Keep Calm and Carry a Big Drink (35 page)

F
ORTY
-
EIGHT

Soon, we are at the Sheraton Maui, which has a torch-lighting ceremony a little before sunset. A man in authentic Hawaiian garb runs around the property lighting torches, climbs onto a cliff called Black Rock, lights a final torch, then dives off.

It’s a complete tourist trap, and I am loving it.

Ben and I share
pupus,
which is the Hawaiian word for “appetizer.” Ben starts us off with the furikake-seared ahi. “Furikake is this dry condiment from Japan that everyone puts on rice over here,” he explains. “It’s crunchy, with sesame seeds and seaweed and some other stuff. Very good.” He then orders us some Kalua pork sliders, and Hawaiian beef pipi kaula flatbread.

As much as I love Hawaiian drinks, I’m already tired of them, so I order a glass of sauvignon blanc. Ben gets a local beer. Again, the conversation is easy. Unfortunately, Ben is not—he has not held my hand since we got here, nor has he tried to kiss me. This, despite how almost every couple here seems to make me want to scream,
Get a room!
And its being a hotel, they probably have one and should stop making me feel bad about myself.

I do happily eat away my feelings, taking a messy bite of the pork slider. “This is fantastic,” I gush. “Although I’m not tasting the Kahlúa.”

Ben laughs. “No, it’s not Kahlúa, the drink. It’s
Kalua
—no
h
—and it’s a town in up-country that has a lot of farms. The restaurants here try to go as local as possible.”

“See, just sitting around stuffing my face, I learned something new. How cool is that?”

Ben pops a slice of rare ahi into his mouth. “It’s very cool. So, how long do you plan to stay?”

I try to dodge the question a bit. “You mean tonight or in Hawaii?”

Ben shrugs. “Both I guess.”

“Well, as for tonight, I do have to work for Jeff tomorrow, but he isn’t starting me until three, so I can be out late. As for Hawaii”—I shrug—“I actually don’t know. A week, maybe two?”

Ben purses his lips and nods in mock seriousness. “Two weeks is better. You should stay for two weeks. Or three.”

“Maybe four,” I continue the joke.

“You could quit your job and stay a month.”

“I could see that Christmas tree you were talking about,” I say, knowing this is just kidding around, wishful thinking. “So, what is Christmas here like? Do you have Christmas tree lots, or do people just decorate palm trees?”

Ben laughs. “A little of both actually. I have definitely seen decorated palm trees. But there is an actual Christmas-tree farm in Kula, which is up-country, but not to be confused with Kalua. Kula’s where I got my tree last year.”

“A Christmas-tree farm in Maui. Wow. There is actually a person in the world who gets to live on a Christmas-tree farm
and
in Hawaii. If they live near a cupcake bakery, they’ve hit life’s trifecta.”

Ben smiles appreciatively and takes a sip of his beer. “True. Although for all you know, one day this woman with the charmed life went to a bridal shower, pulled a silver charm out of her friend’s cake, and left it all to work at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland.”

I finish another pork slider, then laugh and say with my mouth full, “If she did,
cherchez l’homme
.”

Ben furrows his brow. “I’m not sure if most guys would like to think that they could inspire such a change in a woman’s life. Most of us would be terrified of that.”

“Huh. I wouldn’t be terrified at all. I’d love to think that I could inspire someone to change their life.”

“Really?” Ben asks, tilting his head, staring deep into my eyes and looking intrigued.

Well, now I’m uncomfortable. “I don’t know. Possibly,” I say, trying to sound casual.

Ben keeps staring at me intently. I would like to hide now.

On to more comfortable subjects. “So Christmas … tell me more!”

Ben leans in toward me and almost whispers, “I have a better idea.”

And he kisses me.

Yes! Finally!

We kiss for a few moments, then I shyly pull away from him, allowing him to see me smile and blush.

Just then, the waitress comes by to see if we’d like another round, but Ben says no and asks for the check. When she leaves, he gently takes my hands in his and smiles. “Okay, you’ve got a couple of choices here. I could take you to Banyan Tree, which is a five-star restaurant in Kapalua with a filet mignon and seared foie gras that I think would convince you to stay until New Year’s.”

“Okay, that sounds amazing.”

