you know how much that was back then?”
I’m about to lose—I mean, invest—thirty grand myself, so I have some idea.
“I had a trust fund from my parents, and I blew it all on heroin,” Rita adds. There’s a tinge of something that might be shame in her voice. “Not a day goes by that I don’t regret dwindling that account down to nothing. Because when he realized I didn’t have anything left, he picked up and moved on to another girl who did. He left me broke and alone, disowned by my family, heartsick and dopesick.”
Rita—sweet, middle-aged mom Rita—is coming completely undone. Nothing I can say will plug the hole, so I let it bleed out even more as I pick at my nails.
“I was in this dark, depressed space.” I hold the phone away to protect my eardrums as her voice catches. “And the next thing I knew I was blowing guys for ten bucks’ worth of dope so I wouldn’t wind up in an alley by myself to die in withdrawal.”
I bring the phone back up to my ear, not entirely sure what to say after picturing the woman in a rose-print dress and wide-brimmed hat from earlier today laid out in an alley two decades ago. “Rita, with all due respect, I have never touched a drug. I’m not going to start now. So if you’ll excuse—”
“Cut the shit, Allie.” Rita’s voice sharpens like a Wüsthof. I can tell this is the tone she uses when someone bullies her kid on the playground. “You know what kills me? That most of the girls he gets to give him an allowance, buy him clothes, put a roof over his head...they’re really dumb. And insecure. And they’re just as broken as he is. Like I was back then. But you are sweet! You are smart! You are sane! How did he manage to do it? To trick you into this investment?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Rita. You don’t know what arrangements were made.”
“Oh, please. Mark and I know damn well you’re paying for his portion of the restaurant. And if you weren’t doing it, he’d be on to the next girl who would. Mark and I have known Benji for a long time. Before you were ever in the picture. We know his shtick.”
For the second time in as many days, I catch myself thinking, What the fuck is going on?
Benji, Mark and Rita go way back? I guess that’s a detail Benji purposefully left out when he told me about the nice, all-American couple he conveniently got to sponsor him the same day he was suddenly sharing my address.
Or maybe...none of this is true. Maybe Rita’s a whack-job with permanent brain damage from all the drugs she’s done and is now trying to get back at me and Mark for being able to successfully manage having a guy like her ex in our lives. And as far as I’m concerned, Benji at this point seems like the only one upholding his end of this anonymity bargain. Which leads me to believe that maybe this program he’s working isn’t actually all that rock solid if its members can’t even follow the rules. Maybe he should start putting some distance between himself and them after all.
Fuck, I can’t decide whose side I’m on.
We both pause for a quick pulse check. Rita, the only person on the planet who—I thought—has my back with this whole Benji thing, has just insinuated that Benji’s broken and I’m disposable. The lump in my throat is the size of a walnut and the sting of betrayal makes it impossible to swallow, let alone respond.
“Don’t get me wrong, Benji’s a sweet guy. He’s got a lot in there, in that heart of his. And he may still be sober...but he sure as hell ain’t clean. And that’s a difference I’m afraid you don’t know how to spot.” She sighs. “It’s not too late. Don’t cut that check. You will regret it, and it will haunt you.”
I take a deep breath. This is not the phone call I was prepared to take, and it’s filled to the brim with information I’m not able to process.
“Rita, I don’t know how to respond to this,” I say, noting the tick of the lighting timer in my beat of silence. “But it’s getting late and I need to go now. Good night.”
I hang up the phone and set it down on the cement floor of the storage unit. I fix my gaze on the traffic zooming up and down Lake Shore Drive on this surreal Saturday night. I wonder if any one of the people in those cars and cabs is dealing with anything remotely like this. Or are they all just going fun places—to fancy dinners, out to clubs, over to a friend’s for a house party?
How is this my life right now?
My biggest fear about dating Benji has always been denial: becoming a codependent enabler. There’s a support group for this, CoDA—the one Benji told me to avoid at all costs. Apparently, those are the meetings for the ones who can’t quite cut it in Nar-Anon. Who can’t stay strong and see through the bullshit. And I agree, that isn’t me.
Not yet, at least.
