Kit
When it’s been a month since I’ve seen Ben, when I’ve worn out all my memories of him in my house, in my bed, even those brief times he was with me at work, I go to the salvage yard.
I’ve been back for a couple of weeks now, my dad settled into the trailer with Candace, and Alex opting to stay in Ohio for a month or so to keep an eye on things. I’d offered to stay too, had winced at the thought of Alex being there on his own, but he’d insisted. “You need to get back, Kit,” he’d said. “You need to be home.”
He was right. I did need to be home, and anyways, I think Alex needed to be in Ohio, or, at the very least, needed to be in one place for a while. At work, things have been slow, a summer lull, Dr. Singh and I adjusting to the awkward aftermath of the Beaumont offer and our subsequent conversation about it when I’d come back to town. “I need more time,” I’d told him, the first day I was back in the office, and he’d said, “I don’t think you do.” We’d gone to lunch that day, a winding, two-hour affair at a Chinese buffet which provided a perfect opportunity for breaks to plate-reload when the conversation got hard. I’d told him my reasons for not wanting the job—the professional and the personal reasons, though I’d left out everything about Ben. And Dr. Singh had told me he hadn’t wanted to take the money, that he was nervous and unsettled by the contract requirements anyway. I told him about the lottery. I told him I understood if he wanted someone else to have the job. And he told me there was no one else who could do the job the way I could, and the whole department wanted me on board for as long as I was happy.
Once we’d settled the bill, I’d asked him, hot-faced and fidgety, who it was that had called him from Beaumont, but deep down, I already knew the answer: not Ben.
That evening, I’d made an offer to my contractor to move up my kitchen renovation, and then I’d added, on a reckless whim, a contract to work on my upstairs bath. Basically, I’ve made it very, very difficult to live there comfortably, and so most days I’ve stayed with Zoe or Greer. I know I’m lying to myself about why I’ve done this. I say it’s because it’ll be better to get the major renovations done before the school year starts up again. I say that since money isn’t really an issue, I might as well pay for the rush jobs, even though this kind of spending is entirely out of character for me. But really, it’s because I’m rattling around in that house, too upset to be alone with my thoughts, missing Ben so much that I’m restless with it, unable to sit still. I suspect Zoe and Greer know this too, though they don’t say anything.
So going to see Henry at the salvage yard—I say it’s to look into the restored clawfoot tubs he has—is only one of the decisions I’ve made since I’ve been back that has more to do with Ben than I’m willing to admit.
It’s Sharon who’s out front when I arrive, and judging by her face, I’ve not been missed around here, or at least I’m no one’s favorite. Somehow, even when she says hello, her lips seem to stay pursed, displeased. She asks how I’ve been but it seems pinched and obligatory. If anything, this oddly makes me like Sharon even more—I don’t think Ben quite realizes it, but Sharon watches him as if he’s her very own. At the Crestwood party, Sharon had flushed with pride when Ben had told her that she looked nice, a genuine reaction that seemed so different from the way Ben interacted with his mother. But I still don’t relish the thought of being under her gaze, and she also seems relieved when I ask for Henry.
He’s in the office, at the workbench, working on rewiring a light fixture that right now is only a small bulb on a wire, but I’ve been around here enough times to know it probably goes to something beautiful and unique and old. At first, I hover in the doorway, unsure if I’ll be able to handle a similarly chilly reception from Henry. I think if I do, it might break me, might ensure that I never come back here again. But when he turns, there’s a familiar light in his eyes, and he stands from his stool to greet me.
“Look at you!” I say, noticing that he’d been able to stand without his cane, without using the table for leverage.
“Still can’t walk without the cane,” he says, smiling. “But I’m up and down mostly on my own now, especially if I’m up high enough. Feeling pretty good.”
“I’m so glad,” I say, still staying in the doorway, still unsure.
“How’s your father doing?”
“He’s doing better. He’ll be okay, I think, so long as he takes care of himself a little more.”
“Good of you to go there to be with him,” Henry says. “It makes a real difference.”
