Chapter Text
6 December 2014
04:00
Ugh. I haven’t written anything just for fun for a while . . . months, probably. I keep dreaming (sorry—that was spaced badly [and it’s funny how typing this up changes the layout.]) of you. Not sexy dreams or anything, but that we bump into each other somewhere—a bookstore in yesterday’s dream—and just hit it off, like old friends who haven’t seen each other for years, but the chemistry is still there.
And you are the only repeat character in my dreams lately. This time, we literally bumped into each other. We were in a bookstore somewhere, in some moderately obscure aisle—historical medicine, specifically medicine on shipboard from the seventeenth through the twentieth centuries—is what I was looking for. I had my left arm full of books, and my head was kinda turned sideways—you know how do, looking at a shelf of books—and I took a step backwards, thoroughly absorbed in my search. You were somewhere behind me and had taken a half-step forward at the same time, equally oblivious to your surroundings. We bumped into each other, and I whirled around, prepared to either apologize or sock someone, and nearly dropped my top couple of books.
You caught them and set them back on my stack, even as we stumbled over “I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you, I didn’t step on you, did I, oh, I am so sorry.” Then I really saw you, and said, “Ben? I mean, Mr. Cumberbatch?” flushing furiously.
You looked at me, and your eyes narrowed a little, and I blushed harder and said, “No, no we haven’t met. Sorry. Just, I admire your work. It’s fantastic. What are you looking for?” Your eyebrows squinched together and I realized—too late, as usual—that I’d jumped subjects with no lead-in whatsoever, and I thought you were just going to walk away thinking I was a profound idiot. I closed my eyes and sighed internally, then said, “Sorry. Again. I am the Queen of the Non Sequitur.” I ventured to open my eyes, and you were still there, looking slightly bemused, and I realized I hadn’t given you a chance to get a word out after the initial flurry of apologies. “Um. I meant, what book are you looking for? Right here? I mean, kind of obscure. Research? Um. I’ll just, ah. I’ll just shut up now.”
At that you laughed, and gesturing to my pile of books, said, “Actually I was looking for that one.” I must have looked confused, because you laughed again and pointed to my mountain of books. “That one, third from the top.” I looked down, then craned my neck in an attempt to look at the titles. You flushed a little then, and said, “Sorry, if I may . . . ?”
“Of course, of course, sorry. Here,” and proffered my book stack. You deftly removed the one you wanted and held it up in front of your face. “Oh! Hey, yeah, I’ve been looking for that one for ages.”
“Me too. I’ve been so busy with work, going back and forth; I spend more time in the air than on the ground. I suppose I could just order it, but that’s not—“
I cut you off (sorry, rude!) and finished the sentence with you, “half as much fun.” We both laughed out loud at that, even as we covered our mouths and looked around, trying to quiet ourselves and make sure we weren’t bothering anyone. I said, “Well, then you absolutely must take this one. It’s the only copy they have, but I’m sure they can get another one for me.” You started to protest and moved to put the book back on top of my stack, but I whisked it away, turning side-on toward you so you couldn’t reach my left side. “Nope. Absolutely not. I insist. I’m all of fifteen minutes away, and you are an ocean plus a continent. It’s no big deal.” I twinkled at you then. “If it makes you feel better, you can get me a cup of coffee. Light, no sugar. They always have a pot going in the back.”
“Yes, and it’s always good coffee, too. Thank you,” you said, smiling and waving your book over your head. “Wait here. I’ll be back.” That surprised me; I blinked a few times, then opened and closed my mouth twice, then nodded. You smiled again and turned away, heading toward the back of the store and the coffeepot.
I set my dozen or so books down on the floor and continued my perusal of the volumes on the shelves, scooting my intended purchases along with the side of a foot. You returned, a cup of coffee in each hand, and proffered one, then pulled it back as I reached out to take it. It startled me, and I felt my face flush again as I looked up to see you even more pink than I, and looking flustered. “Ah. Sorry. I, ah, lost track of which was which. And you don’t take sugar, and I don’t want to give you the wrong one when you’ve been so very kind, and I know taking a drink of something and getting a surprise isn’t very, ah, nice.”
My eyebrows went up, then down a little, and I smiled and said, “Well, it’s a fifty-fifty chance. I promise I don’t have any cooties in the event I get the wrong one. Unless you’d rather . . . ? No, I thought not,” I said in response to the involuntary face you made at the idea of unsweetened coffee. “Okay, well let’s have one then.”
