“Oh,shit.” I yanked my hand back. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I was working off muscle memory. I didn’t mean it.”
“It’s okay.” Ben put up placating palms. “No worries. I know you know I have a—Sarah.”
“Sarah, yes, exactly.” I seized on her name like it was a talisman that could ward off this crush of embarrassment.
“It’s just, I don’t think of you that way anymore,” Ben said. “After the way things ended—or, really, the way they imploded—I told myself I’d never be with another girl like you. I figured you felt the same way, because you’re the one who, you know, did what you did back then. But if this is weird for you, I’ll recuse myself and hand the campaign to someone else.”
“No,”I practically shouted, causing heads to turn. “I mean, there’s no need. I’m telling you, it was a dumb mistake. I wasn’t even thinking. There are no feelings here.Ugh,” I gagged. “See? Even the idea is gross.”
Ben studied me.
I waved at my chest. “I’m basically dead in there, anyway. You have nothing to worry about. Except for the fact that I willliterallykill you if you resign from the campaign.”
Finally, Ben smiled, though it was hesitant. “Okay. If you’re sure.”
Jesus Christ, me. What the hell had happened? The entire point of working with Ben on this campaign was to rewrite our ending, which meant proving I was no longer the emotional, irrational girl I’d been in grad school. Yet between the bar, Comic-Con and now this, being around Ben was getting under my skin. What was next—would I crack open my rib cage and yell,I see you’re back, dangerous man! Please, why don’t you play with my most vital, unguarded organ?This was possibly more humiliating than Danny and the church sex scandal.
Lee Stone: One Thousand and One Ways to Self-Destruct, A Memoir.
Well, I was not that girl anymore. I gritted my teeth and downed my wine-horn, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “Ben. Trust me. I couldn’t care less about you, except for whether or not you’re going to help me win.”
Ben’s fingers flexed, and his lips tightened. He looked down at his horn and tossed the contents in the grass. “Right. Good. As long as we’re on the same page.”
He crushed his horn in his hands. “Probably time to call it a day.” Then he got up and walked away, leaving me alone on the bench.
7
The Height of Diplomacy
Saturday night I vowed I was going to get Alexis out of the house and into a goddamn restaurant to drink sexy wine and eat pasta like a functioning adult, even if I had to club her over the head and carry her in on my shoulder.
It had been ages since she’d left the couch and seen the light of day, so I figured the light of night was probably a good transition step. It had taken nearly an hour to convince her to brush her hair and put on non-pajama clothes, and I’d only succeeded when I promised she could wear my best black dress with the plunging neckline.
If Daisy David could have gotten her hands on Alexis, she definitely would have traded me in as Belle. Maybe given me Mrs. Potts’s cracked-up son Chip instead, which honestly fit my energy better. My sister and I had the same thick brown hair and big brown eyes, like our mom, but Alexis’s were framed by Disney-princess lashes and flecked with green. She was an elementary school librarian, so plenty bookish, and also a sentimental sap who always tried to see the best in people.
It was her greatest flaw. And the source of the tension that had kept us distant for years, even though we lived in the same city. I’d seen more of Alexis in the last few weeks than in the last two years combined. I was determined to make good use of our time.
Which is why hearing from the condescending host of Bitter Honey that there were absolutely no tables for us—even at the sexy-late hour of 9:00 p.m.—was so very jarring.
“Are you sure?” I pressed. “We’ll take a crammed corner. Or sit in the kitchen.” My face brightened. “Or definitely the bar.”
“We’re fully booked,” said the host, without even looking at me. “Next time I recommend reservations.”
“We can go somewhere else,” Alexis said, folding her arms over her exposed chest like a nun who’d accidentally walked into a bordello.
I didn’t want to go anywhere else. Bitter Honey was one of the hottest restaurants in Austin. It was dimly lit, with a beautiful wine list and giant wineglasses you had to hold with both hands. The music was dark and pulsing, and most important, it was filled to the brim with hot guys who worked in tech and politics. Guys I was determined Alexis would meet tonight.
I scanned the restaurant, trying to think of some way to steal a table—should I let it drop that I was an important food critic forBon Appétit?—when I saw a tall figure in a dark sports coat and whipped back around.
“Yes, let’s leave immediately.” I took Alexis’s arm and practically dragged her toward the door.
“Stoner? And is thatLex?”
I had no choice but to turn in the direction of the voice I knew so well, because Alexis and I were intertwined and she was spinning around a mile a minute, her face lighting with delight.
“Ben Laderman? Holyshit. It’s been forever!”
Alexis dropped me like a sack of hot potatoes and ran to Ben, who folded her in a hug. I stood there, tapping my heel, absolutely not noticing how perfectly Ben’s sports coat fit his shoulders.