I barely manage a nod to this, look down toward my feet. I don’t know if it made a real difference to my dad that I was there, not how it mattered for Henry to have Ben. I’d arranged to take care of expenses, and I’d done my best to get to know Candace better, to steer clear of any ugly topics between me and Dad. But he mostly seemed embarrassed by my presence, once he was more awake, and the only day I saw him relax a bit was the day Alex took me to the airport to fly home. Ben is so lucky to have Henry. I wonder if he knows that.
“Come on in,” Henry says, gesturing toward the small table where I once sat with Ben and River, talking about physics. “Keep me company while I do up this wiring.”
“Sure,” I say, but then quickly add, “I mean, I really came to look at some bathtubs.” I don’t want him to think I’m doing what I’m really doing, which is checking up on him, mining for any information I might be able to get about Ben.
But Henry sees through me, same as everyone else does, I guess, and waves me in. “Sure. I can show you some if you give me a few minutes on this.”
I settle in at the chair facing his workbench so I can watch him tinker—it’s hard to believe that when I met him, he was in a wheelchair, his arm bound close to his body. We sit like that for a while, quietly, comfortably, and it’s such a contrast to the uneasiness I felt in Ohio, even in spite of the awkwardness of the situation between us. It’s that comfort, I think, that emboldens me now.
“How’s Ben?”
Henry’s hands barely pause in his task, but I’m watching him so closely that I notice. “He’s all right. Working a lot.”
“Yeah,” I say dumbly, as if that’s to be expected, as if I know Ben’s work habits in Houston so well. “Well, I’ll bet he’s glad to be back.”
Henry’s response to this is a hum of something—not assent, but not disagreement, either. I wish I hadn’t asked now. It’s spoiled the easy silence that was between us before. When I’m about to excuse myself, tell him maybe Sharon can show me around, he speaks up.
“You know, when he was a boy, about a week after his mother moved out, he snuck out in the middle of the night, took his bike.”
I stiffen in my seat a little, bracing myself. When I was with Ben, I’d been desperate to hear stories from when he was a kid. I’d shared things—embarrassing, sometimes sad things—about the way I’d grown up, but Ben had kept things close. I don’t know if hearing this now is what I want or what I shouldn’t want.
“I about went crazy with worry,” Henry goes on, seemingly unaware of my discomfort. “Back then, I did a lot of that with Ben. He was always in trouble. He finally showed up at home a few hours later, didn’t say a word, just sat in a chair while I screamed my head off at him.” Henry pauses, stretching his left hand, fingers out and in, wrist back and forth. “That night Laura calls, all upset, asks how he’s doing. She told me he’d ridden his bike to where she’d worked, waited outside for her until she showed up. Begged her to come back, promised he’d be a better kid. He cried his heart out, I guess, and Ben wasn’t much of a crier, ever. She had Richard bring him home, but Ben insisted on getting dropped off a few blocks away.”
I think about how Ben makes his living, about how every aspect of his business is about saying the right thing to get someone to come with him, about how he’d never, not from that first day we met, managed to say the right thing to me. That night at the Ursinus, and after he’d said he loved me, I’d wanted him to say something about the two of us, about how we could be together, but he’d never quite managed that. He’d never put himself out there. I think, horribly, about that moment he stood before me in the hospital: I’ll do anything. “That’s…terrible,” I manage, around what feels like a big ball of cotton swelling in my throat.
He shrugs, swallows thickly before clearing his throat. “It was my idea, to have Ben. I pushed and pushed. And after, I could see Laura wasn’t happy. She wasn’t so happy before, probably, but at first, we had something. I was stupid, young. I thought a kid would make us closer, how we’d been before. Worst thing I ever did, and that’s the truth—trying to force her into a life she didn’t really choose for herself.”
I wonder if he’s told this to Ben, if what I’d said about not getting shuffled around by circumstance and about choosing for myself, had rung some kind of painful, pealing bell for him. He’d been so quiet after that.