I’m sure I was smirking by this point, and watching the expressions flitting across your face was highly entertaining. I held my right hand up as though I was swearing in at court, and my left hand out towards you, palm up. “I promise, no cooties,” I said very solemnly. “I know these things: I’m a nurse.” At that you laughed, then handed me a cup. I took a sip and made a face, handing back the cup. “Ew. That one’s yours. I’ll trade you.”
You laughed again as we swapped cups of coffee. We both took a long drink, then sighed happily. Our eyes met and we grinned at each other. Then my face went serious, and I asked, “Hey, may I ask you something?”
Your face shuttered, but you were too polite to just say no. “Ah. . . .”
Coffee in my right hand, ready to take another sip, I waved my left hand lazily. “No, no, nothing like that. Or whatever. Just a personal question.” I felt you go even more closed. I quirked an eyebrow, then asked with a meaningful look at your cup of coffee, “Were you a hummingbird in your last life?”
You looked startled, then you laughed until your eyes watered and you were bent over at the waist. You set your coffee down on a shelf, then wiped your eyes. “No. God. No. I wasn’t expecting that,” you gasped out, and grabbed the nearest shelf—which had your coffee on it—for support. I snatched the cup before it could spill and continued sipping my coffee, trying not to laugh at your response to what passes as my wit. I was smiling behind the shelter of the white Styrofoam, however.
You wiped your eyes again, then drew both hands down your face. “God. Sorry. I haven’t laughed like that in . . . I don’t know how long.” You levered yourself upright and I returned your now-tepid coffee. You took a sip and pulled a face. “It’s got cold.”
“Yeah, that’ll happen.”
You flashed a grin at me, set your cup down again, then bent over and snatched up my pile of books, retrieved your coffee, which you then swigged down, then said, “I have an idea. Let’s get our books, and I’ll take you to lunch.” You checked your watch and corrected, “Er, or an early dinner.”
I was floored. My favorite actor ever, and one of the people I have most wanted to meet in my whole life, was standing here in front of me, looking hopeful after having asked me to dinner. My eyes were so wide I was afraid they might just fall out of my head like marbles, hit the floor with twin clunks, and roll away. Under a bookshelf, maybe. I bit the inside of my cheek to be sure I wasn’t dreaming. All this flashed through my head in an instant. “Yes!” I all but shouted. You drew back slightly and I saw the shutters start to come down again. “I mean, yes, that would be lovely,” and then I told you what I had just been thinking. I saw you withdraw a little further, and start to consider ways out, until—and I can’t believe, even in a dream, I did this—I told you even about the visual of the eyeballs rolling away. Which must have struck you as funny, because I saw you kinda come back, and I could see you thinking. So we paid for our books and walked together out to our cars, and you said, “So, dinner? If you still want to?”
I smiled up at you. “I’d love to. I know a place, about twenty minutes from here. You want to follow? Or I don’t mind driving.”
I could see you were deciding, weighing the risks, then throw caution to the winds and you answered, “Sure. Let’s go.”
I grinned at you and came around to unlock the door to my Jeep. I took both bags—your books and mine—while you clambered in, then handed them back to you and slammed the door. I unlocked the driver side door and hopped in, got the car started, then turned to you and said, “This one place is Spanish. I like the tapas best, but they do full dinners, too. If that doesn’t work for you, there are dozens of restaurants—and a super cool record store and video store—all right there, so we can just walk until we find something that strikes you, all right?”
You had reached around and set the bags on the back seat and fumbled with the seat belt until you were strapped in. You smiled and said, “Tapas are good, but I’m easy. Let’s go and see what looks good when we get there.”
“It’s all part of the adventure,” I said, waggling my eyebrows. You laughed. “Oh, I have to warn you, though, I am allergic to fish and shellfish, so that limits us a bit,” I said, wrinkling my nose. “I don’t even like the smell anymore. Learned aversion.” I answered in response to your questioning look.
“I can work with that,” you said, rubbing your hands together. Then you looked over at me and my heart hiccupped. A man shouldn’t be able to look that . . . sweet, FYI. “Um, ‘part of the adventure,’ where did you hear that? How long have you been saying it? Why do you say it? What does it mean, to you?”
