Work Text:
It starts with a breakup, a text, and a suggestion.
♥
They do it again next Valentine’s Day, when they’re both single and bored and remember what a good time they had last year. And when the next year rolls around, and they’re both still single, and still bored, and still looking for a fun way to spend the evening, they do it a third time.
That’s the year Rey begins to sense they may have a tradition on their hands. It’s a nice feeling. She and Ben have been friends for a while, but they’ve never really had anything like a tradition they share just between them: Wexley’s Bistro, seven P.M., multicourse prix fixe, handmade cards or silly gifts, conversation, drinks afterward. It’s the first time since she was a kid, when the promise of trading cards and candy with schoolmates was the extent of her interest in the holiday, that she finds herself excited about February fourteenth—a day that, for most of her adult life, has always just felt like any other day.
They’ve already plowed their way through the oyster amuse-bouche, the root salad and cheesy crab fondue (and battled it out with their fondue forks for the last chunk of bread), and the pasta. Though she is beginning to feel sated, she’s optimistic about her ability to conquer the upcoming steak and, most importantly, Wexley’s signature dessert. It is fully worth a bellyache afterward—the most delicious personal-size baked Alaska she’s ever had. Incidentally, also the only baked Alaska she’s ever had. But Rey can’t imagine anything she enjoys eating more than the combination of house-made black cherry ice cream, bourbon chocolate cake, and that beautiful mountain of cloudlike meringue, browned to perfection.
She’s scraping a bit of leftover pesto off her dish with the edge of her fork when she notices Ben staring at something behind her.
“Anything interesting?” she asks, peering over her shoulder.
He makes a throaty sound of amusement, then leans in and says in a low voice, “I think I just found an awkward first date.”
“Oh yeah?” Rey studies the couple in question for a few moments, then returns her attention to Ben before her interest becomes too obvious. “What makes you think so?”
Perhaps it was the palpable discomfort she noticed in their body language within seconds, or the fact that the woman appeared to be reaching for her phone.
“He just asked her what she does for a living.” Ben grimaces. “And he asked her the same thing right around the time we got here.”
“Oof. Expensive place for a first meeting.”
“Agreed. But, more importantly . . .” He lifts his plate and slides a small, X-filled square of paper from beneath it. “That’s a bingo for me.”
“Ahh! You sneaky bastard! I only had two squares left to fill!”
Ben shrugs and waves his card at her. “And I only had one. It’s been an eventful evening.”
She glimpses a few of the spaces he hasn’t managed to mark off—‘conspicuous marriage proposal’; ‘red wine spill’; ‘impending breakup’; ‘someone brought an infant’; ‘dine-and-dashers’.
“Looks like shots at Salvageyard are on you tonight,” he says.
She grumbles, but it’s mostly for show. Salvageyard is their favorite dive bar, and they always stop there after dinner here. It’s the kind of place where every surface, be it bartop, tabletop, or toilet seat, is either damp or sticky or both. The music is too loud, and the shots are cheap to a degree that should be a red flag. But it’s a way to draw out the fun and keep them humble after the hours of decadence at Wexley’s, so they go, and the loser buys the booze.
Tradition.
“Yes, yes, all right.” With a look of pique, she lifts her wine glass and extends it toward him. “Speaking of drinks, we forgot our toast.”
“You’re the one who started chugging the Merlot the second it was poured.” But he’s grinning at her and lifting his glass, and the next moment it taps musically against hers. “To not being alone.”
Rey returns his smile. “To not being alone.”
♥
“I realized on the way over this is the sixth year we’re doing this,” Ben tells her, though he has also just tipped far too many sketchy Salvageyard bar peanuts into his mouth, so it takes Rey a few moments to parse. She’s also distracted by the fact that he has a tiny cluster of beer foam stuck in that weird goatee he claims he’s shaving off soon. “If you can believe that.”
She gives a short chuckle and rolls a few stray drops of whiskey around the bottom of her glass. “Is that a subtle reminder that we’ve also managed to be single for the last six years?”
“Neither of us has been single for the last six years. We’ve just been single the last six February fourteenths.”
Be that as it may, Rey isn’t sure the two short-lived, underwhelming relationships she has had in that timespan are anything to be proud of, and she suspects he feels similarly about his own patchy recent dating history. Still, she appreciates the attempt to deflect from the potentially depressing implications of the yearly event.
“Maybe I enjoy this so much that I always make sure to break up with anyone I think might get in the way of our plan,” she says lightly. “Ever consider that?”
