7
“Smells so good. Burgers?” I ask, inhaling greedily as I walk through the door. The drama with Jazzy and Maya dissipates upon first whiff.
“Not quite, babe.” Benji pops out from the galley kitchen and kisses me, a warm oven mitt gently cradling my face. “Chicken with roasted carrots and broccoli, and mashed sweet potato gnocchi.”
He’s nailed it and he knows it. Benji’s soft, pillowy gnocchi recently dethroned his infamous macaroni and cheese as my favorite meal. Plus, I’m a sucker for sweet potato anything. Coming home to this will never get old, I tell myself as he dips back into the kitchen to put the finishing touches on our meal for two.
“Do I have time to change?” I ask as I kick off my shoes.
“You do, but...”
“But what? What’s the problem?”
He takes two steps toward me, kisses my lips, then works his way down to my neck. I roll my head back and feel the goose bumps start to surface. He and I both know that when he gets to my neck, we go to the bed. But before he spends too much time on my sweet spot, he stops himself and heads back to his post at the stove.
“The problem is I want to fuck if you’re already going to be undressing, but I can’t right now because I’m at a critical spot with these potatoes.”
I feel my face flush. It’s unimaginable that I’m with someone who is as creative and passionate in the bedroom as he is in the kitchen.
Benji makes me feel like a woman. A desired woman. A wanted woman. And even though it’s his libido that’s amped up, it’s mine that’s just getting discovered.
Before Benji, I was doing the whole single-in-the-city thing. Not necessarily by choice, but Chicago is an epicenter for Peter Pan Syndrome—that thing where grown men still think drinking until 6:00 a.m. in Wrigleyville with their buddies on the weekend is a good look. I swear, no guy here is in a rush for any sort of committed relationship.
So I did what all other twentysomething females with a Chicago zip code do: embraced it and rotated through guys on Tinder. Clearly I’m not one to scoff at meeting someone from the internet (hello, @BJZane), but you could say there was something a little too casual about my love life in the time between moving back after college and finding my way with Benji.
“You just have to get to the third date,” Maya would say. “Cosmo says that’s a morally acceptable amount of time before sleeping with a guy.” But three dates with a person I knew I didn’t have a future with felt like a slow race. And when we managed to finally get there, sex felt like something I needed to squeeze in like a side of vegetables because it was good for me.
I was never truly needed by a guy before Benji came along, and so I never realized just how powerful that feeling is. Dirty talk? Yeah, sure, whatever. But tell me you need me, and I’m halfway to an orgasm. I may have learned this about myself from Benji, but he’s learned from me that saying it gets him what he wants—both in and out of the bedroom.
It may not be outlined in the official NA handbook, but I’ve read enough lifestyle blogs to know that regular sex is part of a normal, healthy relationship. And that’s what I’m after here—normal and healthy—no matter how I have to go about getting us there.
“How about in a little bit?” I bargain. “We’ll put on an episode of Lost.”
“Putting on an episode of Lost” is essentially code for “we’re going to screw.” I don’t know what it is about that show, but every time we watch it, we wind up naked on the couch within the first twenty minutes. I have no idea what’s actually happening in the season two story line, but it does a good job washing out the occasional moan that could be heard by those waiting for the elevator in the hallway.
“Okay, deal. Go change and let’s eat.”
We eat dinner together every night unless he’s got something pop-up related going on or an evening NA meeting with Mark. Most of the time, we stay at the apartment. Partly because preparing me a home-cooked meal is a term and condition in the stay-sober deal he made with me, and partly because going out to eat in this city is almost always a spectacle. Don’t get me wrong, it feels incredible—to be the woman behind the man like I was at Republic. But tonight I’m craving simple and delicious in all facets of my life, so I’m pleased it’s just us.
Sprawling granite countertops are not part of the amenities in my tiny unit. So Benji hinged a piece of butcher’s block to the wall for added prep space a few weeks ago. I have no clue how sturdy it is, or what kind of damage he’s caused to the drywall, but tonight he’s set it up as a makeshift table for two. There’s a single yellow flower, plucked from the landscaping near the front door, poking out of a highball glass. It’s a romantic touch and I quickly forget how cramped we are when he puts a steaming plate in front of me. I’m in awe this was made right here in my underequipped kitchen.
“How is it?”
“You know I’m obsessed with this gnocchi.”
