I stood by the champagne fountain with my glass, watching the skeleton pianist play, somewhat enjoying myself, when a woman came up and asked if I was Emma Foster, the author.
Before I could open my mouth, Richard swooped in out of nowhere and filled in for me. "No. She's Emma Lawson, thewife."
I gave him a shocked look, but he, rude beyond measure, yanked me away.
Because he was due on stage, and the night wasn't about me. Because—apparently—everything always is. Which was news to me.
I let it slide but on the ride home, we fought in the car until my voice ricocheted off the car windows. I simply had enough.
Thought I had the last say, but then he started humming. Forty-five minutes stuck in traffic as he repeated it, over and over, until it drove me insane.
So I downloaded an app on the sly and scanned his voice to name the tune.
When the title appeared, chills knifed down my spine.
"Would I Lie to You."
I stared at his profile, completely shook, trying to decode if it meant something.
He just kept humming.
Yesterday he brought me roses—not Friday roses, but apology roses—and for the first time in the history of our relationship, and probably his life, he cried.
"I'm sorry," he said as he wiped his face. "Work's been hell. The Piper thing is turning me into an asshole and I'm taking it out on you. You don't deserve that at all. I hate myself."
I held him, told him it was okay, even though it wasn't, and prompted him to open up about the deal.
He shut me down once again and instead asked suspiciously who I kept texting all day long.
I haven't fully lied; I said it was Lucy, her upcoming exhibition, and she needs me.
That apparently didn't explain why my phone fused to my hand.
Agreed, but what was I supposed to say? That my phone turned into a prosthetic heart and I keep waiting for Ben's message?
I mean, by now, I should know how to be an adult, how to handle things. Instead, I loathe myself for knowing better, and not being better anyway.
I even thought about asking Lucy for the universe hotline, where I could beg for some instructions to get me out of this before I drop dead from the amount of anxiety.
Which brings me here. 2:22 a.m.
I'm peeling my red nail polish while scrolling through hundreds of messages, playing Russian roulette with memories. And by sheer chance, or maybe someone up there is really eavesdropping, it lands on one of those moments that defined everything.
2019
Me:I know it... Just ask and be done with it :P
Ben:Ask for what?
Me:Nudes duh
Ben:Nah, nudes aren't naked enough
Ben:I want something you don't show anyone else
The words cave my chest in and pull me right back into my old room in Lucy's apartment, to the times Ben and I were best friends.
And one night, with a wine-stained sweater and my mascara streaking down my cheeks from laughing about our worst disasters, I scraped together the courage to give Ben what he asked for.