“The guilt keeps me up almost every night.” He flashes her a toothy, crooked grin, then tips back the rest of his beer. “More shots? Or are we good on that front?”
Rey casts a rueful look over the liquor selection behind the bar. “It’s tempting, but I’m already feeling it, and I have work in the morning.”
She peeks over at her phone, where it rests face up in a ring of condensation next to Ben’s arm. Almost eleven. She’s usually in bed at ten on weeknights, though she has no regrets about a few hours of lost sleep on this night of nights.
“Noted. In that case, before we part ways . . .” He leans away from her and begins to look as if he might fall off his barstool as he gropes around at something near his feet. She hears the crinkling of a paper bag. He’s been carrying the thing around all night and hasn’t told her what’s inside, though she has asked several times and been holding out hope that alcohol might loosen his tongue. No such luck.
Yet when he straightens up, he drops it neatly into her lap. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”
“I thought we said just cards this year,” she protests, though she’s got her hand in the bag already. “You didn’t need to g— Ow!”
Whatever is inside the bag has just stung her. No, stabbed her. Frowning at Ben’s snort of amusement, she peers inside, more carefully extracts the small potted plant she finds there, and places it on the bar.
“You got me a cactus.”
“You always complain that flowers don’t last,” he says.
“No, I always say they die quickly but make nice decorations when they’ve dried out.”
“Fine, that too. But this is already dried—”
“Er, not really.”
He puts his hand over her mouth, a playful, tipsy gesture, and continues. “If you must know, it reminded me of you. And it felt less cliched.”
Rey wonders what it says about her, and about their relationship, that a prickly plant reminded him of her. When his hand drops away from her face, she’s left with the dusty taste of peanut salt on her lips and a deepening warmth in her cheeks, and, if she’s being honest, some other parts of her anatomy as well. And then she’s thinking about how she got a similar feeling at Wexley’s as he pursed his lips around the edge of an oyster shell to slurp the contents down. It was somehow both gross and titillating.
Might just be the alcohol. Might just be the touch of Ben’s huge, warm, soft hand on her skin.
Stupid alcohol. Stupid Ben, with his hands. And his . . . slurping.
“It looks like a dick,” she declares.
“Jesus, what kind of dicks have you been looking at? No wonder you’re staying single.”
“It’s pretty obviously phallic, I mean. Sure there’s not something your subconscious wants me to know?”
“If you don’t like the cactus, you can just say so.”
She looks at him and is delighted to see that he’s blushing too. Even the tips of his ears have gone red, which is something she has noticed in the past and finds endearing. It is tempting to tease him further, but he’s laughing to himself and casually leaving his signature on the check (and she’s distracted by how beautiful his handwriting is even on a slip of receipt tape). So instead, she wraps an arm around him and leans in to rest her head against his shoulder.
“Thank you for the cactus. I like it very much. So much, in fact, that I’m going to name it Big Ben. After you, and the prickly dick you most definitely weren’t offering me.”
“Have it your way,” he says, tone dry, though his face has gone a shade darker. He slips out from under her arm and pulls his jacket on as she gets to her feet, purse and cactus-bag in hand.
They make their way slowly toward the door, Rey a touch less steady than she was when they arrived and thinking about all the ways she is going to be cursing her decision-making in about eight hours. Ben keeps a hand near her elbow, like he’s concerned she might totter over. She’s just tipsy enough not to be offended by the suggestion she is a lightweight—he knows better. Once they’re outside and loitering under an awning to avoid the cold, misty rain that has begun to fall, and she pulls her phone out to secure a ride.
“Hey.” Ben nudges her, and when she looks up, he holds her gaze. “Come home with me?”
For an instant her whole body is aquiver with surprised interest, but then her brain catches up, and she knows what this is. Part of their game. After their date, one of them always asks the other to come home with them, but what they’re really saying is, “I’m a little buzzed, want to share a Lyft?” She knows better than to think it means what it would to anyone else, though the illusion was nice for the split second it lasted.
“Hmm.” She smiles tiredly and wipes a few stray raindrops from her screen. “I don’t usually go home with a date, but for you, I’ll make an exception.”
♥
The seventh year is marked by the tragic disappearance of black-cherry baked Alaska from the Wexley’s menu. Rey is not sure why this feels like a personal insult and an upheaval of one of the few things in life she can depend on. In fact, she is aware that her flare of outrage is utterly ridiculous. And if she weren’t already aware, Ben would have made sure of it: he hasn’t stopped ribbing her for the way her mouth dropped open in horror when she saw the words “strawberries and cream pavlova” listed as tonight’s dessert selection.