“Good, babe,” he says, pushing the flower into frame and snapping a photo of his plate before uploading it to social media. Not everything can be sacred, I guess. “I made extra for your lunch tomorrow.”
There are times I doubt that I’m doing this right—this whole keeping-an-addict-sober thing. It’s like losing your virginity or graduating from college: there aren’t manuals for this kind of stuff. But when I hear him say that he’s made a double batch of my favorite food so I can eat well at work tomorrow, I know something’s working, something’s clicking. He’s thinking about someone other than himself and it’s a relief seeing that he’s on the right track. Not to mention empowering to know that I helped steer him there.
But he can’t distract me with food forever. There’s something I need to bring up, even if it means derailing our Lost plans.
“So what’s with the email I got from Angela?” I keep my voice calm and pop another gnocchi in my mouth.
“What do you mean?” he asks, peeling the crispy skin off his chicken with his bare hands and stuffing it in his mouth. I guess two can play at this keep-it-casual game.
“She emailed us this afternoon. Said that you said to keep me looped in on everything.”
“Well, yeah,” he says, chewing thoughtfully. “She needs to know that I’m only in if you are. If she thinks I can be successful without you in the picture, she’s dead wrong. Made that crystal fucking clear today.”
My face flushes again; this man trusts me with his life, his career, his everything. It’s an incredible responsibility and an honor. I only wish I could put it on my résumé.
“So I don’t have to do anything, right? I don’t need to reply?” I want confirmation that this is his pet project, not mine.
“Did you look at the attachments?”
“No, why?”
“They detail the investment.” His voice takes on a salesy quality.
“Isn’t that for some old, rich, white guy to peruse?”
“Craig is his name. Yeah, but he’s not the only investor here,” Benji clarifies. “We have to own a part of it, too, or this isn’t going to work.”
Bomb. Dropped. And something tells me this isn’t “an extra twenty dollars for cab fare” kind of investment. I can feel my blood start to come to a slow boil. I set down my fork, which still has a gnocchi dangling from the spears.
I accept that Benji cannot do much on his own at this stage in the game. And I don’t mind helping. Having him in my life has shown me how much of a natural-born problem solver I am. Couple that with my need to feel needed, and I understand why he feels comfortable running everything by me. But sometimes I wish I had the option to RSVP “no” before getting roped into the real clusterfucks.
“What are you talking about? Either this Angela chick has an investor who’s footing the bill or she doesn’t and this is just a bullshit scheme to bleed you dry and use your name.” My appetite suddenly disappears.
“What are you talking about?” Benji snaps back.
I know where this is going—to the land where civil conversation goes to die. My only hope is that we don’t emotionally drain each other before dessert is served.
“Do you have any clue how these things work, Allie? Obviously not. Yeah, sure, Craig could front the whole thing easily. But if he does, we have no say in what the hell goes on there.”
Please stop saying we.
“I’ll just be a slave to whatever some sixty-year-old fuck-face from the suburbs wants to do. I’m not taking that kind of a risk. Not on Randolph Street. Not at this stage in my career.”
Career is hardly a word I’d use to describe what goes on in here between his jimmy-rigged food prep and the micro profit we pull, but I throw no flags. Yet.
“What do you want for me, Allie?” He continues with the diatribe. “Do you want me working at a place with some laminated spiral-bound menu that can be wiped off when someone’s kid throws up on it? That’s going to be my big return to the food scene? Loaded baked potato skins and early-bird specials? Please, I’ll get laughed straight out of Chicago and have to spend another six years staging around the country before I find my way again.”
Subtle as it may be, I recognize that as both a threat and a jab. The likelihood that Benji would actually throw away this cushy Lincoln Park setup to go back to coast-to-coast couch surfing is slim to none. But he’s certainly attempting to get me to believe that this life I’ve helped him create isn’t good enough.
Needless to say, this is not the first time a normal conversation with Benji has gone sour. What hasn’t killed him has indeed made him stronger. But it also has caused him to develop unhealthy coping mechanisms and an uncanny ability to turn a neutral chat into a straight-up confrontation. Most of the time, I can defuse the situation before one of us throws something. A reminder that one call to the front desk from an angry neighbor is all it will take to get us kicked out of our building usually gets him to lower his voice. Tonight, I don’t see that tactic bringing him down. I’m just glad the days of him running to a pile of cocaine to feel better are over.
That said, I need to find solid ground again. So I take a breath and try a different approach.
“Why don’t you fill me in, then. What was in that attachment, Benji?” I keep my voice calm and, I hope, curious.
