This was the moment. If he wanted to tell Chase about the business closing, here was the opportunity.
“Sure,” he said instead. “Work-life balance. I’m getting some of that. So, I’ll see you then. I’m looking forward to it.”
“I know when I’m being rushed off the phone. I’ll see you then. Let me know if you need a ride from the airport.”
The call ended, and Ben tossed the phone aside, sliding between the couch cushions. His eyes drifted back to the TV, where some actor was giving an impassioned speech about perseverance or courage or some other virtue that he, sadly, felt devoid of.
If the call with Chase had included video…Ben would have upset the entire tiny town of Harper.
The pizza box on his coffee table had a grease stain on its cardboard surface and a wad of used paper napkins shoved inside. Ben stared at it, suddenly annoyed. This wasn't him. This slovenly, self-pitying mess wasn't anyone he wanted to be.He might not know what to do with his life right now, but he certainly didn't need to live in a pigsty while figuring it out.
"Enough," he muttered to himself, thoroughly disgusted by how quickly he’d let things go.
He pushed himself up from the couch, determined to do something today. Anything. Something that didn’t involve television and the food delivery app on his phone.
The kitchen trash bag was already nearly full, but he grabbed it anyway, then moved through his apartment collecting the damning evidence of his four-day pity party. Empty pizza boxes. Crumpled napkins. Soda cans that had never made it to the recycling bin. Chip bags that seemed to have reproduced overnight.
He didn’t even like chips and soda all that much.
Each piece of trash represented another hour he'd wasted feeling sorry for himself. Another hour that he could have been doing something productive. He wasn’t the type to wallow. He was the type who fixed things. Made them better.
But what was he supposed to fix? This was out of his control.
His entire identity had been wrapped up in being the business guy, the one who made things run smoothly while Scott invented and Martin funded. Now he was just... what? A thirty-five-year-old man who didn’t have anywhere to go in the morning.
Had the barista on the corner noticed that he hadn’t come in for his usual coffee? She always greeted him by name and asked him if he had a big day ahead. He assumed she remembered him because he was a big tipper.
He closed the now-full trash bag and continued toward the door. When was the last time he'd actually left his apartment? Tuesday, maybe? No, it must have been Monday. He’d gone down to the corner store to get a box of cereal and some milk.
The hallway of his building was impeccable, as always, the smell of lemon furniture polish lingering in the air. Lush carpeting muffled his footsteps as he made his way to the trash chute room at the end of the corridor.
The trash room was a small, utilitarian space at the end of each floor, a stark contrast to the rest of the building’s luxury. A large metal chute dominated one wall, with recycling bins neatly arranged on the opposite side. Ben pushed the heavy door open with his shoulder, the garbage bag dangling from one hand.
The room, however, wasn’t empty. A pretty young woman was struggling with her garbage bag, trying to stuff what looked like a week’s worth of trash into the narrow chute opening. He wasn’t shocked that she wasn’t having any luck. There was a trick to using that chute. Physics was not on her side. Clearly, she was new in the building.
Her auburn hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, a few strands falling across her face as she grunted with effort. Frustration was clearly written on her features as she gave the plastic bag another hard shove.
"Easy there. You don’t want to break the bag. Then you’ll have a mess on your hands.”
The woman turned, her expression shifting from frustration to surprise that she wasn’t alone.
"I can help," Ben offered, setting his own bag down. "You have to use the right angle when you have that much trash. It’s the only way it will go down."
She didn’t reply, and he didn’t wait for a response. She didn’t seem the chatty type, but this was New York City. He couldn’t pick out most of his neighbors in a lineup. He simply didn’t see them that often. They all had their own lives.
He stepped forward, taking the bag from her unresisting hands. Their fingers brushed briefly, and he felt a jolt that hadnothing to do with static electricity. Her skin was warm where they touched.
The woman stepped back, crossing her arms as she watched him maneuver her garbage bag into the chute.
“My name’s Ben, by the way,” he said, noticing her wary body language. Probably for the best, as he could be a serial killer for all she knew. “I live in 4B. There you go. All done.”
The bag had slid down the chute, and he picked up his own, which quickly followed. She was looking him up and down, as if appraising whether he was telling the truth.
"You've got a Cheeto stuck to your shirt."
Ben looked down. Sure enough, a single orange scrap of Cheeto was stuck to his cotton t-shirt with his alma mater emblazoned on the front. He plucked it from the fabric and tossed it down the chute, feeling heat creep up his neck and cheeks.
Ah, the universe. Just in case I started feeling good about myself again.