Yet halfway through the salad course—right after he suggests that maybe the end of her six-year love affair with the baked Alaska fills the vacant ‘disastrous public breakup’ square on his bingo card—he seems to be getting the idea that making light of it isn’t making her feel any better. That’s a nice thing about him; he can be snarky and holier-than-thou, but he also has a sharp sense of people’s feelings and usually defers to them before he goes too far.
“Maybe you’ll like the pavlova more anyway,” he suggests more sincerely. “It’s sort of similar. Meringue. Fruit. Cream.”
Rey feels the right corner of her mouth tugging upward, the beginnings of a smile beyond her control. She spears a chunk of beet on her fork. “Are you about to recite a recipe?”
“Will it make you feel better if I do?”
“Not likely.”
He peeks across the table where her card is resting face up by the empty bread basket. “You’re kicking my ass at bingo this year, at least.”
“Maybe, but that ‘failed marriage proposal’ square I need is probably going to kill my chances.” She scrunches her nose and looks around the room. “Everyone here is way too into each other.”
“Does it count if I propose to you and you reject me?”
The suggestion makes her puff a laugh into her wine glass. “If you do that, we’ll have to either leave or pretend to be having the worst dinner ever. And the idea of having that much attention on me makes me want to die. No thank you.”
“Well then . . .” He sits back and scans her, fiddling with the cloth napkin. “You look very beautiful.”
“Thank you, but you said that when we arrived.”
“It’s still true. I especially like your commitment to wearing the exact same outfit as last year.”
“It is not th—” She’s about to deny it, but he’s right. She wore this very dress-and-Docs combo to their last Valentine dinner, right down to the sweater and tights. For good reason. The dress is comfortable, soft, and her favorite shade of deep green, and she always feels pretty in it. She’s also not above enjoying the warm feeling provoked by hearing Ben say as much. “Okay, fine, but the underwear is different.”
“Hope so.”
She narrows her eyes at him and flicks a stray chunk of bread in his direction. It bounces squarely off the center of his chest. “You’ve got no room to talk, Mister All-Black, All-the-Time.”
“Someone’s still cranky about her dessert.”
That is a low blow—especially when his efforts to make her feel better actually have been working—and she won’t stand for it. She’s about to launch another half-assed comeback (or at least another food particle) when a tiny woman stops beside their table. Rey recognizes her. There’s a couple they see here every year, who are usually starting their dessert by the time she and Ben are getting seated. A few years ago, the woman and her husband started waving hello or nodding a friendly acknowledgment like they’re allies in some clandestine engagement, though they’ve never spoken. She’s small-featured and probably in her seventies, with lined brown skin, gray hair coiled in a braid, large, round eyeglasses that magnify her bright eyes, and an eccentric manner of dressing.
“Pardon the interruption,” the woman says. Her voice is surprisingly low, and she looks between Rey and Ben with a small, knowing smile. “I know we’ve seen each other before, and my husband is just ahead getting our coats—but I wanted to stop and say hello and wish you both a happy evening.”
“Oh. Er.” Rey laughs nervously and throws a glance at Ben, who appears as bemused as she is. “That’s very kind. Thank you—you both have a nice night too.”
She expects the woman will move along now that well-wishes have been exchanged, but instead the woman nods and says with confidence, “We always say what a beautiful couple you two make.”
Ben nearly chokes on the wine he was surreptitiously sipping.
“Oh,” Rey repeats.
“I can tell you’re both great friends,” the woman continues. “It’s wonderful to see two young people so in love.”
Ben, it seems, has recovered from his near-mishap, because he cuts in before Rey can say anything. “You’re so right. I was just thinking about how I don’t deserve to be this lucky.”
Rey shoots him a look; he’s staring at her straight-faced but for the slightest upward twitch of one eyebrow. So she fixes her face in an overwrought look of besotted, puppyish affection and reaches across the table to take his hand even though what she really wants to do is burst out laughing, and she can tell that he wants to do the same.
“Too modest, this one,” she says to the woman.
“Not a bad thing. Well, sorry again for interrupting your romantic meal,” the woman replies. “Make sure you keep each other. It’s rare to find what you two have.”
She wags a finger as if admonishing them for something, then shuffles off without another word. Rey and Ben manage not to laugh too loudly, settling instead for shared smiles and shaking shoulders. It is too long before Rey realizes she is still holding Ben’s hand and that he is still holding hers back. The feeling gives her the strangest little twinge. His fingers curl through hers. His palm is smooth. His thumb passes over her knuckles. For a moment, she is overly aware of him in a way she usually isn’t, and she doesn’t want to let go of him. She wonders what it would be like to be able to do this all the time. To touch him, to be affectionate, to be something other than what they have been. It feels nice.