Rita’s two cents are what they are, but I remind myself that Benji is innocent until proven guilty—otherwise, what’s the point? Why am I housing, loving, supporting and funding this person? I’ve been so careful, so vigilant this whole time. And maybe, says a small voice in my head, so naive.
But before I go racing downstairs for a conversation that will most certainly turn into a fight, I settle into my seat on the cold floor and try to take an objective look at the situation. I mean, if he was really trying to avoid Mark, why the hell did Benji insist we show up at the picnic today? Why did we spend so much time chatting together like nothing was up? Why look them in the eye and share the news about the restaurant? And what about them—why didn’t they call his ass out for missing the meetings and dodging their calls? Nothing seemed odd today—nothing seemed off. Except Mark and Rita’s reaction.
Plain and simple, I can’t picture Benji relapsing. And more than that, I can’t picture me not picking up on the signs.
But then there’s the money thing. Rita’s warning about him bleeding me dry is slightly jarring, but I’ve finally come to terms with making the investment. Yes, I’m doing it for Benji—but also for myself. Opportunity doesn’t come without risk, and this is one I’m not alone in taking. Angela told me investors make their money back—and between her, Craig and Benji, the bases are plenty covered. We cannot fail. It actually does not seem possible.
I remind myself that Rita was a junkie who chose to trash her trust fund—she said so herself. That is not me. It never will be. But getting high and draining the account your parents set up for you on your doped-out lover has to come with some pretty weighty issues that I doubt go away with time, I don’t care how many NA meetings she’s been to. Maybe hearing Benji and I talk about our upcoming endeavor today stirred up some bad memories. Benji and I are what she and her heroin honey could have been and it’s killing her inside.
Ugh. Why can’t people just leave us alone? Just let us be happy together? It’s not my fault she hasn’t dealt with her shit properly, and my load is heavy enough without carrying her baggage, too.
My phone pings with a Google Alert. I open it and see our names in a Tweet. Throwback to when I met @BJZane and @AllieSimon at @RepublicChi. They are so nice & chill!
It’s the hostess from Republic posting the selfie of the three of us from right before we left that night. I didn’t realize my eyeliner was smudged and my hair went flat. Nor did I realize that Benji was kissing my cheek while he snapped the pic as if I was still the prettiest princess in all the land.
Benji isn’t using. Until I see it with my own eyes, I won’t believe it. I won’t even check Locator.
And as far as the restaurant, Here is happening; I’m just waiting for the green light from Angela. Until then, I plan to enjoy the rest of my weekend, even if a member of my small support network has just gone AWOL.
I stand and head back downstairs just as the lights go dark.
“Any good mail?” Benji asks. He’s tucked himself into bed by the time I return. I have a white lie cued up about the elevators being slow, but as far as I can tell, Benji doesn’t realize any time has passed at all since I left.
“Nope, nothing,” I say, climbing into bed with him. “What are you reading?”
Benji closes the book, keeping his thumb pressed into the page he’s on, and reads the title off: “The Physiology of Taste.”
In bed. With a cookbook.
Nothing to see here, Rita.
“Hey, can I actually talk to you about something?” Benji says. My heart flutters. Please don’t let this be a confession of sorts.
“Of course—what’s going on?” I take a seat on the foot of the bed. He leans toward me.
“I’m thinking of doing some pop-ups next week. You know, to get some extra cash before I’m totally committed to working on stuff for Here.”
“Is that a good idea? I mean, isn’t Angela going to need you come Monday?”
“Did she text you? Is it a go?” His eyes get big as he asks.
“Not yet. I’m just speaking hypothetically.”
“Well, then, no. Not really. There’s always red tape to get through the first week, week and a half. Money stuff, demo, filing for permits, shit I’m not going to need to be involved in.”
It’s ironic the thing I’ve tried to push him into doing more of, pop-ups, is the thing I’m currently trying to get him to pedal away from now.
“Where are you going to do them?” Due Diligence Debbie asks.
“Sebastian met the owner of some small breakfast–coffee shop place in Pilsen that closes at 2 p.m. She said we could pick a day that works for us and take over her space after that.”
“And she’s not charging you?”
“Nope. Not a dime. We obviously need to clean up after ourselves and not break anything, but she’s willing to trade for the press my dinners will bring to her little no-name spot.”
