Over You (19 page)

“I mean about college.”
And us,
Ben thinks.

“I thought I had to break up with Bridget to make college better, instead I’m just making myself and you crazy. I have mad respect for you, dude. You work your ass off.” Taylor pulls Ben in for a hug, Ben’s face deflating the green down puff of Taylor’s coat. “You’ve brought me back, BC.”

“I have?”

“You have. I don’t want to sit around Vance’s kitchen and play quarters until the sun rises. I don’t want to chat up townie girls between Journey numbers at the lodge’s karaoke. And next year I don’t want to roam campus parties trying to find what I already had. I want my girlfriend back.”

“Okay, I mean, that’s great, but—”

“As soon as we mail this in, I’m setting up camp on Bridget’s stoop until she’ll talk to me. How can I give up if I haven’t put all my cards on the table?”

“You’re up,” the cat woman says to them, tilting her head at the available window. Taylor strides to the teller while Ben waits, the envelopes in his hand, wishing he felt as sure about what to do next.

Max is standing in six thousand dollars’ worth of illegitimately borrowed peacock feathers and her priceless, fuzzy Wisconsin cheese slippers when the doorbell rings. “Oh my God!” Max cries as she spots Ben through the window, her heart spiking in her chest like a football. She flattens against the wall.
“Music off!”
she hisses at Zach, who’s testing peacock-complementing toenail colors on his own fingers.

“The S.S.?” Zach asks theatrically as he hits
MUTE
.

“Ben!” Max reaches to her side to find the perfectly hidden zipper that is too damn perfectly hidden.

“Maybe he’ll think you’re not home.” Phoebe crouches at Max’s ribs to aid her search.

“How could he not have heard the music?” Max finds the tiny turquoise zipper, navigating the pins she used to baste the seam just a touch tighter. “And I want him to think I’m home! Coming!” she calls.

On the other side of the door Ben finds himself bouncing a little on his toes.
Whatever happens, I’m putting my cards on the table,
he thinks as he pep-talks himself, his ski bag between his ankles. His phone buzzes with a text from Kim.

“Looking forward to getting our delegations together. ☺” Is this crazy? Should he just have gotten on the train?

Inside Zach tugs the soda-can-sized rollers from the top of Max’s head. “I told you it was a premature hour for Pink.” He tsks.

“Just getting out of the shower!” she shouts to the door before spinning back to Zach. “I needed a break from listening to recordings of Hugo’s voice. I’m moving from desensitized to deaf.” Max steps from the dress just as Phoebe holds out her leggings to jump into like she’s a toddler.

“It’s not my fault,” Phoebe protests. “The only thing I could find online was his yacht-club rap. I still can’t believe they recorded that talent—and I use the term loosely—show.”

Max tugs her peacoat on over her bare chest. “I’d rather put lit matches in my ears than hear him say ‘boatin’ with my boyz’ one more time,” she attests as she wedges her feet back into her slippers.

“Well,” Zach says, “in three hours and counting you’ll never have to hear him say anything again.” And then all that remains is Max’s NYU presentation to Dr. Schmidt—the life that was starting to feel so blurry is regaining clarity.

Zach nods at them both to indicate he is about to open the door.

“Ben!” Max steps onto the threshold, angling the door behind her to obscure her two assistants diving out of view. “Hi!”

“Can I come in?” he asks nervously.

“You know, I could use some air. I’ll come out.” Max pulls the door shut, and Ben takes a step back on the brick. He looks down at her slippers. Trying to pretend the furry, orange triangles are Louboutins, Max walks around and up to the main stoop to get out of Phoebe’s and Zach’s earshot. She takes a seat, and he sits down beside her. She looks at Ben, waiting for him to say whatever he came to say, but as the beats of silence drag on, she wonders if she needs to push herself to make the next move. “So, how’ve you been?” she asks tentatively. “How’s the essay coming?” A thick chunk of hair that had been Elnetted stiff flops into her face and catches on—

“Wow, your eyelashes.” Ben stares as she tries to pick the two apart. “I never noticed how long they are.”