And then he laughs and gives her hand a squeeze before loosening his fingers, and she lets him go and begins to laugh too.
“Guess we’re more convincing than we realize,” he observes.
Rey ignores the inexplicable pang that throbs in her chest and gives him a cool look. “Must be how in love we are.”
“Yeah, that. Definitely.”
For a second she can swear he looks regretful, even though a smug smile still curves his mouth. Then the server is back and replacing their salad plates with dishes of garlicky pasta, and Ben is refilling their wine before digging in.
♥
They’ve been at this long enough that, at this point, Rey figures it’s an unspoken understanding. She figures—hopes—that texting Ben to confirm their plans for tonight is more quaint formality than necessity and that everything is set to proceed as usual. Because the embarrassing, horrible truth is that Rey forgot about it until this morning.
Nine A.M., February fourteenth. The day. It isn’t her fault. Not totally.
She’s just spent the last seven weeks mired in overtime hell at work, that’s all. Her days were mostly clocking out well after dark, having a glass of wine on her couch while she tried to process at least a little bit of whatever show was most mindlessly bingeable, then showering and getting to bed by ten before she started it all over again at five-thirty. She hasn't had energy to be social. Though she’s still getting used to having a life again, she should be more excited about tonight. Certainly more excited than ‘oh shit I completely forgot about that thing I look forward to every year and have no good reason to forget about.’
Now that she’s remembered, she is excited; hell, she has the day off, and it’s a Friday, and she’s just realized gets to see Ben tonight and unwind properly. The excitement should be at an all-time high. Instead she feels caught off-guard and anxious about preparing for something perfectly routine.
It’s Ben’s turn to make the reservation, so at least that’s handled, but she owes him an apology for not even acknowledging the plan—and being so hard to reach for the last two months. As she waits for her coffee to brew, she mills about the kitchen, slippers scuffling over the linoleum, and taps her way through a text. She tries not to wince when she notices that their last sustained conversation is timestamped New Year’s day, a barrage of banter about hangovers and already-broken resolutions. Nothing but sporadic attempts to catch each other since then.
These things happen, right? Ben, of all people, understands. His boss is as much of an unforgiving asshole as hers. Last time one of them went dark for a few weeks, it was him. Still.
She slides her phone onto the counter and is throwing a few slices of bacon into a hot pan when an abrupt buzz alerts her to Ben’s reply.
Rey’s brow crinkles as she stares at his latest message, rereading it several times. He has a date tonight? Why would she be pissed?
Okay, so actually, she’s a little pissed. Or something very close to it but which she’s never really felt before and thus isn’t sure what to make of. Maybe she’s just . . . hurt? Clearly, he does not mean her, and even if there was a chance of that, she has only been awake a half hour, and she hasn’t had her coffee yet, so she can’t think of an elegant way to ask without making an idiot of herself. Because no, Ben has no reason to be asking her on a date, especially not after she hasn’t spoken to him for nearly two months. They’ve been friends since college. If anything like that was going to happen—for real, not their yearly Valentine’s trolling—it would have happened already. One-hundred percent. Ben’s too direct not to bring it up if he was interested, and she . . .
God, two months. No wonder she had no idea he was seeing someone. Or hell, maybe this is a Tinder hookup thing, and he prefers to spend the night with a random near-stranger than her, because then at least there might be sex involved. Right? That’s fair enough.
One of them is an inconsiderate friend, and unfortunately, she doesn’t think it’s him. Rey has no right to be mad about this. Or whatever that sour, twisty, queasy feeling in her gut is. She summons a modicum of positive sentiment. If Ben has a girlfriend now, or someone he likes well enough to spend tonight with, she ought to be happy for him.
She is happy for him. Really. Exclamation-points-at-the-end-of-every-statement happy.
No shit. Rey worries her lip and is about to reply when her train of thought is interrupted by the gentle chortling hiss of her coffeemaker finishing up. By the time she’s fixed up her first cup, she has also found some less caustic words for Ben.
She considers saying something like “have a great time!” or even a cheeky “make sure to bring protection, big guy!” But then he went and added a smiley face to his last text, and what the fuck? Ben has more than once gone off on long diatribes about how emojis are making people too reliant on lazy modes of communication. Whoever he’s seeing tonight must make him really, really happy.
