13
Four Benji-free nights have gone by, which is so far unprecedented in the history of being his girlfriend. In fact, the only other time we’ve not slept in the same bed at night was when I went to a three-day cotton conference in Nashville. And even then, I lied and said Benji cut himself with a butcher knife and was getting stitches in the hospital so I could come home the next day.
I thought the hardest part about being away from each other would be worrying about him falling off the wagon. But the selfie he sent me in front of the church where they have NA meetings in Pilsen coupled with a pic of a bright orange key chain that says CLEAN & SERENE FOR NINETY DAYS puts me at ease. He even invited me to an open meeting, but it was right at the start of my workday and prices to Pilsen were surging on Uber, so I just told him to do his thing and we’d catch one in Lincoln Park together another time.
So what actually is the hardest part? Well, this is the longest we’ve gone without sex and I honestly feel the void. However, several risqué text messages and an occasional dick-pic throughout the day have managed to keep things interesting in his absence.
But even though I miss him, especially since his cookbooks, socks and foodie detritus are still very much all over the place, it’s been kind of fun. I’ve hung out with Jazzy and Maya almost every day this week, I got a three-day guest pass to an expensive gym I’ll never actually get a membership at and I walked to get frozen yogurt last night at 11:00 p.m. just because I felt like it. Tonight, my Tour de Allie ends with pretending I’m the only one who lives in this apartment as I sit on the couch in long underwear and a baggy sweatshirt with a mud mask on my face until Benji comes back later tonight.
“Delivery for Simon.” There’s a male voice at my door followed by two knocks. I forgot I ordered Thai food over an hour ago and spring from my seat, grabbing a kitchen towel from the handle of the oven and quickly wiping the goop off my face as I open the door.
“Ah, yes. Thank you!” I say as he hands off the warm, white plastic bag containing my panang curry. I go to shut the door, but he props it open with his toe.
“Oh, sorry. Was tip not included?” I ask.
“No, it was. I just can’t believe I’m delivering food to Benji Zane’s girlfriend tonight,” he says.
I flip the bag around and notice my receipt taped to it. There it is, clear as day, ALLIE SIMON in big black letters. I give the guy credit for putting two and two together. I laugh nervously and notice his foot is still wedged in the door.
“I went to his pop-up on Wednesday. Shit was so good. I can’t believe tonight’s the last night. Hey, does he have, like, a spare bandana or something? I’m a huge fan.”
And that’s my cue to fake an emergency and get this superfan out of my doorway.
“I’ll definitely let him know you enjoyed yourself. I’ve got to get going, though. I’m in the middle of sourcing opossum for him, and I’ve got the vendor on the phone right now.”
Door = slammed. Dead bolt = slid.
Even though I’ve stayed out of the way of this string of pop-ups, I’ve been following him and all of the dialogue about the dinners this week on Twitter, Instagram and Snapchat—so essentially it’s like I was there. And from what I can tell he’s pulling them off and people are loving his farewell run. A few have even asked about me by name. Example/personal favorite: Bummed @AllieSimon isn’t hosting. Heard she’s smokin’ hot in person. I have to admit, I was quite worried this would be a disaster from just about every vantage point, but Benji was onto something when deciding to double down on these dinners. As of last night, he’d racked up $2,200. And guess what else? He wasn’t passed out in an alley with a needle in his arm when he called to tell me that.
My iPhone dings with a new email. It’s a Google Alert for Allie Simon and Benji Zane—probably the hundredth I’ve received this week. But unlike the others, this one catches my eye because it’s attached to a four-letter word: Here.
Zane Part Owner in ‘Here’ Restaurant on Randolph. FoodFeed is officially the first publication to break the news and my heartbeat goes into overdrive.
I click the link and skim the article. A minute into my reading, my phone buzzes with a text from Angela. It’s a link to an article in the Chicago Tribune.
Zane: Back and Better than Ever with Here.
Thirty seconds later, another text.
Zane’s Road to Owning & Opening Here—a piece in USA TODAY.
Bzz, bzz.
Randolph Street Welcomes Zane’s Very Own ‘Here’ in TimeOut magazine.
And the hits keep coming. So many that I can’t keep up with all the breaking news. Clearly she must have blasted out a press release, because every major outlet is picking up the story of Here.
THIS is how u open a resto, reads the newest text from Angela. Get ready.
For what? Surely as a silent partner, I’m not supposed to be doing anything besides retweeting some of these articles for support. So I imagine she’s telling me to buckle up for the Benji Show, because it’s back and bigger than ever.
The attention has always been on him, so I’m used to it. But she’s right, this is a whole new level. A level I thought I was ready for, but the numbness in my fingers begs to differ. Seeing my boyfriend’s name in lights like this just three-and-some-change months after he skipped out on going to rehab is shooting a panic through my veins that would make Jazzy and Maya say, “Told you so.”
It’s just...it’s been a while since people associated Benji with something serious—good serious—like this. Announcing a forthcoming restaurant on Randolph Street is like giving the entire city his word. That he’s got his shit together once and for all.