I glanced over at you and shifted the car into fifth gear as we came up to speed on the freeway. “Uhhmm. . . . Geez. Let’s see, how old am I? Ah, 36, so . . . about twenty years, I guess? I made it up. Just. There were a few rough years around then, a lot of hard stuff, and reading has always been an escape for me, since I was about four or so, anyway, and I realized that even in the most spectacular stories—Odysseus, and Hercules, and Belgarion, and whoever else I’ve read about—that there were times when their ‘adventures’ were bloody miserable, and cold and raining and tired and hungry. And that’s all fine later, when you’re home safe and warm, but maybe not so much at the time. You know? Having someone point a gun at you is just really fucking scary, even if it’s a good story later. So. Everything, it’s all part of the adventure, right?” I risked another look at you, only to see you looking intently at me.
“Yes,” you said slowly, “I get it.”
We exited the freeway then, and I deliberately lightened things. “Hey, this is one of my favorite streets. Look at all the cool houses. I’ll show you which ones are mine.” You looked at me again, startled. “Not really,” I laughed. “I just like them. I love neat old houses.” So I pointed out a dozen or so of my favorites, and you started to do the same, enjoying the silliness. That made me a little sad, remembering, and feeling the abrupt change in mood, you asked, “Hey, what’s up?”
I gave parking a lot more focus than it really needed. I shrugged, trying to make light. “Nothing. Nothing, really.” I shrugged again, then looked at you across the width of the Jeep, and it suddenly felt very intimate. “I’ll tell you, but it’s only fair to warn you: you can ask me anything you want, and I’ll answer, so be sure you really want to know.” We waited, looking at each other, my eyes shiny with unshed tears, yours a little wary, a little confused, a little curious.
Then you blinked and took a breath, sighing out the exhale. “Fair enough. Thanks for the warning.” You never looked away. “So. What’s up?”
I laughed a little and blinked the tears away. “My husband and I used to do that.” Alarmed, you looked at my left hand, seeing no ring. I looked too, and fidgeted with my ring finger, where I used to spin my wedding ring. “Yeah, no, I’m not married. I mean, I am. I mean, he died, a while ago. So whatever that means, as far as married goes. I still talk to him sometimes. And this was something we did, drive down here for lunch, or dinner, or to go to the market Sunday mornings, or sometimes just because. We both liked it here. Nice little liberal college town, lots to do, neat shops, lots of places to eat, and pretty places to just sit and watch the world go by And there’s a totally rad theatre here, too.” I looked up at you again, away from my naked hand. “So.”
You smiled lop-sidedly. “So.” You put your hand on the door. “Let’s go, see what there is to see.”
I grinned at you, still a little watery around the edges, then hopped out of the car, calling out, “Don’t forget to lock the door,” just as you shut it. You smiled sheepishly across the car at me and opened the door, then locked it and slammed it shut. I laughed. “Don’t worry; everyone does that, even my niece. You should have seen the first time she and I went somewhere in this. She couldn’t figure out how to open the window.” That made you laugh out loud.
We walked around the back of the car, and I started narrating, pointing to each place as I talked. “This is the video part of the store. They have or can get anything, it’s brilliant.” I looked over at you, coy. “It’s where I’ve bought all your stuff.” You colored again. I pointed to our left. “That is the music part, and they have a pretty decent selection of all kinds of things. The Spanish place is here,” and I looked over at where you had been a moment ago, only to not see you.
“Sorry, sorry, it’s more crowded than I thought it would be.” You caught up, a little breathless.
I scrunched up my face. “Yeah, sorry, I forgot today’s Saturday. We can go someplace else, if you like.”
“No, this is fine. It’s neat. And as you say, it’s Saturday, so anywhere worth going will be crowded.
“Heh. True.” I looked at my watch. Well, it isn’t quite five, but we can go look at the menu.” We were being jostled by the crowd, none of whom were paying any attention to you, my celebrity guest, which was part of why I had suggested this place. You offered your elbow, which I gladly took. “Thanks,” I said, looking up gratefully. “How tall are you, anyway? Sheesh.”
You laughed again, and answered, “Just shy of six foot one, but I usually only say six foot.”
“Huh. Great bloody giraffe. All you giant sasquatchy people give me a crick in my neck.” You looked startled, then laughed again, which made me smile despite my grumbling. “Sorry. Come on, this way,” I said, with a gentle tug on your arm. “Comes from being the family shrimp. I always wanted to be tall. You know, some great Amazon, with legs miles long.” I looked over at your legs. “Like yours. Giraffe.” You laughed again and blushed, and I smiled, charmed, and thought I would be as silly and outrageous as needed to keep making you laugh like that.