Maybe that’s it. She’s feeling overlooked and unimportant. That’s all. Anyway, the fake happiness is already taxing, so she slips her phone into the pocket of her hoodie and broods over her coffee. Once she gets over the abrupt change in her plans for the night, and the idea that Ben has unceremoniously abandoned her, the forced glee will turn into genuine happiness.
He is seeing someone. That’s cool. It isn't weird. In fact, it’s weird that he’s been single as long as he has. He might be a bit hard to crack (something she relates to all too well), but once he has been, he’s one of the greatest people—a fantastic listener, witty, talented, understanding . . . and tall and strong and handsome, though he seems legitimately convinced the last is inaccurate. Someone like him deserves to find a person to have an actual romantic evening with, even if she and he have spent the last eight years expressly mocking romantic evenings and the cliche of going out for Valentine’s Day.
Her eye catches on Big Ben, the potted cactus nestled on the window ledge above her kitchen sink. It’s out of bloom now, but soon it will sport a few bright orange blossoms. Most mornings, it’s a cheerful, spikey sight, yet all it inspires now is a hard look as she flips her bacon. Grease spatters and stings the side of her hand.
Ugh. She’s already missing tonight, and it hasn’t even happened yet. It isn’t going to happen at all. She is going to miss the food, and the exchange of silly gifts, whether cards or chocolates or wine or unconventional plantlife. But aside from all the usual trappings, Rey is going to miss spending the night talking to Ben, pretending to be something more, and eavesdropping on other—real—couples.
She should not be annoyed about this. It’s just something stupid they’ve done as a placeholder, and this is the unwelcome reminder. But she is annoyed, and the worst part is, she knows it’s not just just being slighted by a friend, or the loss of a much-anticipated meal, or the idea of being truly alone tonight. This hurts, and that’s a problem. If this is how she is going to come to terms with the fact that she’s been dishonest with herself lately about the nature of her feelings for Ben, she’d prefer not to.
She cuts the stove and guzzles the rest of her coffee too fast, swearing as it scalds her throat, then pours herself a second cup. A few pieces of bacon in hand, she beats a path to the bathroom. Nothing like a warm bath to get herself sorted. She can figure out the feelings thing later; which is to say, ignore them until it’s no longer an issue. She’s pretty good at that. The day can still be salvaged.
—
The whole day-salvaging effort goes well at first. Rey doesn’t let the way Ben’s text left her feeling so out-of-sorts completely upend her new plans. After her bath, she does all the housework that has gone too-long neglected, she goes grocery shopping because all she has in her fridge is milk, eggs, and various takeaway containers, she catches up on her reading, and she takes advantage of the unseasonably mild weather and goes out for a long walk in the park nearby. For a while, it feels like any other day off, and the emotional void of the approaching evening is easy to ignore.
Yet shortly after five o’clock, as she’s scrolling through GrubHub options and speculating on whether she can finish off both a sushi dinner and an order of chicken marsala on her own, she realizes that her plans for the rest of the evening look an awful lot like the post-breakup montage of a bad rom-com. Not that the prospect of having a night in is anything to turn her nose up at. A big dinner and a pint of Cherry Garcia while getting drunk and watching movies in her comfiest sweats would be an amazing plan any other night.
Tonight, though, it is overshadowed by an air of defeat and resignation. Instead of relaxing, it sounds lonely.
She could reach out to Finn or Rose to see if they’re free, but given what day it is, she knows better. Finn has been getting pretty serious with Poe, and while they’d probably insist on her joining them for whatever they have planned, the last thing she wants is to be an imposition or a third wheel. Besides, most of the time she lasts about ten minutes in Poe’s presence before she wants to throttle him. As for Rose, she started seeing someone new around the holidays—all Rey knows about him is that he has red hair and is apparently “into biting,” and . . . yeah, Rey can hold off on making that connection a bit longer. Which leaves her back at square one, contemplating why her social circle is so limited.
But is that such a bad thing? So what if she’s by herself tonight? That doesn’t mean she has to hole up in her flat like she has something to be ashamed of. The reservation at Wexley’s might not stand anymore, but she can still go and enjoy herself at the bar for a few hours. Maybe she’ll even meet someone. Stranger things have happened.
And so it’s with renewed vigor and purpose that Rey shakes off the funk she’s been in since that morning and is en route to Wexley’s within the hour. The place is as busy as expected, but she’s lucky enough to snag a spot at the bar with a decent view of the dining room. While that could be a depressing reminder of what she’s currently not enjoying, by the time her cocktail arrives, her mind has slid right past self-pity and into nosy speculation mode. Turns out, old habits are hard to break, though soon she remembers that Cynical Valentine’s Day Bingo is a lot more fun with a partner, and her attention flags.