“The number.”
“What number?” I say, willing my hands not to shake with suppressed frustration as I resume eating.
“Thirty.”
“Thirty what, Benji? Just tell me, okay? Please.”
“Grand.”
I put my head in my hands and rub my eyes. “You need that kind of money to do this deal with them?”
“No. For them to do the deal with me.”
It might be my head spinning, but this is not adding it up. The confused look on my face signals Benji to explain his rationale.
“If we can’t buy in, I tell them I’m out and this whole thing capsizes. Angela said so herself, they’re not doing this open with any other chef. If I bow out because I can’t have part ownership, the space goes straight to the MLS where it’ll be scooped up by someone else, probably Ross Luca to be honest, and the opportunity for Craig to have a restaurant on Randolph Street is over. So it’s ten percent, or I tell them to get fucked.”
“And ten percent is $30,000?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then, tell them to get fucked.”
With a steak knife in his grip, Benji slams his fist to the table.
“God fucking damn it, Allie. You’re missing the point. Opportunities like this don’t wind up in your lap every day—or at least, not in mine, okay? You know my past. Angela knows my past. And this whole city knows my past. And guess what? She and Craig are still willing to do a deal with me. They’re willing to give me a chance that no one else is ballsy enough to offer. They know I’m the right person for this regardless of what they’ve read about me on that hack-job FoodFeed blog.”
FoodFeed’s given him his platform in this city and he knows it. He may claim now, in this moment, that he doesn’t care about what they write, but he and I both know it’s the first and last thing he looks at every day.
“Well, if they know so much about your past, they should know you’re still in recovery and ought to give you another six months to get your shit together.” It comes off snide, but I’m just being defensive of him.
“Look, I’ve known I wanted to do something like this since I learned how to make barbecue sauce from scratch. Since I learned to make a roux for real mac ’n’ cheese. Since I said fuck you to my dad and turned my back on my deadbeat mom. Since traveling thousands of miles, sleeping on hundreds of floors and making shit money while staging at places that didn’t care about me. I stuck all of that out because I knew it would lead me to something like this. And now that something is finally here. I’m not saying no. I can’t.”
Benji gets up from his seat, crouches down like he’s doing a squat and grabs my hand.
“I’ve been sober for ninety-two days, Allie. That’s ninety-two days of doing nothing but sitting in this apartment, fucking around in this tiny ass kitchen and busting my dick doing one-off pop-up dinners for people who have the audacity to call themselves ‘foodies.’ Aren’t you tired of that? I’m tired of that.”
I’ve been cheerleading so hard for these pop-ups; rooting for him not to give up on them. I don’t know what my obsession is with them, to be honest. They’re a lot of work, a little bit of money and would be completely frowned upon by a handful of governmental agencies if they knew about them. But they give me a sense of control that I find comforting. The moment I hop into the Excel document that shows his food costs or his current guest list, I see exactly what he’s up to—who, what, when and where. And I can breathe easier and sleep better at night.
But if I remove that from the equation and make this not about me, then the truth is that, yes, I am already tired of the pop-up scene. Tired of having to wait for someone to submit their reservation payment so that I can buy a new shirt. Tired of black-market squirrel meat purveyors doing drop-offs in my lobby at 2:00 a.m. Tired of there being corn silks in my sheets at night because there’s never enough counter space. Tired of snapping at my friends because a conversation about these stupid dinners can turn into a full-blown fight about my relationship.
But still, a couple hundred dollars every week makes more sense than $30,000 all at once. I mean, that’s just basic math, right?
“So what are you asking me, Benji? What’s the endgame here?”
I watch brown butter cool and solidify around what’s left of my gnocchi. If I tried to swallow another bite right now, I’m pretty sure I would choke.
“I’m not asking for anything, Allie. I’m telling you that we’re so close—so, so close—to not ever having to worry about money again.”
Is this reverse psychology? Okay, sure—I guess I can see the logic here. But—
“Benji, where is this magical $30,000 going to come from?”
He gets up and sits back in his own chair.
There’s a small chance he’s going to say the investment could come from me. Why? Because occasionally I send him to get the cash he needs for his pop-ups with my ATM card. It’s a risky move given the fact he’s a recovering addict, but I feel like every instance when I can show my faith in him makes him stronger—makes us stronger. He hasn’t proved me wrong so far. That said, he’s obviously seen my account balance, which is roughly $31,783.44 (but hey, who’s counting?). He knows that I technically have enough to cover the ask.