“Or, if you wanted to stay a little more fun and casual, I could take you to Duke’s Beach House, which has loads of tiki torches and these crab-and—”

“—macadamia-nut wontons. I love those! You have a Duke’s here?”

“Wait. How do you know Duke’s?”

“My friend got married at the one in Malibu.”

“Really? Did she have a cake pull?”

“Thank God, no. I choose Duke’s—”

“Wait. One more choice. This last place is very romantic, right on the ocean, and the chef will make you whatever you want. Provided we stop at the grocery store on our way over.”

I giggle. I don’t mean to, but I actually giggle. “Hm. What’s the chef’s specialty?”

Ben leans in to kiss me again. This time, we make out long enough to be one of those couples where I want to yell,
Get a room!

Eventually, we come up for air. I smile bashfully again, then lean in, kiss him lightly on the lips, and say, “I think I’d like to try that last place.”

“Excellent choice, madam.”

Turns out Ben didn’t need to cook until morning.

F
ORTY
-
NINE

I awake to the sound of ocean waves crashing against the sand. I open my eyes.
Ouch. Jesus, it’s bright in here.
I blink a few times to adjust, then look over to the other side of the bed.

It’s empty.

Fortunately, I smell bacon, so I am okay with that. “Do you have a shirt I can borrow?” I yell out toward the kitchen.

“I like what you’re wearing now!” Ben yells back.

“Seriously, I will start rummaging through your dresser.”

I think I hear a laugh. “Second drawer for the shirts. Closet if you want to wear one of my button-ups and be sexy as hell.”

That would be trying too hard, I decide. (Although I do give it a moment’s thought. But am I that girl? No, I just don’t have the confidence to pull that off.) I shimmy into my underwear from the night before, pull out a New York Mets T-shirt from his drawer, slip it on, then walk out of his bedroom to the kitchen, where Ben is standing at his stove cooking bacon, and wearing nothing but boxers.

Yum. I mean that on so many levels.

I also see the rest of his condo in the light of day for the first time. Ben lives right on the beach. Like,
right on
the beach. Which means all I can see from his floor-to-ceiling windows is the island of Lanai on one side, the island of Molokai on the other, and nothing but ocean in between. It is stunning.

“Wow,” I nearly gasp. “Last night, I didn’t realize quite how close to the ocean you were.”

“Yeah, the view is what sold me on the place.” He turns to me. “Although right now I’m happy to say it’s only the second-prettiest sight here.”

I smile, walk up to Ben, and wrap my arms around his almost-naked waist. “That smells great. What time is it?”

“Eight. I couldn’t sleep, and I didn’t want to wake you.”

I give him a dubious look. He smiles and corrects himself, “Well, okay, after waking you at five, I wanted to give you a break.” He kisses me lightly, then whispers, “I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” I say, grinning like an idiot. I know Ben has Tuesday off, so I ask him, “Do you want to do anything before I have to get back to Jeff’s?”

“I have some thoughts,” he says seductively, and pulls me into another kiss.

We take so long kissing, the bacon burns.

Soon Ben is putting the overcooked bacon and eggs onto plates while I pour coffee (and learn he takes milk, no sugar), and soon we are sitting at the glass table on his balcony having breakfast, with the Pacific Ocean less than ten feet away, and a money tree he bought yesterday next to my feet.

I close my eyes, inhale a deep breath of salty air, and exhale contentedly. “This feels great,” I say, totally relaxed, and wondering what Zen officially feels like.

“Good,” Ben begins, his tone suddenly a little strained. “So, I need to tell you something. But you have to promise me you won’t freak out.”

I pop open my eyes. Of course he does. “Oh, crap. You have a girlfriend, don’t you?”

Ben points at me and gives me a triumphant “No!”

I glare at him and continue to guess. “Fuck buddy?”

“No.”

“Kids? Fake medical license? Wanted for fraud in seven states?”

“Wow, you’ve dated some losers,” he jokes.

I decide to go with a glare in response.

Ben takes a deep breath. “Okay, it’s not that bad. It’s just that … um … the reason why I was in New York wasn’t just to see my parents. It was also to see my wife.”