She spots the older couple that also has dinner here every year, the ones that not only assumed Rey and Ben were a couple, but sang the praises of their obviously deep love for each other. The woman still looks like someone’s slightly batty art teacher; her husband is almost comically her opposite—tall and lean; close-cropped, thinning white hair; an understated gray suit jacket. Rey scoffs and looks away. If she keeps staring they might notice her, and then she might notice the way they’ll probably look for Ben. Not something she wants to dwell on.
She finishes her first cocktail more quickly than usual and is waiting on a second when a hand brushes her shoulder. With a start, Rey cranes her neck at the intrusion.
“Ben? What the hell are you doing here?”
He looks great. His leather jacket is unzipped over a dark grey sweater and black jeans. His hair a little mussed, like he walked from his place. He’s gotten it cut recently, from the look of it. She likes the way she can see his ears a bit; she less likes the passing urge to run her hand through it. He’s holding a small bouquet of wildflowers wrapped in twine and brown paper, and his expression is one of bafflement, which Rey can do nothing but return. Of all the places he could take this date of his, he’s chosen their place?
But of course he has. It isn’t “their” place, and he already had the reservation. No one at Wexley’s will know or care if he’s swapped out one partner for another.
Rey suddenly wants very much not to be here. She forces herself to stop gawping at him but isn’t quick enough to catch the bartender who just dropped her drink off. Time to close her tab and leave.
“I was waiting up front,” Ben says before she can apologize for unintentionally lurking at the fringes of his date. “I was about to text to see if you were running late, but then I saw you over here.” His eyes drift to her decimated charcuterie board. Nothing like cured meats, pungent cheeses, and a mountain of olives to soothe bruised emotions. “So actually, looks like you arrived early. Hungry?”
She’s babbling before she has time to process anything he just told her.
“No. I— I figured I’d treat myself even if plans have changed, and I didn’t think you’d be coming here. I should’ve realized. I was just about to close out and head home.”
“Wait, what’s this about plans changing? You said seven, right? Like always?”
“Well, yeah, but you told me you wanted to go on a date, and I didn’t think you’d be coming here to—“
“Am I late, or—”
Already he’s digging in the pocket of his jacket for his phone, the flowers in his other hand bumping her forehead as he rummages. He grimaces, then holds them out to her.
“Oh. These are for you.”
“For . . . me.” She accepts the flowers absently. They’re pretty and faintly fragrant—thistles and cornflowers, sweetheart roses and tiny daisies, a few others she doesn’t recognize, all bundled together with cheerful sprigs of greenery. A small card is tucked into the wrappings. “Aren’t you meeting someone here?”
“Clearly.” Ben pauses and cocks his head, fixing her with a probing look. “Is this a new part of the joke?”
“Not joking, just really confused. This morning you told me you were going on a date tonight.”
“Um. No, I said— Hang on.” His thumb moves frantically over his phone screen as his eyes scan it. A few seconds later, his expression changes from amusement to horrified realization. “Oh, fuck me. That did not come through as clearly as I thought it did.”
“What didn’t?”
He chuckles, though he looks apprehensive now. “Rey, I meant you. I wanted to go on a date—with you. Not a fake one.”
“Wh— But— You didn’t say that!” she insists, though she’s laughing, too, and trying to keep the conversation as private as possible at the crowded, noisy bar. “You said you preferred to go on a real date, so I thought you meant with, you know, another person.”
“I see that now. It didn’t occur to me I’d need to specify.”
“Why wouldn’t you need to specify?”
“Because it’s you. Who else would I . . .”
Rey purses her lips as the statement drifts, feeling strangely chastened, though his words are sweet and unexpected. “I had a moment where I wondered.”
“Then why didn’t you ask?”
“I was surprised. And then I was hurt, because it was way too easy to convince myself you didn’t mean me,” she confesses. “And if I asked and was wrong, I’d be making an ass of myself.”
“Better that I make an ass of myself?”
She makes an apologetic hum, then picks at the edge of the paper wrapping on her bouquet. “You didn’t. These are lovely, by the way.”
“I wasn’t sure at first, but they seemed like the kind you’d like. Think of them as a cactus upgrade.”
“Hey, B. B. is thriving and often the brightest part of my mornings.”
He smiles slowly, and something in her chest flutters as her mood shifts from confusion to warm relief. He wanted to be with her after all. The fact that it seems a bygone conclusion now does not dampen her rising elation.