“Ben’s the best thing, the best thing of my life, and I don’t regret him, not for one second. But I’m sorry for Laura. I’m sorry that my wanting Ben cost her, and forced her to do something I know she feels bad about. But it was the right thing, for her and for him. She loves him. But she couldn’t be a good mother to him, not that way. She had to choose something else for herself.”
We sit in silence for a few minutes, Henry tinkering, me thinking. I don’t know for sure why he’s telling me this, telling me something I doubt Ben knows himself. The quiet grows almost comfortable again, against all odds, against the fact that I don’t have any real reason to be here, any real tie to Henry anymore. “I don’t think it’s right. I think she should’ve chosen him. Even if she didn’t stay with you, she could’ve—been around. Been a mom to him,” I say.
Henry sets down his tools, turns in his chair and looks at me. “Don’t think he ever let her, not after that day. He never asked her for anything again. Everything she ever gave him—her attention, a gift, her help when he got into trouble—she had to force it on him. Cost him a lot to go to her back then. He’s been—well. He doesn’t like to ask after what he wants, not much since then.”
Aha, I think. This is why he’s telling me.
“He doesn’t get off the hook, Henry. For not telling me about what he’d done with Beaumont. He doesn’t get to say—you don’t get to say that it’s hard for him to open up, and have that be enough.” But even as I say this, I wonder: What would have been enough? What would have been enough for me, in that moment, when Dr. Singh had told me about Beaumont’s offer, when I’d felt small and scared and like Ben was going to take everything good in my life away from me?
“I’m just telling you, Kit. I expect he feels as bad as he can feel now, about how it happened with you. I know that boy same as I know my own self, and he’s crazy about you. But don’t think he’ll come back. I don’t know if he has it in him anymore.”
And that’s the worst of it, what Henry has said. Because hearing it put this way, with this kind of finality, makes me admit to myself that I want him to come back, that I’m waiting for him to come back and try again. That’s what I’ve been doing, tiptoeing around work, avoiding my house, constantly telling Greer and Zoe I’m fine. I’m waiting. I’m waiting for him to call or to show up here, to talk to me about what went wrong with Beaumont, to sell me on him and on us. For all my talk to Ben about choosing for myself, I’m not choosing anything right now. I’m waiting for more options to present themselves—I’m waiting for him to present himself, again, the right way this time, some way that’s going to convince me to go all in, to not be freaked out by tying myself to someone else, someone who could really have an effect on all my future choices.
But if he doesn’t come back…
Henry slaps his hands on his knees, casual change-of-subject time, and says, “Ready to see some of those tubs?” Like he hasn’t just punched me right in the gut with this story of little boy Ben, trying so hard and failing, to get someone to choose him.
An hour and a half later, I’ve picked out a slipper-style clawfoot tub and Henry’s promised he can switch out the feet, since the ones that are modeled after lion’s paws give me the creeps. I stall because I hope he’ll say something else about Ben, but he doesn’t. When I leave, I don’t go to Zoe or Greer’s. I go home, and wander through the wreckage of the kitchen renovation, getting a good look at that brick wall that’s being exposed behind the place where the stove will go. I wash my face in the downstairs powder room. I go up to my bedroom, but only to bring down a pillow and extra blanket for the couch, which is where I’m going to sleep. Or not sleep, as the case may be, since I lie awake staring at my ceiling for hours.
Until I make a choice.
* * * *
A week later, I’m in Houston.
It’s seven o’clock at night and still ninety-three degrees. August, I’ve heard, is brutal around here. I’d given myself all of today to wander around the city, to follow a few suggestions from a local I’d talked to on the flight, and from the person who served me coffee at the hotel Starbucks this morning. I’d gone to the Museum of Natural Science and spent too much time in the exhibit about minerals. I’d eaten lunch at a Tex-Mex place that had no air conditioning, but amazing food. I’d walked around a park called Discovery Green, studied a map of the city while sitting on one of the park benches, skyscrapers looming behind me. When I’d gone to leave, walking through a shady grove of pine trees, I’d spotted a sculpture, a big bronze-cast heart mounted on slats of wood. From a distance, the heart looked roughed-up, lumpy, but up close, embedded in the heart, were tools—an axe, a hammer, other things I wasn’t quite sure about. It was called The House. I’d snapped a picture before heading back to my hotel to change for my meeting with Jasper, which I’d insisted on having in the hotel restaurant. I’d insisted on a lot from him, actually, including complete confidentiality, but he hadn’t balked at any of it.