“I don’t know. I still think you need to support Angela.”
“No, I need to support you. Allie, once we get really moving on things with Here, I’m not going to be able to cook your meals or pack your lunches for a while and I can’t stop thinking about it.”
“You’re worried about my eating habits?”
“A deal is a deal, babe. And soon I’m going to have to press the pause button on the promise I made you—that I’d keep the apartment clean and have a hot meal on the table for you every night. So please, trust that Angela will be fine and let me work a pop-up or two and put some cash in your pocket so you can at least order Grubhub or something. I’ll sleep easier knowing you’re not living on that secret stash of Hostess cupcakes in the bottom drawer in the kitchen.”
I bite my bottom lip and drop eye contact. Sure, a part of me is embarrassed that I’ve been caught, but another part is completely flattered that Benji wants to be the breadwinner this badly.
“Okay, babe. It sounds like it could work, but let me figure out the spreadsheets and stuff tomorrow. It’s too late now to work on it.”
“I love you.” He kisses my forehead. “So fucking much it’s unbelievable.”
My phone buzzes in my hand with a text.
Benji springs up and asks again if it’s Angela.
It’s not. It’s not her, or Craig, or Rita, or Mark, or any of the other cast of characters I can barely stand right now. Instead, it’s Maya telling me she is down the block at a bar with Jazzy and asking if I want to meet them for a drink.
I’m shocked she’s reaching out, as I’m fairly certain my little temper tantrum last week at Roka Akor caused some serious PTSD in all of us. However, the neutral text asking me to do something so normal and routine right now is comforting. It’s been a long day, and I know I need to muster a difficult apology when I get there, but I really want to go. I just hope Benji won’t mind.
“It looks like Maya and Jazzy are at Doc’s. Do you mind if I meet up with them for a quick—” I catch myself mid-ask and revise to something a little safer. “Do you mind if I meet up with them quickly?”
“Of course not, babe. You need your girl time. I know that’s important.”
“You sure?” I double-check.
“Positive. I’ll be right here, learning how to take my beef bouillon to the next level.”
I smile at him. He’s come a long way in how he chooses to spend his Saturday nights.
* * *
“Hi, Allie!” says Maya as she moves her purse and taps the seat next to her. She and Jazzy have claimed a table in the dimly lit lounge section of the bar. It’s busy, but not entirely loud. Some new Justin Bieber song is playing in the background and the girls are sharing a hummus platter.
I give Maya a hug and Jazzy reaches over the table and throws her arms around the both of us. The mash-up of their perfumes reminds me of the fact I’m wearing none. And haven’t since before Benji got sober. The smell of Calvin Klein Euphoria is something else I fear may send him over the edge.
“I’ve missed you guys so much. Thanks for texting me... I really needed this.”
“Girl time? Or the wine?” Jazzy says, gesturing to the bottle of pinot noir on the table.
“All of the above,” I say as I pour myself a heavy glass of red.
“Well, before you say anything,” Maya starts, “I just want to apologize for overstepping our bounds last time we were together. It wasn’t my place to rattle off statistics, not that you let me get two words out.”
“I know, I’m sorry. I was acting like a total bitch.”
“No, you were acting like the proud girlfriend you are,” she says. “I needed the reminder, however harsh it was, that the only people who know what’s best for you and Benji is you and Benji.”
“Yeah, exactly,” Jazzy joins in. They’ve probably rehearsed this, but I don’t mind. “I mean, we’ve been friends for a long time. I have never seen you with a guy like Benji. But then I realized I’ve also never seen you this happy. And I love you. And I love him. And I love you guys together. And that’s not the wine talking.”
“I really appreciate that. Seriously. Can we cheers now? And order more hummus?”
On my walk over to Doc’s, I must have recited ten different ways I could swallow my pride and tell Jazzy and Maya that I needed to talk. I was going to unload this whole restaurant thing on them—every gritty detail. I was going to tell them about Mark and Rita and get their vibe on the possibility of a relapse. I was going to tell them they might have been right about Benji.
But they stopped the bleeding before it even started. Their realizations and apologies and affirmations create the trifecta I need to feel at peace again. The universe has worked itself out, and my faith in all of my most important relationships is restored.