“I just thought—hoped—there was a chance you might also be tired of making like you don’t feel something else when we’re together,” he says. “That you felt it too and might want to try. And I was freaking out, because we hadn’t talked in a while, but then you sounded really into the idea.” His mouth goes thin as he draws a slow breath. “Ugh, that was presumptuous of me.”
“No, it’s . . . it’s fine.”
“If this has made the whole night weird, I get it.”
“It isn’t, though. It’s not weird. And I am really into the idea.”
“Oh.”
“There’s no one I’d rather spend this day with. And I’ve sort of been going crazy all day, thinking about you being out with someone else. Which sounds horrible now that I’ve said it aloud, but it’s true.”
“Weirdly flattering, though.”
“I’d hate to leave your ego in a lurch.” She tempers her ironic tone and fixes her eyes on his. “When did you decide you wanted to do this?”
The way his mouth compresses as he chews the inside of his cheek tells her the answer is a touch embarrassing. “Officially, not until a few weeks ago. But it’s been on my mind for . . . uh. A while.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Last year when we were here, it hit me how long we’ve been doing this. That we always have the best time, or at least I do. And that we could be doing that all the time instead of just once a year like it’s a big private joke.”
Rey becomes aware that they are still in a crowded bar, and despite the ambient noise, anyone nearby can probably overhear their conversation. It’s the exact sort of thing she and Ben would have loved to eavesdrop on. ‘Idiot couple who share one brain cell.’ Yet she doesn’t care. She’s too stuck on what he just said.
“You’ve been thinking about this for a year?”
“Not nonstop.”
“But a year, Ben.”
“I know, it’s kind of pathetic.”
“No, no. It’s been the same for me. When that woman stopped by and said . . . all that very kind but misinformed stuff about us.”
She can still see them over Ben’s shoulder, drinking coffee at their corner table near the back of the main dining room. The man catches her eye and raises a hand in greeting.
“Exactly. That was it. It’s ridiculous, but it made me wonder what she was seeing. If we were missing something right in front of our noses.” Ben expels a quiet laugh. “And you took my hand, and I had this moment where I didn’t want you to let go.”
She reaches to brush her fingertips against his. “Neither did I.”
“Well, we are both here now.”
“Convenient, isn’t it?”
“Very. Just to be clear, since I wasn’t before”—his grin widens—“this is a date?”
“This is a date.”
“Let’s go sit, then. Before they give our table away.”
“Like they would dare,” she says as she rises, drink in hand. “We ought to nail a plaque to the thing.”
“Would be a nice gesture to commemorate the occasion.”
They take the charcuterie with them, and she lets Ben have the rest of it after he tells her he hasn’t eaten much today because he was “too busy”—he is evasive when she tries to find out what with. It’s funny that this doesn’t actually feel much different from any of the seven years that have preceded it. His behavior toward her is as unaltered as hers toward him, though he’s far more relaxed than he was when he found her at the bar. He even brought their bingo cards and an extra pen because hers are inevitably always out of ink.
Maybe it shouldn’t feel different, though. Maybe that’s the whole point. Maybe that means something. They’ve been moving toward this for a long time, even if neither of them has seen it until now. It’s natural and real and comfortable in a way things like this rarely are.
Because it’s you.
—
They’re pulling their jackets on in the entry space when Ben nudges her arm and asks, “Come home with me?”
They haven’t gone to Salvageyard yet, and she doesn’t think they will be. She also doesn’t think he just means ‘let’s share a ride.’ He’s actually inviting her to go home with him, after a date, to be alone. No proposal could please her more. She links her arm through his and pulls him out the door with her. “Sure. Does this mean I get to find out what you were ‘too busy’ with all day?”
“Wow, you’re still on about that?”
“It’s clearly to do with me, or you would’ve said what it is already.”
“So be patient and you’ll see.”
It’s a nice night, so they walk. Rey has been to his apartment plenty of times, though usually just for the occasional movie or game night, or else to meet up before going elsewhere. This part does feel different, but the good sort. She’s not sure whether Ben is inviting her over to stay until morning, or just to extend the evening; she’s not sure which she’d prefer. It might be nice to spend the night with him, though she’s also never slept with a friend-maybe-boyfriend. They haven’t set any sort of terms yet, or discussed what happens next. They’ve been on a date, and they haven’t even kissed, but she also knows him better than anyone she’s ever had a full-blown romantic relationship with. Sex with him—she has thought about it before, fine—could easily be the most intimate she’s ever had, which is a beautiful and terrifying thought.
