CHAPTER TWENTY
Date Seven: Best friend Ben
My mind’s telling me no, but my body, my body is telling me ye–e–eees.
Is there nothing wrong with a little bit of bump and grind with Ben? Or is there actually a big fat heap of wrong with hooking up with my best friend? I’ve been pondering over this for a good few millennia and things have got so bad that I’m thinking only in song lyrics.
We’ve been at Ben’s house for almost twenty-four hours now, with nothing but his dog Tilly for company, and still haven’t muttered anything about The Situation. Last night we wolfed down some pizza and scurried off to separate bedrooms before 10pm, and today we ended a bike ride with an admittedly delicious pub lunch. I’m starting to freak out. What if we’re about to ruin almost ten years of friendship? Would it be better to just bottle up our emotions and pretend like nothing’s happened? Andwhydid Ben’s parents have to moveout to rural ruddy Oxfordshire and leave me with no means of escape from this weekend? So many questions, so little room in my brain to find any answers.
Thankfully, the market town where Ben’s folks live is so pretty it’s providing some distraction. After sensing that Doing Things is the only way to stop us from going stir crazy, Ben suggested heading out for a drink and we’re now walking along the riverbank, dappled in late evening sunshine. I decide to tell Ben everything I know about ducks and seventeen seconds later all of my duck material is exhausted. The silence crackles between us. Every now and then our fingers touch and it sets my nerves on fire. And while the thought of having an adult conversation about my feelings is making me want to dive head first into this river and spend the rest of my days as a mermaid, I know I have to face this head on, and soon.
Ben stops in his tracks and points to a flashing neon sign. ‘A bar! It looks like a bit of a dive though. . .’
‘Let’s do it!’
Kendall Jenner and Hailey Baldwin (or two superb lookalikes) have decided that we need more shots. They shimmy off to the bar, all tiny waists and ‘mom jeans’ (aka my actual jeans), returning with a miniature surf board filled with lurid drinks. It’s possible that our new group of pals is underage and I feel a strange maternal desire to send them all home to bed, but I’m also super pleased to have some other humans to talk to. There’s no confusing sexual chemistry between these young guns and me! Just some very loud bass reverberating through my body. I take a polite sip of my toxic green shot. Jesus wept. Ben’snodding away in an energetic conversation with a young buck when an old Usher song blares out of the speakers. Our eyes meet across the sticky table.
Why didn’t this come to me earlier? Usher fixes everything!
I’m up and grabbing Ben’s hand, barreling past kids as we make our way to the pool table because apparently I’mthatdrunk. Ben leaps up and holds out his hand so I can join him. Here, finally, is the answer to our current pickle. Who needs words when you have Usher? We’re dancing like it’s the early noughties. Ben’s body moves in perfect time to the song and I’m so tipsy that I’m convinced I look awesome too. We’re laughing away like we’re teenagers again. It feels so good. Like we’re back to normal, if normal was bringing its absolute A game and a sprinkle of lust. Beyoncé and Jay Z’s ‘Crazy in Love’ comes on and we’re singing the duet. Inexplicably, I’ve taken Jay Z’s part and Ben is having a bloody good go at hitting Beyoncé’s high notes. We’re roaring by the end of the song, and we’re also SO sweaty, so I signal to Ben that I’m going out to grab some fresh air.
‘I’m so hot!’ I shout when we’re outside, realizing too late that there’s no need to shout anymore. A late-night dog-walker tuts at me.
‘Youareso hot,’ murmurs Ben, his body right up next to mine.
Guys, I’m pretty sure he does not mean sweaty hot like I do.
‘Am I?’
‘Jasmine?’ Ben’s approx one millimeter from my face. ‘Stop talking.’
I can feel his breath against my cheek. He smells like apple-flavoured alcohol and earthy aftershave. I stop waffling. I stop thinking. I turn my face to his.
I’ve been watching Instagram stories for the past ten minutes as a delay tactic. I cannot think what to text Mila. A date has happened so technically she should be getting my round up but. . .
‘Smells good,’ Ben walks in with a lop-sided smile, tartan PJ bottoms and his hair all mussed up.
I bite my lip.
‘I put some croissants in the oven, hope you don’t mind. Coffee?’ I offer.
‘I’m starving and yes please.’
I slide a mug over to my best friend. Maybe I’m dithering about what to say to Mila because I’m still technicallyonsaid date – we’re not leaving for London until after lunch. Or maybe it’s because last night was. . .
‘So last night was a spectacular failure, huh?’ Ben ruffles my hair.
‘Oh god yes,’ I nod. The second our lips touched, I justknewthat me and Ben are never going to be anything more than friends. Whatever spark I thought I felt had turned into a damp squib the moment we kissed.
‘Are you okay, kiddo?’
‘I think so. For a while there I was all caught up in the idea that you and me might actually be something. You know, like in the movies?’
‘I felt exactly the same. I’ve been thinking about committing to a relationship recently and suddenly it didn’t feel like I had to look far. You’re my best friend, Jas. You make me laugh and you look after me. . .’
‘I do like to make sure you’ve had a good breakfast,’ I smile.
‘You’re a bloody good egg. But you’re not my egg.’