But does he?
Why is being his cheerleader the hardest it’s ever been right at the very moment when there’s something to actually root for? By the time I cycle back around to the original FoodFeed post, it’s garnered over 1,000 likes and the comments are pouring in.
“Yay! So glad to see he’s turned his life around.”
“Who gave this fucking douchebag a restaurant?”
“Y’all hear that? I think it’s the Michelin Man coming with a star...”
“You mean, ‘y’all HERE that?’ lol.”
“Oh Jesus. Can’t wait to see how fast he runs this one into the ground.”
“Have my babies, Benji Zane!”
I quickly realize that reading the comments is a slippery slope and decide that now—during a commercial break in the middle of Botched—would be a good time to call my mom and let her know what’s going on.
I haven’t been avoiding her or anything; we still talk every day like we always have. I’ve just failed to mention this specific new and exciting thing when she asks what’s new and exciting in my life. I thought I could distract her with news of discovering that T.J.Maxx sells Bumble and Bumble at heavily discounted prices, but that only bought me so much time. Now I’ve got to find a delicate way to let her know Benji’s part owner of a new restaurant all because of me. She won’t freak out hearing that my entire life savings are tied up in a restaurant venture helmed by my ex-addict boyfriend, right?
Five more articles filter through my Google Alert system and my conscience simply can’t take it anymore. The press leaking faster than a ruptured C-cup implant puts a finer point on the matter.
“Hi, Allie! TGIF, honey,” she says upon answering right after the first ring.
Here goes nothing.
“Yes, happy Friday to you, too,” I say. “Mom, I have some news. Well, Benji and I have some news, I should say.”
“Dear god, please tell me you aren’t pregnant,” my mother says, probably while clutching a rosary.
“What? Mom, no. I’m not freaking pregnant.”
“Oh, thank heavens. You know we love Benji and accept him exactly the way he is, but addiction is hereditary. I just want to make sure you two are practicing safe sex accordingly.”
“Ew, Mom! Stop!”
Sex-speak from my mom notwithstanding, the idea that maybe a kid would change Benji, turn him into a stand-up guy overnight—you know, be the father he never had, that kind of thing—has occurred to me on more than one occasion. But reality has me popping birth control pills like Tic Tacs and that has nothing to do with the genetic attributes of addiction, but rather the more immediate symptoms. Benji’s track record suggests an unexpected pregnancy would lead him to suffer a classic case of freak-the-fuck-out-and-disappear and I’d rather not give him a chance to prove me right.
“And you’re not engaged, I hope. I mean, he didn’t ask your father for permission as far as I know,” she rattles on.
“Relax. We’re not engaged,” I assure her, only half thinking, but what if we were? It’s like Benji is everyone’s favorite celeb chef to have in their inner circle...until he’s not. What’s up with that?
“Well, then, what is it? Oh! I know...you two are finally moving out of that shoebox apartment of yours. Tell me you bought a condo—with a guest bedroom! And a chef’s kitchen!”
It takes everything in me not to say “You’re getting warmer...” but I need to get to the point before one of her tennis friends with a Twitter account calls her with the news.
“No. No baby, no engagement, no condo. Long story short, we met an investor about a week and a half ago—Craig Peterson. He opened some fine-dining joint out in the suburbs—in Hinsdale, I think. The ritzy one, not far from your house.”
“Florette?”
“Yes! That’s the spot. Anyhow, he found this crazy-awesome secret vacant space of sorts on Randolph Street.”
“Where’s that?”
“West Loop. By Oprah’s studio,” I say, providing context suitable for Mom’s demographic.
“Oh, yes. Go on.”
“So, yeah, Craig decided it would be the perfect spot to open his first, real Chicago endeavor and he had his people nail down the deal. They’re going to open in forty-five days or something really crazy like that.”
“Oh, good for them. I’ll have to suggest it to your father for our anniversary dinner. But only if Benji thinks it’s good. You know I only take Chicago dining recommendations from him now. That’s the bonus when you have a chef in the family!”
And she’s back to being his biggest fan. Let’s just stay here for a while, shall we?
“Well, they’re actually really interested in working with Benji, so they hired him as the chef de cuisine right out of the gate.”
“Wow. That IS big news! Is he home? Can I congratulate him?”
“No, he’s not, actually. He’s working a pop-up tonight. It’s the last one before he starts focusing on the restaurant opening.”
The restaurant opening. I’m now realizing how much of a done deal this is.
“What’s the place called?”
“He’s calling it Here.”
“Here?”
Yeah, I had that reaction, too.
I redo my ponytail, a nervous habit of mine, and try my best to land the plane. “He got to name it because he’s the owner. Well, part owner I should say.”
“Oh, really?” she huffs with a spike of sarcasm. “How much does he own? One share for ten bucks that he found crinkled in the pocket of his hoodie?”