Jasper tells me many things during our two-hour conversation, but the most important is that the Beaumont corporate offices are where I’m most likely to find Ben. He works late these days, especially when he’s not traveling. In fact, Jasper tells me, I’m lucky to be catching him this week, because the last two, he’d done three trips, all in different time zones. He watches me with a careful, measured suspicion, and at first I think this is because he distrusts my out-of-the-blue interest in talking more about Beaumont. But as we talk, I realize it’s because he distrusts my interest in Ben. When he stands to shake my hand at the end of our conversation, he holds it a beat longer than makes sense for a business meeting, looks at me through deep brown eyes that reveal nothing. “End of the hall, fifty-eighth floor,” he says. “Good luck.” And then he strides away, not looking back once.
So here I am, wandering a long corridor of sleek, frosted glass doors to darkened offices. Every once in a while, the space opens to a large conference room, and midway down there’s a lounge space with low, modern black leather sofas, two impossibly thin, mounted televisions, both off. I imagine they stay mostly on during the day, stock prices trolling along the bottom of the screens. Up ahead I can see a door open, light streaming out, and I pause next to one of the sofas, set my hand on its cold surface, steady myself in these insane, soul-destroying shoes. This entire outfit is borrowed, from Zoe. I think I look ridiculous but also like I completely belong here. Suddenly, I think: This was a stupid idea, this whole gesture. You should have called him. You didn’t have to go through all of this.
But when I close my eyes against the nerves, I see Ben, and this steels me anew. I can’t wait to see him in person. I can’t wait to be near him, finally. I have no idea how this will go, but just that I get to see him—it counts for something, and it gives me the courage I need to keep walking.
He doesn’t hear me walk up to his open door. He has earbuds in, and his hands are typing furiously on the laptop he has set up on the glass surface of his desk. There’s a blue necktie heaped next to his arm. He’s wearing a white dress shirt, the top button undone. I am heart stoppingly pleased that he has not cut his hair, which curls a little across his brow, and his jaw is stubbled, the way I’m used to seeing it. Behind him is the sky turning purple-orange, some of the city lights starting to twinkle on.
Before I think to do anything—clear my throat, knock on the open door, offer up a hello—he raises his eyes to where I stand, and there’s a brief second when he doesn’t do anything at all. He only stares, his eyes a little unfocused from the screen of his computer. And then just as quickly he stands, jolts from his desk, really, and the motion yanks the laptop up from the desk, the earbuds out of his ears. “Shit,” he says, saving the laptop from a dive off the ledge, untangling the earbud cord from where it’s gotten stuck in his belt loop.
“I’m sorry!” I say, too loud in this quiet office, and holy crap, is this awkward. I grip the handle of Zoe’s briefcase tighter even than I had before, when my knuckles were already white with it. “I’m—I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“What are you wearing?” he asks, his brow furrowed.
“What?” I say, though I’ve heard him perfectly. I just don’t know how to start the conversation from this point.
He waves a hand in my direction, a gesture that encompasses everything from the neck down—my fitted, black blazer, the silky, dove-grey camisole underneath, the knee-length pencil skirt that matches. “A suit?” he says, that brow still slammed down across his eyes.
“Oh. Well, it’s Zoe’s. I know it’s not really my—”
“You look beautiful. I don’t care what you’re wearing. You’re a sight for sore eyes.” It’s so honest, how he says it, but he stays right where he is, behind his desk. He’s tucked his hands in his pockets, his fingers clenching into fists beneath the fabric.
“I met with Jasper today,” I say, rushing it out. I just want those hands out of his pockets. I want them on me. “To hear his pitch.”
I can see the surprise on his face, the confusion. He looks up past my shoulder, maybe looking for Jasper, or someone who can explain this to him, but it’s only me here. “But you said no. Singh called and said no.”