She hasn’t decided if she’s quite ready to take that leap with him yet, but she does know she’s eager to find out what he has planned and where the night might take them afterward.
When they get inside, they toss their jackets on the couch, and Ben immediately ushers her into his kitchen and has her wait by the little marble island in the center of the room. As she’s filling a glass of water for her flowers to rest in, she notices there are two small dishes set out, along with spoons, a stand mixer, and a blowtorch.
“I couldn’t find a way to get you to not eat dessert at the restaurant tonight without ruining the surprise,” he says as he opens the freezer and spends several moments obscured from view as he rummages inside, “so I hope you still have room.”
“For . . .?”
He steps back and nudges the freezer shut, both hands occupied with a large glass bowl lined with saran wrap. Once he’s placed that on the island, he darts back to retrieve a plate from the fridge. The plate holds a thin, round chocolate cake; the bowl appears to be filled nearly to the brim with ice cream. When she leans closer she sees it is studded with huge chunks of dark cherries. She gets a whiff of bourbon and rich cocoa from the cake, and, absurdly, her heart leaps in recognition as she gapes at Ben.
“You made a baked Alaska? The one from Wexley’s?”
“Well, this one’s a lot bigger, but—” He catches himself in the midst of the most ridiculous boast Rey has heard in years and shakes his head. “I remember how much you missed it last year.”
“Ben!”
Maybe it’s a stupid thing to get this excited over, but it’s thoughtful and sweet, and it’s the last thing she expected. She darts around the island and throws her arms around him. He holds her just as tightly, and she feels a low laugh rumble in his chest.
“We can do the meringue coat together and then torch it,” he says. “That part actually looks like a lot of fun.”
“Sounds like you’ve picked up a new skill.”
“I’ve watched so many YouTube videos about how to construct this thing, my search history looks like I have an egg-white fetish.”
She tips her head back and grins at him. “Not sure what that entails, but I’m intrigued.”
This time his laughter puffs a warm breath against her cheek, and before she can second-guess it, she stretches upward and kisses him. His lips are deliciously soft, and he returns the kiss without a moment’s hesitation. One arm wraps around her back; the other slides over her cheek and into her hair. It lasts long enough for her to suck experimentally at his plush lower lip and explore the solid plane of his chest with her hand. When she breaks away for a breath, he’s smiling and cocking his head.
“Does this mean you like it?”
“I love it.”
She steals another kiss, and he deepens it this time, until he has her pinned against the edge of the island, and God he’s a really good kisser, and her face, neck, chest—all of her—is warming, and yes, she would love a reason not to go home. Ben is the one to pull away this time, though already she’s breathless and needs to force herself to loosen her hands in his hair.
“Do you want to stay tonight?” He murmurs it against her cheek. It sounds like the most obvious question, simple and momentous, but the way his body tenses makes her think he fears he’s overstepped.
Rey smiles and bends back just enough to catch his eye. “I would, yeah.”
“We don’t need to do anything. If you’re not feeling that yet.”
“I know.”
She combs her fingers through his hair and kisses him one more time; every single one feels like making up for years of missed opportunities. For an instant, she can imagine how the rest of the night will go: the slow discovery of learning one another in countless new ways, falling asleep in each other’s arms, lounging late into the morning, making a run down to the drugstore on the corner for discounted Valentine’s candy after a leisurely breakfast. Figuring out what’s next.
So much for uncertainty.
“But I’m very much feeling it.”
He expels a breath of amused relief and steps back, as if he’s just realized he is boxing her in with his arms and chest. “Though we should have dessert first. Before it starts melting.”
“We could pop it back in the freezer?”
“Is that seriously what you want?”
“Ahh.” She eyes the ice cream longingly. “You did put all this work into it. And we do have all night . . .”
“Nice to see your priorities remain predictable.”
“We do have tradition to uphold.”
“Of course.”
Rey straightens up and smooths the skirt of her dress, though she doesn’t foresee it staying that way for long. For lack of a glass, she holds up a spoon and offers him the other. He takes it with a quizzical twist of his mouth.
“This seems toast-worthy,” she tells him. “To . . . sweet beginnings?”
Ben’s face contorts with exaggerated distaste. “Nice one. Both cliched and achingly cheesy. They should give you a job at Hallmark.”
“After the last few weeks, I’d welcome it.”
“How about we stick to the classic.” He clinks his spoon against hers, and the sound of his next words buzz against her lips as he leans in for another kiss. “To not being alone.”