I imagined Ben in New York—black hoodie pulled up, walking through Central Park in the rain, the skyline daring him to conquer it. And me, not invited.
I know that Ben can be inconsistent, so as a result, I'm keeping him as my secret and doing what I've never done before—live in the moment.
Wish I could say it's character growth and I'm proud.
Lucy seems to be proud, at least when it comes to my choice of nail polish. Cherry red.
Ben loves it on me, says it makes my skin look like it was kissed by sunlight. Maybe he means himself.
I snapped a photo—yeah, of my actual toes—and sent it to her. Her reply doesn't disappoint.
Lucy:What did you do to my bestie? And why am I turned on by toes?
I laugh and stand in front of my closet mirror, arching my hips like I'm one of those Insta models before I snap another: me in red lingerie, scalloped edges that tease more than they hide. Bought it only so he could take it off.
Me:What do you think? Too try-hard?
Lucy:10/10 on the whoremones
Lucy:But I'm pissed at you. If you're this far, you owe me an awful lot of details
Halfway through my apology text, a knock freezes me mid-typing. I whip my head to the door.
No way it's Ben. He wouldn't come here, would he?
Then again, with him, you never know. Last night, he texted me every five minutes, asking whether I'd made it home from yoga, and if I was alone. I wanted to ask if he was low on blood sugar and it manifested as clinginess.
Instead, when I got in, André cornered me in the lobby like an accomplice in some romantic heist.
"He made me swear I'd deliver it personally when you're alone," he said, handing me a small envelope.
Inside: a note in Ben's doctor-scrawl that reminded me of a heartbeat, caught on paper that said,Wild and free, like you and me. And two dandelions. My favorite flower.
Impressed at the fact he remembers and how he managed to get them way out of season, I went from furious for involving André, to sending him a one minute-long video of me kissing my phone-camera.
"Coming!" I call, throwing on a bathrobe and springing to the door, half-praying it's Jessica because Richard forgot his wallet or something.
I swing it open and nearly choke on air.
"Mom?"
There's Lydia Foster, in her usual glory—her mahogany curls glossy, green tweed dress tailored to perfection, and she's holding a powder-blue pastry box like it's the royal treasure.
"Em!" she chirps, breezing past me without even the ghost of a pause.
I haven't even closed the door yet and she's alreadyrearranging my fridge. "I brought Richard his favorite. You know how he loves my lemon biscuits."
She turns and scans me head to toe. She does that. A lot.
"Good," she finally lands. "I thought you were deep in your writing and forgetting to eat, but you look... good."
In her native tongue it means:You've gained a few pounds, but congrats to me for framing it as a compliment.
But honestly, that's the least of my problems now. She shouldn't be here when I'm meeting Ben in an hour.
"What are you doing here?" I ask, cinching my robe tighter.
Her eyes follow the knot, and she clutches her chest. "Oh god, tell me I didn't interrupt you two from making me the world's most perfect grandchild?"