“Right, yes. But I decided I should give it a fairer hearing, from an—an unbiased party. And you know, from a place where I wasn’t so—reactionary. Where I could listen.”
He looks at me, down at his desk, back up at me. “I don’t—”
“I’m still not taking it,” I say, and watch as his shoulders slouch a little. Is that—is he disappointed, or relieved? It doesn’t matter. I still need to get through this. “It’s not right for me. It’s not the kind of work that’s right for me. Something else might be, somewhere down the line, but it’s not this. But with you, I started to get all mixed up about it. Whenever you talked about the job, or about Texas, after a while, I didn’t know whether you were talking about work or about us, and I got—I got scared. About risking everything I’d worked for.”
“Kit,” he begins, but I stop him with a shake of my head.
“I know my own mind on this. And I choose to be where I am for now.”
“All right,” he says, and before he can say anything else, I walk farther into the office, set my briefcase on the chair in front of me, reaching in and pulling out the portfolio I brought along, the one I’d spent the last week preparing. I open it, remove its most important contents—a manila envelope, no marks on the outside, nothing to give it away. I set it down on his desk, then push it toward him with my index finger.
“I brought this for you.” At the moment I’d like to back right out of here and find the nearest closet or bathroom stall or, I don’t know, under a desk would do in a pinch, because I am so, so nervous about this. I hadn’t known, not for sure, whether I’d use these—when I’d come here, I’d promised myself I wouldn’t make the final call until I listened, really listened, to what Jasper had to say.
But I’d hoped I’d get to use them.
Ben looks down at the envelope, then up at me, his eyebrow quirking. “Should I—?” Everything is still so tentative with us. I hope so hard that it’s not this way much longer.
“Yes, please. Open it.”
He takes his hands from his pockets, sits down again, and scoots forward to pick up the envelope. It feels as if it takes him forever to pinch up those little metal tabs, to slide his finger along the flap, to pull out the stack of photographs enclosed. “Alex took them,” I say, to fill up the silence. “He—ah—I asked him to spend the day in town.”
I know every photo in that envelope. I spent hours choosing each one from the set Alex took at each place. I study Ben’s face as he goes through them.
The first, a picture of the hardware bins at the salvage yard, taken from below. Alex had done this one lying on his back, like the photo in my living room, and the effect was to make the wall look enormous, endless.
Second, also from the yard, a picture of the lighting room. I’d chosen one that was a little blurry, ethereal, orbs around each lit bulb.
Third, River, cheeky in black and white (his choice), holding a brick and looking right at the camera, unsmiling but not angry, a look of challenge in his eyes.
Next, Henry, bent over the pieces of an antique clock, his face a mask of concentration. Sharon, camera shy, a blurry form behind him.
Fifth, a crowd shot: Betty’s on a full night, Zoe’s outline barely visible at the bottom of the frame as she throws a dart, and Betty’s tattoos a bright mural in the center as she carries a tray.
Sixth, the front porch of my house, now newly painted, two white wood rockers facing the street.
Seven through fifteen—a few more of my house, that exposed brick wall, the begonias I’ve planted in a pot that sits on the back stoop. Some of the city, including one I took of Alex getting a hot dog at the Wiener Cart. Another of the elaborate doorway to the Crestwood hotel.
And finally, me.
I’m on my front stoop, a picture Alex took while standing above me. It’s close, tight on my face. My hair catches at the edges of the print, my eyes look right up at the camera—through my glasses, and through the goggles I’m wearing over them.
Ben smiles. I can see his dimple peeking out, but he keeps his head determinedly down.
The silence is so heavy I can hear my pulse thrum. Still looking down, his voice ragged, a little choked, he finally says, “Have you come to recruit me?”
He looks up at my silence. My throat is too tight to answer, so I nod. He gets up from his seat, but gathers up all the pictures first, holding onto them at the edges like he’s not ready to let go yet. Then he comes around his desk and stands in front of me, one hand coming up to my neck, his thumb touching under my chin, so he can tip my face up to his. “Kit,” he says. “I was coming to you.”
