Hot Mess. Emily Belden

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СКАЧАТЬ good idea. We were already oversold and I’d comped my parents’ meal, obviously. If I ate the cost on two more free seats, it would have created more work for Benji in the kitchen and less profit for us. If they knew how hard it was worrying about my paychecks for the first time in my life, maybe they’d cut me some slack. But of course, I’m not letting them become privy to the gloomier side of things. Instead, I decide to hit them with the good news.

      “Well, actually, no. Because he’s in talks right now with some investors about opening a restaurant. On Randolph Street.”

      “WHAT?” They react in unison with the same big eyes and high-pitched exclamation. It feels so good to get that off my chest to people who actually care. Who get what it means to have a spot in the West Loop.

      “Yeah, it’s really early on and I don’t have many details, but it sounds like it could be happening. Soon.”

      There’s a longer pause than I’m comfortable with given the big news I’ve just shared. I want them to ask me what kind of food he’ll serve, if it’s located next to any of our favorites, if they can get on the list for opening night. But, nothing.

      Eventually Jazzy says, “Wow. That’s cool,” and Maya just sips on her drink.

      “Okay. What am I missing here, guys? I thought my boyfriend having his own restaurant would be a good thing?”

      “It is,” Maya confirms. “It’s just that...I mean, my dad knows this guy who’s a chef and he, like, never sees his wife and drinks a lot. He said he’s surprised they’re not divorced yet.”

      Oh, well, if your dad knows a guy...

      “Yeah, opening a restaurant is great,” Jazzy says. “But it’s going to be super stressful. And on Randolph Street? Every eye is going to be on him.”

      “Every eye is already on him,” I correct.

      “My point exactly. What happens if he slips?” Jazzy asks.

      “If he slips?”

      “He’s only been sober for what, like, a few months?”

      “Three.” I lick the salt off the side of my margarita glass.

      “Maya and I just want to make sure you’re prepared if he relapses.”

      There, she said it. The R-word. The word I’ve barely let myself think. I’m surprised how much it hurts to hear it aloud.

      * * *

      “So that’s how it is. You have no problem eating his food, screenshotting the articles we’re in and talking about how hot he is on our group texts. But deep down, you just think he’s going to relapse? Maya, do you think that, too?”

      Maya goes pale. But if an intervention is what they’re turning this into, then I have no choice but to flip it on its ass.

      “Maya?” I prompt.

      “I mean, statistics show—”

      “Oh, don’t even go there with me. I live with the guy, I see him work his program every day and every night. I kiss him goodbye before he goes to his meetings and have his sponsor’s number written on a piece of paper taped to the fridge. He’s going to be just fine, ladies. In fact, he is just fine. So you know what I say? FUCK statistics. That’s what I say.”

      I set my glass down as my hands start to shake. I fix my gaze to the left and stare out into the bar at nothing in particular. I just know that if I make eye contact with my so-called friends, I’ll start to cry. Or drop another round of f-bombs.

      “Try to understand where we’re coming from.” Jazzy jumps in to play referee.

      “I can’t. Because I was under the impression that you two supported me. Supported us.”

      “We do!” They sound feeble and unbelievable. I just shake my head and take my phone out. For once I’m not concerned about the shit they might give me for doing so.

      When I look down, of course I have a text from the man of the hour. Benji wrote to let me know it’s now safe to come home. Dinner is just about ready and he can’t wait to see me. I smile and reply with a single heart-shaped emoji.

      That’s when Maya puts her hand over my screen.

      “Yo, can you stop texting and listen to us?”

      I tighten my grip on my phone and spring my arm back. Something about her attempting to put a physical barrier between me and Benji just to drive home a moot point sends me into a blind rage. As if I wasn’t in one already.

      “Yo, can you stop poking holes in my relationship? Both of you need to either find your own or get a hobby that isn’t dissecting my life.”

      I throw down a wrinkled twenty that I keep in my purse specifically for this cash-only frozen yogurt place I go to and tell them that should take care of my margarita plus tip. Then I grab my bag and head home to the meal Benji’s prepared just for me.

       7

      “Smells so good. Burgers?” I ask, inhaling greedily as I walk through the door. The drama with Jazzy and Maya dissipates upon first whiff.

      “Not quite, babe.” Benji pops out from the galley kitchen and kisses me, a warm oven mitt gently cradling my face. “Chicken with roasted carrots and broccoli, and mashed sweet potato gnocchi.”

      He’s nailed it and he knows it. Benji’s soft, pillowy gnocchi recently dethroned his infamous macaroni and cheese as my favorite meal. Plus, I’m a sucker for sweet potato anything. Coming home to this will never get old, I tell myself as he dips back into the kitchen to put the finishing touches on our meal for two.

      “Do I have time to change?” I ask as I kick off my shoes.

      “You do, but...”

      “But what? What’s the problem?”

      He takes two steps toward me, kisses my lips, then works his way down to my neck. I roll my head back and feel the goose bumps start to surface. He and I both know that when he gets to my neck, we go to the bed. But before he spends too much time on my sweet spot, he stops himself and heads back to his post at the stove.

      “The problem is I want to fuck if you’re already going to be undressing, but I can’t right now because I’m at a critical spot with these potatoes.”

      I feel my face flush. It’s unimaginable that I’m with someone who is as creative and passionate in the bedroom as he is in the kitchen.

      Benji makes me feel like a woman. A desired woman. A wanted woman. And even though it’s his libido that’s amped up, it’s mine that’s just getting discovered.

      Before Benji, I was doing the whole single-in-the-city thing. Not necessarily by choice, but Chicago is an epicenter for Peter Pan Syndrome—that thing where grown men still think drinking until 6:00 a.m. in Wrigleyville with their buddies on the weekend is a good look. I swear, no guy here is in a rush for any sort of committed relationship.

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