Hot Mess. Emily Belden

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СКАЧАТЬ from the internet (hello, @BJZane), but you could say there was something a little too casual about my love life in the time between moving back after college and finding my way with Benji.

      “You just have to get to the third date,” Maya would say. “Cosmo says that’s a morally acceptable amount of time before sleeping with a guy.” But three dates with a person I knew I didn’t have a future with felt like a slow race. And when we managed to finally get there, sex felt like something I needed to squeeze in like a side of vegetables because it was good for me.

      I was never truly needed by a guy before Benji came along, and so I never realized just how powerful that feeling is. Dirty talk? Yeah, sure, whatever. But tell me you need me, and I’m halfway to an orgasm. I may have learned this about myself from Benji, but he’s learned from me that saying it gets him what he wants—both in and out of the bedroom.

      It may not be outlined in the official NA handbook, but I’ve read enough lifestyle blogs to know that regular sex is part of a normal, healthy relationship. And that’s what I’m after here—normal and healthy—no matter how I have to go about getting us there.

      “How about in a little bit?” I bargain. “We’ll put on an episode of Lost.”

      “Putting on an episode of Lost” is essentially code for “we’re going to screw.” I don’t know what it is about that show, but every time we watch it, we wind up naked on the couch within the first twenty minutes. I have no idea what’s actually happening in the season two story line, but it does a good job washing out the occasional moan that could be heard by those waiting for the elevator in the hallway.

      “Okay, deal. Go change and let’s eat.”

      We eat dinner together every night unless he’s got something pop-up related going on or an evening NA meeting with Mark. Most of the time, we stay at the apartment. Partly because preparing me a home-cooked meal is a term and condition in the stay-sober deal he made with me, and partly because going out to eat in this city is almost always a spectacle. Don’t get me wrong, it feels incredible—to be the woman behind the man like I was at Republic. But tonight I’m craving simple and delicious in all facets of my life, so I’m pleased it’s just us.

      Sprawling granite countertops are not part of the amenities in my tiny unit. So Benji hinged a piece of butcher’s block to the wall for added prep space a few weeks ago. I have no clue how sturdy it is, or what kind of damage he’s caused to the drywall, but tonight he’s set it up as a makeshift table for two. There’s a single yellow flower, plucked from the landscaping near the front door, poking out of a highball glass. It’s a romantic touch and I quickly forget how cramped we are when he puts a steaming plate in front of me. I’m in awe this was made right here in my underequipped kitchen.

      “How is it?”

      “You know I’m obsessed with this gnocchi.”

      “Good, babe,” he says, pushing the flower into frame and snapping a photo of his plate before uploading it to social media. Not everything can be sacred, I guess. “I made extra for your lunch tomorrow.”

      There are times I doubt that I’m doing this right—this whole keeping-an-addict-sober thing. It’s like losing your virginity or graduating from college: there aren’t manuals for this kind of stuff. But when I hear him say that he’s made a double batch of my favorite food so I can eat well at work tomorrow, I know something’s working, something’s clicking. He’s thinking about someone other than himself and it’s a relief seeing that he’s on the right track. Not to mention empowering to know that I helped steer him there.

      But he can’t distract me with food forever. There’s something I need to bring up, even if it means derailing our Lost plans.

      “So what’s with the email I got from Angela?” I keep my voice calm and pop another gnocchi in my mouth.

      “What do you mean?” he asks, peeling the crispy skin off his chicken with his bare hands and stuffing it in his mouth. I guess two can play at this keep-it-casual game.

      “She emailed us this afternoon. Said that you said to keep me looped in on everything.”

      “Well, yeah,” he says, chewing thoughtfully. “She needs to know that I’m only in if you are. If she thinks I can be successful without you in the picture, she’s dead wrong. Made that crystal fucking clear today.”

      My face flushes again; this man trusts me with his life, his career, his everything. It’s an incredible responsibility and an honor. I only wish I could put it on my résumé.

      “So I don’t have to do anything, right? I don’t need to reply?” I want confirmation that this is his pet project, not mine.

      “Did you look at the attachments?”

      “No, why?”

      “They detail the investment.” His voice takes on a salesy quality.

      “Isn’t that for some old, rich, white guy to peruse?”

      “Craig is his name. Yeah, but he’s not the only investor here,” Benji clarifies. “We have to own a part of it, too, or this isn’t going to work.”

      Bomb. Dropped. And something tells me this isn’t “an extra twenty dollars for cab fare” kind of investment. I can feel my blood start to come to a slow boil. I set down my fork, which still has a gnocchi dangling from the spears.

      I accept that Benji cannot do much on his own at this stage in the game. And I don’t mind helping. Having him in my life has shown me how much of a natural-born problem solver I am. Couple that with my need to feel needed, and I understand why he feels comfortable running everything by me. But sometimes I wish I had the option to RSVP “no” before getting roped into the real clusterfucks.

      “What are you talking about? Either this Angela chick has an investor who’s footing the bill or she doesn’t and this is just a bullshit scheme to bleed you dry and use your name.” My appetite suddenly disappears.

      “What are you talking about?” Benji snaps back.

      I know where this is going—to the land where civil conversation goes to die. My only hope is that we don’t emotionally drain each other before dessert is served.

      “Do you have any clue how these things work, Allie? Obviously not. Yeah, sure, Craig could front the whole thing easily. But if he does, we have no say in what the hell goes on there.”

      Please stop saying we.

      “I’ll just be a slave to whatever some sixty-year-old fuck-face from the suburbs wants to do. I’m not taking that kind of a risk. Not on Randolph Street. Not at this stage in my career.”

      Career is hardly a word I’d use to describe what goes on in here between his jimmy-rigged food prep and the micro profit we pull, but I throw no flags. Yet.

      “What do you want for me, Allie?” He continues with the diatribe. “Do you want me working at a place with some laminated spiral-bound menu that can be wiped off when someone’s kid throws up on it? That’s going to be my big return to the food scene? Loaded baked potato skins and early-bird specials? Please, I’ll get laughed straight out of Chicago and have to spend another six years staging around the country before I find my way again.”

      Subtle as it may be, I recognize that as СКАЧАТЬ