She’s not being mean, she just knows Benji’s financial situation is as big a mess as his central nervous system. This is every bit as painful and shameful as I imagined it would be, and we haven’t even gotten to the good stuff. That’s when the mantra she instilled in me when I was younger and stole the stickers from the toy store pops into my head: “I won’t be mad, as long as you tell me the truth.” It’s time to put that to the test.
Deep breaths.
“He owns ten percent.”
“Of what?”
“Three hundred thousand dollars.”
She lets out a laugh, followed by a stark “How?”
“I made the investment on our behalf.”
“YOU DID WHAT?”
Disapproving doesn’t begin to describe her tone, but it’s as close as I can get to capturing the throbbing electricity I feel coming through the line. The jolt goes right through my chest: she raised me better than this. Even I know that.
“Please tell me you did not write a check for $30,000, Allison Marie Simon.”
“I didn’t. It was a money order.”
“Is it reversible?!”
“No, it’s not. It’s been deposited and I signed a contract. Benji is acting as the on-site representation for the investment, and I’m the silent owner who pockets the ROI.”
I throw in some financial buzzwords thinking they’ll quell her concern.
They don’t.
“Silent owner my ass. You’re broke. That’s what you are. When your father gets home from beers with his golf buddies, we’re going to start calling every lawyer we know to get you out of this. This is absolutely insane!”
“Mom, stop.”
“Send me a copy of the contract, I want to see the agreement. We need to start looking for a loophole or an out-clause or something. I can’t believe it. Benji robbed you of everything you had!”
“It’s not Benji, okay? We’re working with a team of people...there’s Craig the investor and his really smart adviser, this chick Angela.”
“I don’t care if Peter, Paul and Mary are part of the deal...these people should go to jail! How they could manipulate a young girl in good faith is beyond me. Give me their last names, I have a pen and paper right now. Speak slowly and spell it out.”
“Mom, STOP.”
“Allie, they lied to you and dangled some fancy restaurant deal in front of your face and now your savings are gone. Flushed down the toilet! Your hard-earned cash...tied up in some loser’s bad habit. I knew we should have written to Intervention months ago. I can’t believe he scammed his way right into this family with some moist chicken and that I—we were all dumb enough to fall for it! Oh my god, I need some water. I’m going to pass out.”
“Mom, stop! That’s enough, goddamn it.”
I have never yelled at my mother. Not like this, at least. But she’s spiraling out of control, and I can’t let her drag me to the other side of sanity. At least I got her to shut up for ten seconds by raising my voice. Now, let the backpedaling begin.
“Sorry, Mom. I obviously didn’t mean to yell at you. I just need you to calm down, okay? I still have my job. That’s not going to change. I make good money at Daxa and I’m in line for a promotion soon, too.”
I can hear her sniffling. I can’t believe I’ve made her cry. I need to keep piling on the good news—and fast.
“And Craig is a very, very smart, very, very rich businessman. He wouldn’t make a bad deal. I’m going to make my money back tenfold, okay? I promise. I know you can’t comprehend this right now, but you need to trust me that I am in very good hands. All I have to do is sit back, relax and enjoy my life as my rock-star-chef boyfriend and a baller investor make me a very wealthy business owner. Please, trust me on this. I’m not an idiot. I did my homework. I always do.”
That is a lie. I did very little research on any of this, but in my defense, that’s strictly a result of everything moving at the speed of light. If I’d had the opportunity to run a background check on Craig and Angela, I would have. But all I could do was plug their names into LinkedIn and verify that they are who they say they are—at least on social media. That’s like the gospel these days, right?
“Mom? Hello? Are you still there?”
“Maybe I won’t tell your father about this at all. I’m not sure he can handle this right now. His blood pressure issues have been coming back lately.”
“Whatever you want to do is fine, Mother. But let me tell you something, okay? This restaurant—it’s going to get a lot of press. In fact, it already has. So Dad’s going to find out about it one way or another, and soon. Between you and me, you’ve had more than your fair share of finding out news about your daughter’s life from opening the paper during your morning coffee. And I apologize for that. It’s just the way the world works these days, I guess. That being said, I think it would behoove you to talk to your husband about Here.”
In my head, I hear a male voice-over saying, “Be sure to consult your doctor to make sure your heart is healthy enough for Benji-related news.”
“Allie, dear. Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I cannot be on the phone with you anymore tonight. I just, I can’t process this right now. Let’s pick this conversation up at another time.”
This is reminding me of the way I felt when I needed to hang up on Rita. But I get it.
“Fine. Do you want me to FaceTime you with Benji tomorrow? You can congratulate him or grill him, whatever you want?”
“No thanks.”
Well, then.
“Alright. I love you, Mom.”
“Good night, Allie.”
The moment I hang the phone up, a few texts from Benji funnel through one after the next.
Last course just dropped
Ready 2 sleep next 2 u
Holy shit did u see all the press?!
I reply that I did and that I am proud of him and that it’s all going to be so great. At this point, maybe if I just will things to work out, they’ll turn out just fine? In the meantime, I curl up on the couch, queue up another few episodes of trashy reality television and enjoy the last few hours to myself before Benji comes home.