We’re seated quickly, two dark blue mugs are slid towards us, and the steaming coffee pot pours.
“I’ll give you guys a minute to look over the menu. Good to see you, Ben,” the waitress offers with a smile before quickly winking at Ben. Something stirs in me… jealousy? Most definitely not that.
“One of your non-Fleetwood Mac girls?” I’m kicking myself before it’s even out.
“Uh, no,” Ben says hesitantly. “I used to come here.” He pauses like he has more to say but isn’t sure if he should say it. I squint, trying to read him, but not wanting to pry.But you should pry— isn’t that the whole reason you agreed to this highly suspicious, possibly inappropriatenon-date?
“Before you came back to Astor?” I ask, attempting to hide my journalistic tone with one of curiosity— because Iamcurious. What was he doing these past few years? Why have Ineverseen him? Those are pertinent to the story I’m meant to be investigating, but they also feel pertinent to… me.
Ben subtly scoffs, disappointment shading his gaze. “So thisisan interview for your story?”
His disappointment wounds me, for whatever reason, but it’s good. Ben shouldn’t be disappointed by me to begin with.
“I never said Iwasn’tan opportunist, Ben,” I quip with a slight tilt of my head, like he should know better.
His assessing gaze unsettles me, eyes squinting for a moment, searching my own, and I’m worried what he might find. I don’t evenknowwhat he might find. Like he senses my unease, he unlocks from his target and finally answers my question.
“Yeah. Before I came back to Astor,” is all he gives me. A beat goes by. Then another. “You want to know why I left.”
“Yes, I?—”
“Well, the paper wants to know why I left, right?” he interrupts, sardonically. My heart knocks about inside my chest cavity, his disdain destabilizing me further. Whatever resolve Ihad concocted just an hour ago when I framed this time with Ben as part of my assignment dissipates under his scrutiny.
“Yes,” I admit. “I do need to know, for the paper. ButIwant to know… for me. It would help me make sense of things.”
Ben sighs in playful resignation, but his face speaks to how vulnerable this conversation makes him feel. I have the sudden urge to rest my hand on his forearm as he brings his mug down from the sip of coffee he just took. Tell him that he’s okay, and I can take and hold space for whatever he needs to say— but I know that’s an intrusive thought because I barely know this man. I offer him a soft smile instead and wait for his answer.
“I left because…” he pauses, staring into the pocket of space just past me. “I just needed a break. Everything started feeling like too much and stepping away felt like the only option. When I left I found myself here, a lot.” His smile is tight as he flags down our waitress for another refill of his coffee.
I get the sense that’s all I’ll be getting from Ben, so I leave it alone. What was I expecting to find anyway? Without knowing Ben’s family, I can barely make sense of anything. To me, it makes sense that Ben would only abandon his captainship for some sort of family crisis, but I have no clue what that would even be. Will’s completely shut me out of that part of his life. I know that’s what Ian’s hoping for though— some kind of tea on the elusive Chapman clan.
It’s honestly odd, in hindsight, that anyone would care to read about the family woes and subsequent consequences of the Chapmans. We wealthy nor’easters really do feed on the miseries of others, via all and any gossip channels— even college newspapers.
Sipping my coffee, I consider that there are major swaths of Will’s life that I knew nothing about until Ben showed up. It had never bothered me that Will kept pieces of himself private, but I was beginning to feel robbed. Ben was willing to share morewith me in the few weeks that I’ve known him than Will has in the past two years. But it isn’t sadness I feel as I consider this; it’s longing. I offer my mug to the waitress for a refill and take another sip.
“I kind of have a place like this— in Nantucket,” I say, surprising myself. “Shitty diner coffee is like a balm for the soul.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, a soft smile settling on his face. “It kind of is. What’s in Nantucket?”
“My dad and I spend Thanksgiving there.” I catch his expression shift, and I know what he’s wondering. “My mom is alive, Ben,” I laugh, watching his shoulders relax. “She’s just never really around.” Before he can press me on my mom, I switch gears.
“So what does Ben Cabot order at—” I peek down at the menu, “Winchester’s Diner?”
“Is this still an interview, Beckett?” The lighthearted gleam in his eyes tells me he’s letting his question go for now.
“No. This isn’t an interview anymore,” I offer, more slyly than I mean to, a blush creeping up my neck. He nods in agreement to whatever he thinks I’ve implied.
“The Home Run is usually what I go for, but something tells me you’re not into savory breakfast.”
“I very much enjoy eggs benedict, I’ll have you know. But…” I begrudgingly admit, “you are correct. Recommend me something else. I don’t trust our server.”
“No? I think she’s spoken like, twenty words in total,” he laughs airily, the laugh cascading out and around us, winding through the handles of our coffee mugs, weaving its way through my hair, brushing across the bridge of my nose. Or so it feels.
“It’s that eye. Something about it screams ‘don’t trust any of my food recommendations’,” I flippantly reply.
“Definitelydon’tget a Boston waffle then. It’s buttery, topped with caramelized apples, dusted with powdered sugar, evencomes with a side of syrup if that's not sweet enough for you… but Bethany did tell me once that it’s her favorite. So.” Ben smirks, flagging downBethanyagain.
When she finally arrives at our table, I find it hard not to look at her with derision. She’s slightly older than us, the barely there wrinkles at the corner of her eyes when she smiles only slightly deeper than my own. She could just be happier than me, I guess. But no, she’s definitely older. Her ashy blonde hair lays on one shoulder in a long braid that reaches just beneath her barely there chest. Maybe not barely there, but that is besides the point. She’s pretty in the way so many girls are unremarkably pretty, and— there’s a wedding band on her left hand.
