When I finally raise my gaze, Ben is wiping himself with a towel. “I’ll be right back, I need to clean up.” He smiles, then disappears.
I leave my chair to do the same.
At the sink, embarrassment slams into me. Regardless of how gorgeous Ben is, or how often we do this, I always feel exposed afterward. Sometimes even dirty. Honestly, it would be easier if I were actually doing this with him.
What am I saying? This is just fun. A release.
Back in my room, I slip into my clothes quickly, careful to stay out of the camera’s frame. When I sit again, Ben’s back in his chair, jeans on but chest bare. Tease.
“Feel better?” I ask, smiling coyly.
“Much. Thank you. You know, one of these days I’ll get you to look at me while you finish.”
“Good luck with that.” I blush and glance downward.
“After all this time, you still embarrass so easily.” Ben chuckles.
“I’m just naturally shy. Don’t take it personally.” My gaze drifts toward my unfinished lesson plans.
Ben notices. “I’ll let you get back to work, babe. Thank you for letting me distract you.”
His smile, when I bring my eyes up to meet it, warms my heart.
“Thank you for distracting me.” I wink. “Talk to you later?”
“Absolutely.” Ben disconnects.
I attempt to get back to work, but give up after a while and grab some food instead. While I eat, I think about Ben. That boy drives me absolutely crazy, and I kind of enjoy the ride. And that’s all this was supposed to be. Fun. A ride. But sometimes, when he smiled like that, I worried I was fooling myself.
Chapter 7
Ben, February 28
One of my flatmates once asked me why I never brought girls around anymore. It led to laughter and calling me a monk. I shrugged it off, but inside I thought: if only you knew. If only you knew there was already a girl, one who lived five thousand miles away and had no clue I was in love with her. That was the problem, really. I couldn’t justify putting a woman I loved through the torture of knowing how I felt but being literally an ocean away from doing anything about it. I never told her. I knew perfectly well that Liz believed in and valued honesty, but I didn’t tell her. It was a lie of omission, the kind that chews at you slowly.
Deep down, I knew it was never going to happen. I thought about why it wasn’t going to happen almost constantly, and it was the most depressing thing in the world. I wasn’t moving to America. Liz wasn’t moving here. I loved her, but I convinced myself that being “safe,” being her best friend, was better than no Liz at all.
Over the years I developed this habit of comparing any male Liz talked about to her checklist of three qualities. Did this guy seem to have a sense of humor? Was he charming? Honest? I made sure to point out whenever someone was lacking. If she mentioned someone new, I was ready with the red pen, grading them against her list.
I remember one time Liz was out for drinks with someone her friend from work set her up with. It wasn’t going well, so she texted me—once when he was literally hitting on the bartender right in front of her. Then she excused herself, apparently to use the restroom, and left her phone in her purse hanging on the barstool.
Liz: Who is this?
Ben: Excuse me?
Liz: I’m on a date with the girl who owns this phone and I’m wondering who this is that she’s been texting during our date.
Ben: Did you see her texting during your date?
Liz: No, the times are attached to your messages, asshole.
Well, wasn’t this interesting?
Ben: The name’s Ben. I’m Liz’s friend.
Liz: Like friend friend or like friend-with-benefits friend?
Ben: Well I live in England, so the benefits are a bit of a stretch. Friend like best friend. Good enough?