My jaw drops ever so slightly. You know how some animals, when they get scared, neither run nor fight, they just play dead? Just call me Ms. Six Feet Under.

Ben continues nervously, his words coming out in starts and stops. “We were planning to file divorce paperwork when I was there, but then she said she wanted to wait a little longer.”

I think I’m still glaring. Mostly, I’m not moving.

Ben keeps filling the silence. “We got married spur of the moment a few years ago; she was the sex I went across the country for. We broke up six months later, and I moved here. But by then she was applying for her green card, she’s Italian.”

Oh my God, am I really hearing this?

“But it wasn’t a green-card thing. I swear. She already had a work visa. She’s a model.”

Fan-fucking-tastic.

“I was in New York for the final two-year green-card interview, and she said she wanted to be the one to file for divorce, but then her boyfriend broke up with her, and she thought maybe we should just stay married and then she’d have a place to stay in Hawaii if she ever modeled here again, and I should have told you last night, but you were so beautiful and I’m really not a dick even though I’m hearing myself talk and I realize I sound like one, and please say something.”

He stops. I stare at him. All I can get out is “How is a wife not a fuck buddy?”

“Clearly you’ve never been married before,” he jokes.

I throw down my napkin and angrily kick back my chair. “Jesus, I’m out of here.”

Ben follows me through his living room, and into his bedroom. “You haven’t let me finish. It’s not a real marriage.”

“They never are,” I deadpan.

“No. This one’s not. I really am getting divorced.”

I cross my arms. “Did you have sex with her when you were in New York?”

Ben looks up and squints his eyes, which is my answer right there.

“I can’t believe I slept with you,” I spit out, angrily throwing off his shirt so I can change back into last night’s clothes.

Ben gently puts his hand on my shoulder. “Can we just talk?”

I pull my shoulder away and turn around as quickly as a snake about to strike. “If you touch me again,” I say with preternatural calm, “you will be in urgent care as a patient. That I promise you.”

Ben puts up the palms of his hands in surrender. He sits on the bed quietly, waiting for me to get dressed, at which time I assume he’ll take me home.

I assume wrong.

“Hey, wait a minute!” Ben blurts out. “I just realized something: I had not met you the last time I slept with her, which was before I left New York, when you didn’t even exist to me yet. I met you in the bar after I said good-bye to her and got into a cab. You, on the other hand, have slept with at least one guy since we met—the guy you flew halfway around the world to have sex with. So, if anything,
I
should be the one mad at
you
right now, not the other way around.”

I take a moment to consider his point. It does seem to have some validity.

Which I absolutely refuse to acknowledge. “I had sex with him. I didn’t marry him!”

“And I haven’t married or had sex with anyone since I met you,” Ben argues. “Therefore, you should be apologizing to
me
.”

I furrow my brow, confounded that he could make such a stupid argument. “In the first place, you have not been able to legally marry someone since you met me because … Let’s see, why is that?… Oh, yeah … because you’re
already married!
And how do I know you haven’t had sex with anyone since we met?”

“I just told you. And technically I have not lied to you since we met.”

I am going to need Botox after this conversation. “Technically?”

Ben takes a deep breath and shrugs self-consciously, “Well, in a few minutes, you’ll probably think to argue that my not telling you about my marriage was a lie of omission, so I figured I’d nip that in the bud.”

I throw my arms up in the air in exasperation and walk out of the room.

Of course Ben follows me. “You know, really, if you think about it, if this is the worst fight we ever have—”

“Oh, this is the worst fight we’re ever going to have,” I assure him. “Because I’m never seeing you again.”

“Hold on,” Ben continues, his voice calm. “Listen. I like you. You’re only here for a few weeks, and my wife is an ocean and a continent away. I could have easily hidden my marriage. I didn’t. I told you the truth. I will continue to tell you the truth. Ask me anything you want. And, at the end of the conversation, if you want to leave, I’ll take you home.”

Ben and I stare at each other for several moments, both saying nothing.

The weird thing is, my gut tells me he’s a decent guy. He’s right, he could have hidden this from me, but he didn’t. And I really would like to see him again while I’m still in town. Finally I ask, “When are you planning to file for divorce?”

I watch his breath catch. He pauses, debates an answer. Finally he admits, “I have no idea.”