Right. Because Phoebe hasn’t trimmed them yet. The Double Lush Diva length probably seems a little much when not being viewed from, you know, outer space. “Yes, this is just … for work.”

“Are you a … hostess?” His voice rises with his most, let’s face it, polite guess. “You never told me. But I guess you wouldn’t be going to NYU for hospitality.”

“No, not exactly. Long, boring story.”

Ben looks at her for a minute, waiting for her to start it, thinking there could never be anything boring about her. Then he realizes she isn’t going to, and he has to just
say
something. “Um, so, my best friend is having, like, a nervous breakdown, and it’s gotten me thinking—”

“A nervous breakdown?” Max can’t help scoff.

“Well, kind of. He’s obsessed with his ex-girlfriend. He’s, like, totally stalking her.”

“Well, maybe he shouldn’t have kicked her to the curb in the first place.”

“I guess, but—wait, how did you know that?”

“What?” Max’s cheeks redden. “I assumed it.”

“Because he’s a guy?”

Max feels her pulse picking up and not in a good way. “Because that’s what guys tend to do, yeah.”

“Okay, he’s really a mess.”

She pivots a little to face him, acutely aware of the Ex, Inc.–sized gulf she’s going to have to cross if she wants to be any closer; that is, if he wants to be. She looks at his broad shoulders, the confusion in his chocolate-brown eyes. She wants to be closer. She really does. “Sorry. I’m listening.”

“Look, I didn’t come here to talk about Taylor. Before you say anything else, I just need to tell you that—I know you and I are friends. We were becoming friends.” He looks down at his feet. “But I kind of felt like there was maybe something more …”

He’s going to say it,
Max thinks. But he should know about Ex, Inc. first—because if he finds out she’s behind why Taylor’s having this so-called breakdown … She doesn’t know what to do. “Ben?”

“Yes.”

“There’s something I have to tell you.”

“You have a boyfriend.” His shoulders hunch. “I know.”

“What? No! I totally do not.”

“I saw a guy in your window the other night—”

“You were looking in my window?”

“I was passing by with a delivery.”

Her forehead accordions in disbelief. “Look, if you saw a guy in my window at night it was either (a) my stepfather, or (b) Zach, or (c) a stalker watching me in my sleep.”

“Zach?” he asks.

“Iron Man. And his boyfriend would seriously think it was weird if Zach was watching me sleep.”

“Oh.” A flush moves up Ben’s cheekbones.

“But …” She flips her cheese wedges from side to side, trying to figure out the best way to begin. “Look, there’s something I do that you might not … hmmm … you know when you’ve been dumped and—”

“Um, can’t say that I have.”

“You’ve never been dumped?” This brings her up short.

“No—”

“You’ve never had your heart broken?” She climbs to her feet. How could this possibly work if he doesn’t get heartbreak?

“I’ve never gone out with anyone really seriously before,” Ben says as her other curl droops.

“Wow, that’s—wow.” How could he even begin to understand her—what she does?

Ben can see she’s thrown. “I hope that’s not a deal breaker.” He holds out his hand and she takes it, the feel of his palm against hers warm and sparking. She sits back down. “You can’t hold that against me. I never had the opportunity—never met someone worth it.”

He looks in her eyes, trying to gauge if she wants this. Her gaze is steady on his, and he leans in, his lips landing gently on hers until hers press back, reciprocating, their kiss building so quickly in intensity that it shocks them both. “You’re worth it,” he murmurs. “I don’t want to just be friends with you, Max.”

The first thing Max thinks—when Max
can
think again—is he’s an incredible kisser. He wraps his arms around her, his palms spreading across her back, pulling her as close as possible as his lips move to her ear. “That’s what I came to say.”

“Okay,” she manages.

“That’s all you have to add?” he asks, his fingers trembling as they meet the bare skin under her coat. “Okay?”

“Mm-hmm,” she says, forgetting that there was something she thought she had to do to make this possible when touching him feels like the simplest thing she’s ever done.

He grins. “Let’s have a date. Wear your cheese shoes if you want, but I made a reservation at the French place on Court Street. No cribs, no bears, no essays.”