We made our way down the hallway, where we paused to look at the confessional, still sitting there. I grinned and said, “Yeah, the décor is eclectic and eccentric. And mostly for sale, if the price is right. It’s awesome. I want the bar, but that isn’t for sale, more’s the pity. Come on, the menu’s posted on the wall.” We spent a few minutes perusing the menu, making idle chit-chat.
“You say they aren’t open until five?" At my nod, you smiled and said, "so we have a little while. What is there to do until then?”
“Oh, hey! Let’s go to the music store! It’s rad—they have all these instruments on the walls and tables and stuff, and you can pick them up and play. It is super cool, and they have a bunch of CDs and stuff, a lot of local artists. And we have to check the poetry post. Let’s go, it's right across the street.” You looked amused again, I supposed at my enthusiasm. You proffered your arm again, and smiling up at you, I took it, and we set off.
I showed you the post out front, and Wade had put up some new stuff. I didn’t say anything, just read along with you, and you pointed Wade out as your favorite. “He’s the most clever. I think I would like him.”
“I agree. Let’s go inside and tell them; they’ll pass on the message. Oh, look! Ben Harper is here today! Come on, I’ll introduce you. He’s really nice.”
You stopped abruptly. “What? Ben Harper? Is here? In this store right now? Oh, god, I’ve been a fan of his for . . . I don’t know, years. We used to have to download bootlegs from online. Wait. What? You know him?” you asked incredulously, turning to look at me.
I swear I felt my eyes twinkle as my face scrunched up into a grin. “Yup. Not like we have brunch once a week, but enough to talk about what’s going on in our lives, new music, good shows, good books or authors, that kind of stuff. Yeah.”
“Wow. That’s brilliant. Yeah, okay.” And you opened the door for me, and we went in. You loved the store, you fanboyed over Ben Harper, and I bought all his CDs and had him sign them for you. I thought you might float away, you were so pleased. We played with a bunch of the instruments, and I held that gorgeous violin they’ve had in there for years and longed for it, same as always.
I regretfully put it back in its place, returned the bow, and we left to go have dinner. It was oddly intimate, the way eating there always is for a party of two, crowded at a tiny table, hemmed in by the press of people, in our own little bubble of conversation, having to lean in close to hear. We kept bumping knees under the table. As I said, oddly intimate. We talked about everything, whatever came to mind, from the menu to free trade to slavery to marriage rights. When we finally leaned back in our chairs, having eaten too much and talked too much, and enjoyed every minute of it, you suggested we go for a walk. I agreed on the condition that we get some ice cream to eat later.
We walked up and down the streets of old town, and I suggested we cross the street to the plaza to hear the music over there. “Sure. Let’s just pop into the music store one more time. I wanted to ask them something.” I shrugged and agreed, and we crossed the street again.
I wandered off to fondle “my” violin again, and you went straight to the counter and started a low-voiced conversation with the owner. Finally you straightened up and looked over at me, so I replaced the violin again and meandered back over to you. We walked arm in arm back to the car, where we stashed our CDs in back with the books. I locked and slammed the door, and said, “All right, over that way,” pointing west. “Let’s go hear some music.”
We walked arm in arm again, to my delight, and crossed the street to the plaza with the fountain and the movie theatre, where there was a group of people sitting in a loose circle, making music. “This is brilliant. I haven’t seen anything like this here in California.”
“Yeah, it’s there, but you have to know where to look. And when, really. I love this town.”
We sat by the fountain, listening to music and chatting for hours. Eventually, the musicians packed up, and we looked around the find the plaza itself nearly deserted. “Oh, shit!” I exclaimed, and then blushed immediately. “Sorry, sorry, I’ve got a mouth on me like a sailor. Sorry.”
You smirked. “Yeah, I’d noticed. You said ‘fuck’ seven times while we were at dinner.” I hung my head and wished the ground would open up and swallow me, preferably now. “Don’t worry; I’m not bothered. Maybe years ago, before I was friends with Martin. But you can’t have a delicate disposition if you’re going to spend time with him, or Amanda. So. What’s ‘oh, shit?’”
I was grateful, but still utterly mortified. “Ah. Just, it’s late.” I looked at my watch. “Really late. Don’t you have to work or something? I have to get you back to your car. Shit. Sorry, sorry,” I winced.