“What?”
“I guess Jasper didn’t say. I’m leaving Beaumont. I’m giving up my partnership with Jasper.”
“Your partnership…?”
“I didn’t tell you about that before, but I should have, and I will. I’ll tell you all about that. I did everything wrong before, with you. I went too fast, and I’m sorry about that. But I’m doing it right this time, Kit,” he says, and in spite of what he’s saying about too fast, he’s talking faster than I’ve ever heard him talk, messy and disorganized and it’s so, so perfect. It’s Ben without anything in between us. It’s not Ben being charming or funny or anything else but honest, and this time, he’s not stopping himself or backing off. “I put in my notice here, but I’m tying up all my loose ends, and I’m working with Jasper on an exit strategy for him, and our colleague Kristen too. That’s going to take some time, but they—they’re going to do well. They deserve to do well. I’m going to work at the yard—well, if my dad will have me. I haven’t told him yet, but I’ve thought about it a lot, and it’s what I really want to do, to be in the business with my dad. Or I’ll do something else if that doesn’t work, or if I need to make more money, whatever I need to do. I’ve got a couple of places I’ve been checking out, apartments not too far from the university—I mean not because I wanted to bother you or anything, just because it’s a good location. I was going to come to you, ask you if you wanted to go out sometime…”
“Ben,” I say, setting my palms on his chest, stilling him, my heart squeezing at the deep breath he has to take after that haphazard speech. “You didn’t go too fast. I love you. I want to be with you. I want you to come back and be with me, and if you didn’t want to do that, I was going to try and sell you, but if it didn’t work, I was willing to negotiate…”
“You don’t have to sell me,” he says, setting the pictures down and tugging me to him, wrapping his arms so tight around me, lifting me so that he can bury his face against my neck. “You never have to sell me. Holy fuck, I’m so—I’m so happy you’re here.” He kisses me then, my shoulder, my neck, the spot behind my ear that gives me goose bumps, working his way to my mouth, as he talks to me, telling me how he’s missed me, how I smell so good, how he’s thought of me every second. When he kisses me, it’s perfect—it’s us, hot and sweet and the way it always is between us. Ben is tugging at the buttons of my blazer, moving me so he can back me against the desk, lift me onto it, and I want that, want to spread my legs so he can step between them, but Jesus, this pencil skirt. It is really tight. Nothing is going to happen unless I scoot this sucker up to my waist and put my bare ass on this desk. I mean, I am really turned on, but let’s be honest, not enough to keep myself from picturing the prints my butt would leave on glass.
“Ben,” I whisper against his mouth. “I don’t think we should do this here.”
He pulls back, rests his forehead against mine, and breathes out. “I’m sorry. Too fast, I know. We should talk more, and figure things out.”
“No, I mean—we should go somewhere where I could get this suit off.”
He exhales on a laugh. I feel the air of it on my chest, ruffling the delicate fabric of my camisole. It feels like happiness, a new beginning. “Kit,” he says, almost a whisper. He’s not looking at me. He’s kept his head down, and I’d make a joke about him peeking at what little cleavage I have on offer in this top, but I can sense something about Ben, in the way his fingers flutter against the backs of my knees, in the way his breaths are a little reedy. So I wait for him, stroke my hands up and down his arms, relishing the feel of him again after all these weeks apart. “Thanks for coming to get me.”
“Anytime,” I say, my throat tight again with emotion.
“I’m going to mess up, I’m sure. I’ve never done this before. I’ll do things that are going to make you really mad or annoyed.”
“Ben,” I say, squeezing his forearms, once, twice, until he looks up at me. “Anytime, okay?” Ben is part of what home means to me now—he’s not everything, but he might be the biggest thing, and he’s going to change every careful arrangement I had set up in my life, but for once I’m so excited about that prospect. I can’t wait to see what’ll happen.
“I’m so lucky,” he says, almost a whisper.
“Nah,” I say, pulling him toward me for a quick, hard kiss. “But you’re about to be.”