She tilts the tip of her forehead against his. “I love the French place—but tonight I have this thing I have to do for work, which I will tell you about later. But it’ll be over by nine. I just have to swing by and do this thing that I need to do to do this.”

“You lost me.”

“The point is I will be in a dress that is the opposite of these.” She kicks out a slipper. “Date with a capital
D
. Let’s go out in the city. Dust off that tux, 007. I’ll text you the address, and we’ll hang fancy.”

“As non-friends.”

“Extremely,” Max says as she jumps down the steps.

Taylor’s sandwich is gone, his Snapple is drunk, and the December wind is blowing through his coat as he sits on Bridget’s stoop. He dials his phone. After a few rings, Daisy throws open her bedroom window.

“What do you want, loser?” she yells across the street.

“A scarf,
The Scarlet Pimpernel
, and another Snapple!”

“It’s not going to be much of a stakeout if you pee on yourself!” she shouts back.

“Just do it!”

She slams the window. But after a few minutes his front door opens, and she comes between the parked cars, arms full. “Snapple.” She hands off the bottle. “
Pimpernel
. A scarf. A silky.” She passes him the long-sleeved T-shirt.

“Where’d you get this?” He looks at it dubiously.

“Dad’s ski drawer. You’re gonna freeze, Taylor.”

He ruffles her hair.

“Hey, that’s my ballet bun!” She recoils, smoothing her hand over the thatch of bobby pins.

“You don’t have ballet today.”

“I was practicing.” She humphs. “Okay, call if you need anything else, but don’t abuse me,” she parrots their mother.

“Okay, Linda.” He uses their mom’s name. Daisy narrows her eyes at him and flounces back into the house. Taylor smiles to himself as he tugs off his coat and, with a quick breath, pulls off his shirt in preparation to pull on the undershirt.

His eye catches Carrie Hendricks as she rounds the corner. She tosses her hair over her shoulder and walks straight over.

“Taylor! Hey!” she says in her husky voice that sounds like she perpetually has a cold. Which should be repulsive, but isn’t. Nothing about Carrie is. “Stripping?”

“Right, no, I’m …”
Stalking
.

“Missed you at Vance’s party last weekend.”

“Yeah, Ben and I bolted early.” Taylor looks left and right down the block. He pulls the undershirt on. Here it is—the girl he dumped Bridget for, his moment to flirt, but he just can’t seem to summon the mojo.

“Bummer. I always think of you with that crowd.” She kicks the stoop with the toe of her scuffed flat, trapping his shirt and jacket. She leans down toward him, and he gets a full view of her impressive cleavage. “Should I take my coat off, too?” It slides off her shoulders to the step with his.

He whips his gaze from her boobs—to the corner—then back to her boobs—then to her eyes—his boy-brain splitting. He doesn’t even hear the cab pull up.

“Taylor?!” Bridget, one foot out of the car, looks stunned. “Oh my God, you’re naked!” she cries. “On my stoop! This is so much worse than ambushing me at school! Half naked with Carrie Hendricks on my stoop!”

“Bridget!” He leaps up, pulling on his coat.

“Asshole!” She slams the cab door, and he hears her say “Brooklyn.”

“Bridget, wait!” He runs after the car, catching the handle, slapping the window with his other hand. The door opens, throwing him to the street.

“Stop,” she screams to the driver as Taylor’s body rocks to a prone position. Bridget leaps out. “Tay?”

“Okay, so you’re talking to me,” he croaks, looking up at her concerned face. God, he loves that face. “This is good.”

She peers at him for a moment, her expression concerned. But then she glances at Carrie.

“Please,” he begs, “give me a chance here.”

Instead she gives him her hand, and he sits so they’re face-to-face. She bites her lip.

“Bridge,” he says, “I freaked out. I shouldn’t have ended it.”

She nods, taking this in. “Yeah. You did,” she says finally, wrapping one arm across her stomach. “But I can’t undo that. I’m supposed to be over you.” She stands up and gets back into the waiting cab. She shuts the door. “Drive, sir, please.” Taylor can hear the tears breaking in her voice, and he hates himself, feeling really, truly, for the first time, sorry—not for himself and what he’s lost, but for the pain he’s caused her.