Your eyebrows went up slightly. “Yes, I do have to work, but I’m not due on set until two. So it’s all right. We should probably start back though. My car is what, about thirty minutes from here?” I nodded. “Okay. No problem. And where’s your place?”
“Ah. About ten or fifteen minutes that way, up in the foothills,” I answered, pointing northwest. I thought for a minute as we walked back to my car. “Well. It, um, sounds wrong, but I really don’t mean it that way, but you could just come home with me—I have two extra bedrooms and a couch that guests actually bicker over—so, you know. . . . We could sleep then neither of us would be driving exhausted. It’s been a really long day.”
You were quiet as we walked, and I was intensely grateful for the dark, because I could feel myself blushing yet again. You unlinked our arms, and I tried not to cry, then you slid your hand down my arm and took my hand. “I think that would be lovely. Thank you. Do you mind if I shower before bed? I can’t stand to get into bed feeling dirty.”
Then I did start to cry, from relief this time. I sniffed and gave myself a mental kick in the butt, and said, “No, not a bit. That would be fine. I’m the same. I can just throw your clothes into the wash, and find some sweats or something for you to wear.” My voice must have given me away, because you abruptly swung in front of me and stopped so suddenly I bounced off your chest even though our hands were still linked. “Shit! Sorry! Again.”
You kept our hands entwined and raised them to your chest, and put your other hand on my arm. “Hey,” you said so gently it brought a fresh bout of tears, “what’s this?” You touched your thumb to my cheekbone and wiped the track of tears. “It’s all right, whatever it is. And stop apologizing. I’m supposed to be the excessively polite, repressed Brit here,” which made me laugh through the tears. You hugged me then, saying, “There, that’s better,” into my hair. “Now talk to me.”
I let go of your hand and threw my arms around your waist and buried my face in your chest and just breathed for a minute. “You smell good. And I have two dogs.”
“And which of those made you cry?”
I let go with one arm to playfully smack you on the shoulder. “Neither. But they’re big,” I muttered into your shirt. “Really big. They won’t jump on you, but they may sniff and kiss you to death.” I felt your almost-laugh rumble in your chest, and smiled. I pulled back a bit, enough to look at you, and sniffled again. “So. Um. Are you okay with dogs? They sleep with me—” at your look of horror I hurriedly qualified—“not in the bed, just on the floor next to me. And if I have to get up in the night, I invariably trip over them and swear. Just so you know. . . .” I drifted off, unsure.
“That’s fine. I’d be shocked if you didn’t swear, actually," you teased, taking my hand again and bussing the back. then we resumed our stroll back to the car. “So. Why the tears?”
I stopped abruptly and squeezed your hand, then opened my mouth to speak. You interrupted me this time: “We’ve talked about just about everything there is to talk about. I promise I won’t be shocked or offended, or call the morality police or anything.”
I giggled, a little watery around the edges, took a deep breath, and tried again. “No. I know. It’s just. . . .” I drifted off again.
“What? Need some liquid courage?” I nodded, mutely grateful. “Okay. So do we need to stop, or do you have sufficient for courage-boosting and sharing?”
“Ah,” I began.
You said, “If you have to think about it, let’s stop. You look like you might need a lot of it,” which startled me into giggling again. You looked at me out of the corner of your eye and smiled with affection. “You all right to drive?” I blinked and considered. “Okay, I’m going to do something I have never offered to do before on a first date: I’ll drive, you direct. Good?” I reached into my pocket and handed you the keys.
“You okay with a manual transmission, and on the wrong side of the road?”
You smiled sunnily. “No problem. It’s a four-wheel drive, so I presume the clutch point is low? Any quirks I need to know about?”
“Ah, just that I need to rotate and balance the tires, so she shudders a bit around 48 to fifty miles an hour. But we’re going to be on surface streets the whole time, and she’s old, so baby her,” I demanded, “and we shouldn’t be going that fast anyway.
You held up your hands in mock surrender. “As my lady commands. Got it.” We arrived at the car just then, and you made a show of unlocking and opening the door for me, and getting me comfortably seated and buckled, which made me giggle again, which made you smile. You got into the car, started it up, and said, “So, direct me. Which way?”
“Um. Quickest is north on Indian Hill.” You looked at me blankly. “That biggish street we crossed to get to the plaza?” I explained. At your nod I continued, pointing. “Okay, so go to that little alley, left onto the street, then right at the signal.”