My savings are, well, mine. They are the result of nearly a decade of work. A decade. I cobbled that impressive sum by babysitting at age twelve, sweeping up hair at a salon at fifteen, working at the mall at sixteen and slinging beers at a bar by my college damn near every day for four years. By the time I got hired at Daxa, I was doing pretty well for myself. A five-grand signing bonus and a decent salary was the icing on the hard-work-pays-off cake.
But what I have in my account now, I’m fairly certain, isn’t meant to be spent in one fell swoop, and not by the ripe old age of twenty-five. I’m smart enough to know a woman’s life savings isn’t meant to be blown owning 10 percent of some dude’s dream, no matter how good in the sack—or the kitchen—he is.
Benji knows this, too. On some level, he must. So I’ve got to be missing something here. I just can’t see it yet.
“Babe.” His tone is suddenly, dramatically different, like honey on warm toast. He reaches out from across the table and grabs my hands again. This time, his are noticeably clammy.
“Hear me out. We invest ten percent now, just enough to make sure we get a little say with things from the start. After the restaurant pays out salaries and costs, whatever’s left in profits is yours and Craig’s. Then, we work it into the contract that at a certain level of revenue earned, our ten percent grows to twenty-five, then fifty-one, then seventy-five, and finally—in a few years—we’re at ninety and Craig’s at ten.”
I literally.
Cannot.
Even.
He’s asking me for $30,000. Thirty thousand dollars.
“And when we’re at ninety percent ownership,” he continues, blissfully unaware of the sirens blaring in my head, “we’ll be living in a brownstone a block from the lake. Four floors, all to ourselves, a little yard. We’ll have popped out a kid or two by then with one more on the way. You won’t have to work at all. And we’ll be having dinner, just like this, at a massive table—kids will be in bed, cute dog asleep at our feet—and you know what? We’ll look back at this conversation and laugh. I’ll say, ‘Remember when we talked about doing this five years ago? Weren’t we having dinner in your little studio or something?’ And you’ll say, ‘Yeah, I remember fighting about Randolph Street while eating that shitty chicken you roasted. I can’t believe we ever hesitated.’ How does that sound?”
Funny enough, it still sounds like he’s asking me for $30,000.
He releases my hands, lets out a sigh and scoots back a few inches in his chair. The spell he cast on himself has been broken.
“Babe, look. I know you have the money. I’m not asking for it right now. But I am asking you to come with Angela and me to meet the investor at the space. I want you to be part of that conversation. Will you at least do that for me? Be part of a conversation? That’s fair, right?”
The sensation of being drowned in a sea of Benji’s pretty words starts to subside, his intensity ebbing back out to the wide-open ocean where it belongs.
“Yes. I can do that.” The pressure valves have been opened.
“Thank you,” he says, like we’ve just settled on terms to end the Cold War. He rises and takes our plates to the sink.
Now would be the ideal time to take a sip of wine, but a deep breath will have to suffice. As Benji rinses the dishes, I take mental inventory of what just happened.
Benji tried to speed through a yellow light in asking outright for the investment. When he saw he was going to crash and burn, he diverted, suggesting that he merely wants a second opinion on the space. There’s no need to call him out. In fact, I feel bad for him. After all, someone is dangling his dream scenario in front of his face and I’m the only one who can help him reach it.
“Dessert, babe.” Benji returns to the table with deconstructed cannoli, my favorite. This is the same dish he plated using tweezers and Daxa before uploading it to the Twittersphere for me to find all those months ago. This sweet finish is the reason, roundaboutly, that we are here, doing life together. I’m warmed by the throwback as I take a bite.
“Who are you texting?” I ask as I get a sinking feeling that he’s sitting across from me firing off a message to Angela about the restaurant right now.
“Mark. I’m asking him if he can take me to a meeting.”
“Right now? What about Lost?”
“I’d love to, trust me. And we will. But right now, I need to prioritize my sobriety. This was a tense dinner, babe. And I’m sorry for the role I played in that. If I head to a meeting, it’ll help me hit the reset button and that’s a good thing. Mark’s on his way now to get me. That okay?”
A welcome smile hits my lips. I’m impressed that self-awareness has joined us at the table. Benji taking this kind of initiative with his well-being is as attractive as his tatted arms and command over the kitchen.
“Of course,” I say. “Tell Mark I said hi. And thanks.”