Ben: Ask away.
Liz: Why me?
Ben: What?
Liz: Out of all the girls in our high school, why was it me you asked for that survey?
Ben: I talked to a lot of women. But you were easy to find, and you were always nice to me. I knew you’d be honest. Why?
Liz: Just curious. So out of all the girls you interviewed, how many do you still talk to?
Ben: Just you, I think. Why?
Liz: Just curious. Why do we still talk? What’s so interesting about me?
Ben: Honestly?
Liz: Yeah.
Ben: I don’t know. Why are you asking all these questions?
Liz: Curiosity.
Ben: So you said. You tell me, why do you still talk to me?
Well, if I expected him to be honest, I had to be too. Here goes nothing.
Liz: Well, you’re charming and sweet. You make me laugh. You have an amazing body. But also, it’s because you wouldn’t let me fade into the background. Most people lose interest if I stop calling or texting them, but you don’t. You always pull me back into the conversation.
There’s a long pause. Too long. He’s not that slow of a reader. What is he doing — sharing it with someone and laughing at me? My chest tightens. I reread my words, searching for something embarrassing, but no — it’s honest. For a second I picture his face when he reads it, that private smile he does, and the thought makes heat crawl up my neck.
Ben: Thank you. That’s really flattering. I don’t know what to say.
Liz: You’re welcome, it’s all true. Now why me?
Nothing. I try to convince myself he’s typing. Be patient. I tap my foot, check my phone, tap my foot again. Finally, his answer comes.
Ben: You’re funny, you’re sexy, but you’re also shy. You act like you’ve had your heart broken before and you’ve lost all faith in love. Despite not believing in it myself, it almost makes me want to find a way to prove to you that it’s real. But mostly I can’t get you out of my damn head, I think about you all the time. That’s why I wouldn’t let you disappear. I replay our conversations (clean and dirty, by the way) almost all the time. It’s ridiculous, honestly.
My heart stutters. That wasn’t the answer I was expecting. Heat flushes my face, and a stupid, unstoppable grin spreads across it. I’m not exactly the “everyone loves me” type, and this is probably the most flattering thing anyone has ever said (or typed) to me. I should say something. Anything. Come on, Liz.
Liz: Thank you. I’m the one who’s flattered now.
Ben: You’re welcome. It’s all true.
Liz: Sounds like you like me a bit, haha.
Ben: A bit more than I meant to.
My chest feels like it might float away. He likes me. Ben likes me.
I’m still wrapping my head around that when a loud crash snaps me back to the rink. Our center has been slammed into the boards — right in front of me. I jump up, yelling at the other team and the ref. A boarding call is made, but my focus is on the player. He’s still clutching his shoulder, face contorted. His eyes meet mine through the glass, and he jerks his head toward the bench.
It’s Matt.
I text Ben quickly while running.
Liz: There’s been an injury, I have to go.