You drove smoothly, and I closed my eyes, starting to relax, and then feeling like an idiot for crying on you. I felt my eyes tearing up and turned away, as though I was looking out the window. I don’t know if my breathing or posture changed, or if you just guessed, but you reached over and patted my knee gently, comforting. I sniffed again and wiped at my eyes and nose, and took a breath in to speak.
“If you’re going to apologize again, I’m going to have to resort to drastic measures,” you rumbled in that lovely baritone. “And I assure you, you don’t want that. So now which way do we go?”
I looked at you startled, and answered automatically: “Left at the signal. There’s a shop up here that should still be open. I’ll just pop in and get something. A decent single malt work for you?”
You grinned cheekily at me. “I knew there was a reason I liked you. Yes. That would be perfect. But I’m buying.”
I scowled at you. “No. You’re not. I’m the one who needs the . . .” I waved my hand in the air, not sure what word I wanted.
You scowled back. “Yes I am. You bought dinner, found the book I wanted—thanks for that by the way—and got all of Ben Harper’s CDs, signed. You made my day. Hell, probably my entire year. So I’m buying.”
I raised my hands in surrender. “Okay, but then we both have to share secrets. Shit, here’s the store, on the left. No, we can just hang a left up here and come in on the side,” I said as you started to move to make a U-turn. “Driving in this town—wonderful as its cultural offerings are—you can’t be too careful. It would be a decidedly ignominious death to be T-boned by a soccer mom out late at night, you know?”
You barked a laugh and pulled into the shopping center. “Yes, it would. So do you want to come in, or wait and I’ll surprise you?”
“Oh, that’s hard. I love surprises. But I’ll tag along this time, if that’s all right.” I mentally kicked myself: ‘this time?’ Sheesh, Watts, a little presumptuous, you think? But you smiled, so we went into the grocery store together.
We fooled around, being silly and making jokes about some of the alcohol for sale. You were pleased with the selection, though, and finally decided on two bottles of something a little more dear than I would have. I objected, but you insisted, saying that the first time friends get drunk together, it should be on the good stuff. I conceded, pleased that you said we were friends, and that you said "the first time."
We bought some snacks and some things for breakfast after I confessed the food situation was a little bleak at the moment. We drove to the house, and you commented as we were driving through the gate to my neighborhood, “You weren’t joking about living up in the hills. What’s over there?” you asked, gesturing north, towards the dark.
“National Forest, actually. My home is right on the edge, with the reservoir at the back.” We pulled into the driveway, and I leaned across you to hit the garage door opener. I blushed when I realized I had practically leaned into your lap. “Er. Sor—no, not sorry. Just, um, a little closer than I thought. Heh.”
You smiled and said, “That’s fine. Quicker than telling me which one, anyway.” We pulled into the garage and parked, and we heard the dogs barking before we had the doors open. I grimaced and said, “Now I really am sorry—no nuclear force reaction, please—I just have to go in and settle them down first, okay? Hang on just a minute?”
You nodded and handed me the keys. I unlocked the door and went in, talking to the dogs all the while. “Hello, pretty babies, I know, I was gone for so long. Okay, good girls.” They followed me into the kitchen. “Okay, pretty girls, now sit. Mommy brought home a friend I want you to meet.” Their tails wagged, recognizing ‘home,’ ‘mommy,’ and ‘friend.’ “All right, good girls, here’s a treat. Now sit. Stay.” And I came back to the garage door and let you in as I buzzed the big door shut. “They’ll stay until I tell them to move, but come in slow and let them smell your hands first. They’re very sweet, but pretty slobbery.”
You came into the kitchen a little tentatively, not entirely certain of your reception. I took the grocery bags and set them on the counter, then knelt down between my two girls. Speaking to the dogs, I introduced you. “Lucy, this is Ben. Sophie, this is Ben. He’s my friend.” You offered your hand again, and they looked at me, then sniffed your hand, tails wagging. Lucy then Sophie licked your hand, then looked back to me again for approval. “Okay, good girls. Go make friends. Ben, just stand still a sec. I’ll just get this all put away.”
They sniffed you some more, then sat down and looked at you expectantly.
“You’re supposed to pet them and tell them how wonderful they are, now.”
You smiled at me, then knelt down and started talking to Lucy and Sophie like you’d known them for years. “Oh, there’s my good girls, aren’t you so pretty. Look how pretty you sit down, such good girls. There’s my puppies.” I was charmed yet again.
I poured our drinks, then belatedly asked, “Oh, how do you take it?”
“Straight up, neat, water back,” you answered, looking up. I held up our drinks and waggled them. “Perfect,” you smiled.
I grinned. “Thanks. I poured them strong, though. I’m gonna start a fire, yeah? And don’t let the girls hog all your attention, because they will.”
You laughed and straightened up, dusting off your jeans. “Hey, before we sit down, you mind if I shower?”
“Not a bit. Come on upstairs, and I’ll show you the bedrooms. You can pick, but the blue one has all my sewing and crafty stuff in it.”
We went up and you decided you liked the blue room more, then I got you towels and washcloths, and some sweatpants and an old t-shirt, and even some warm socks. “You go ahead,” I said, handing over the stack of linens, “and I’ll see about getting us something to eat." Back down in the kitchen, I puttered around for a few minutes, then went about getting a tray of cheese, French bread, fruit, and some meats set up, talking to the dogs all the while. “Luc, Soph, what am I doing?” I looked at them as though expecting an answer. They pricked their ears. “I’m not being an idiot, am I?”
“No, not from what I can see.” I jumped, startled by your baritone coming from the kitchen doorway.
“Ah! How did you get down the stairs so quietly! They creak.”
Your eyebrows went up. “So they do. You were apparently deep in conversation with your girls.”
I hung my head in embarrassment. “Yes, I was. I talk to them all the time. I forget sometimes that they aren’t people. You weren’t supposed to see that. Shit.”
You laughed, amused at my discomfiture. “Don’t worry; I think everyone does it. I am glad you don’t do the whole baby-talk thing, though. My ex did that. It was creepy and vaguely disturbing.”
“Heh. Yeah. You mind if I run up and shower now? I’ll be quick. The drinks are in there,” I said, waving in the general direction of the den. “And snacks,” I announced, holding up the tray. “But if you get up, to go to the bathroom or whatever, put something over it so the dogs don’t steal all our munchies.”
“Got it. Go. You look like you could use a pick-me-up,” you said, taking the tray from my unresisting grasp.
I showered quickly and came back downstairs, wearing almost exactly what I had given you, only my shirt was blue and I had on slippers. You smirked. “What?” I asked, defensive.
“Nothing. It’s somehow unfair that you look cute wearing exactly the same clothes I am, while I look like a goon. You’re a whole drink behind," you said, holding up your glass. "So hurry and catch up.”
I cocked an eyebrow, took my glass and tossed back the scotch. You looked impressed. “Never dare a Scot to drink, love. Or a nurse. You’ll lose every time.” I flopped onto the couch nearest the fire, put my feet up on the table, then patted the cushion next to me. “Pour us another, then sit. It’s gotten chilly.”
So you sat, we talked until the sky lightened. I told you how heartbroken I was after my husband had died, and I got another dog, and was staying here even though every day hurt with its reminders of him, and that I hardly went out anymore, and meeting you was such a fluke, and even if we never saw each other again, this day would go on the list of best days ever. And you told me about being in the public eye, and how hard it made it to just live, and things that should be private were intensely scrutinized by people all over the globe, and you were never sure anymore if people spent time with you and wanted to meet you because they liked you, or because they liked your celebrity, and you were really glad that I had just told you right at the beginning that I knew who you were and thought it was great, then seemed to forget about it, and just talked to you like you were a normal, anonymous person.
I laughed at that, and told you that it was hard to be star-struck by someone whose foot you had just stepped on, who had bumped into your butt. You laughed, too. And I told you that of course I talked to you like a normal person: I’d never met you and didn’t know you. And that you were the first person I had connected with since my husband had died, and that’s why I had cried earlier. You made me see—really see—that life wasn’t over, and that good things could still happen. We fell asleep holding hands, sitting on the couch, with the dogs at our feet and the fire crackling.
And the dream went on, and we got to be the best of friends. We would travel together, and went camping, and you taught me to ride a motorcycle, and the Monday after that first amazing day, someone came to my door with a package, from the Music Center. I went ahead and signed for it, curious. You had bought me that violin. There was a note enclosed that said, “Someday you’ll have to play for me. Thank you for the best day I can remember, and for restoring my faith in humanity, a bit. See you soon.” I cried.
Over the years, I got to be very familiar with your spiky handwriting. We made it a thing, to get each other surprises and have them delivered, and to always include some sort of note. I don’t know if we ever became physically intimate or not, but it doesn’t really matter. We were best friends.