Something New (36 page)

Well, this is certainly
Something New.

I give in to the giggles, and within seconds, they turn to full-blown, belly-cramping gales of laughter, and just when I think I am going to puke on Jonah’s carpet, the laughter turns to tears and I am sobbing and retching and gasping for air.

Either I am in the middle of some kind of breakdown or I am a drama queen of the first order. I can’t decide which bothers me more, and that conundrum alone helps me pull myself together. If I am wondering about the nature of this crying jag, I mustn’t be completely out of my head. Then I start to question just what it is I am crying about. Is it because my husband is possibly having an affair? Is it because I might have an affair? Is it because, despite my recent skepticism regarding the institution of marriage, the eight-year-old girl
who lives inside me, who lives inside every woman through the age of a hundred, desperately wants to believe in happily ever after? We want to believe,
I
want to believe, that the choices we’ve made were the right ones. And how can we ever really know?

I glance at the floor and spy the cell phone instruction manual, lying open, as fate would have it, on the call retrieval page. If that’s not a sign from God, I don’t know what is. I reach for the booklet and grasp it like a lifeline, then bolt out of the office and head for the kitchen.

Hi. It’s me. Ben. If you get this message, give me a call back. If you want to.

Oh, yes. I want to.

T
he
T Bar is more crowded than I would have expected on a weekday, but apparently Two-fer Tuesday is a draw. Most of the wooden tables are taken and the T-shaped bar (surprise) has few open seats. Votive candles decorate the tables and bar top, and a muted TV playing an NBA game is mounted just behind the bar, offering minimal illumination to the room. The stage in the far corner, which is simply a six-by-four-foot platform, has a single spotlight shining down on an abandoned microphone. An old Harry Connick Jr. song drifts softly from the speakers.

I stop at the doorway just long enough to catch my breath and scan the bar stools. Ben sits at the far end of the bar, surrounded by shadows, light from the flame of the nearest candle dancing over his features. Just the sight of him causes a swarm of butterflies to flutter through my stomach. He looks up and his eyes find mine, and I watch him sit back and
smile at me. He reaches out and lifts the beer bottle in front of him, tips it toward me in a toasting gesture.

As if in a dream, I make my way toward him, all thoughts, inner voices, and not-so-subtle warnings temporarily silent. On the way here tonight, inside my husband’s Lexus, I had a full-blown debate with myself that would make any presidential hopeful proud. I actually pulled the car over at one point and spoke aloud to my reflection in the rearview mirror. The argument circled around my reason for coming to meet Ben tonight. I needed that reason to be perfectly clear to me.

My discovery in Jonah’s office propelled me to retrieve my cell phone message, but I did not want my decision to be based on my suspicions of Jonah’s infidelity. I didn’t want this to be about vengeance. I wanted to meet Ben tonight simply because I
wanted
to. And here I am.

I am an almost-forty-three-year-old woman who wants something just for me. And that
something
is sitting right there.

As I approach, Ben stands and pulls out the empty stool next to him. I am touched by the chivalrous gesture, and as I stare at him, I am once again taken by how handsome he is; the strong line of his jaw, the chiseled cheekbones, the warmth of his brown eyes, the supple red lips that are turned up in that trademark grin.

“Hi,” he says quietly.

“Hi,” I return as I place a steadying hand on the back of the stool.

“You came.”

I nod, a bit puzzled. “I said I would.”

“I know. But you sounded, I don’t know. A little unsure.”

That’s because, at the time, I was in the grips of another panic attack over the decision/mistake I was about to make.
I got dressed and undressed three times, applied makeup and then scrubbed it off so violently with my Clinique cleanser I must have taken off the top two layers of my skin, started the car only to turn it off, get out, and march back into the garage. (Indecision, thy name is Ellen.) And then, when I managed to actually pull out of the driveway and head for downtown, the internal debate about the
why
began. But at this moment, as I gaze at Ben, remembering yesterday in my kitchen, recalling the last three weeks and how I have felt every time I’ve been in his presence, I am utterly calm.

“I’m here.”

He smiles and takes my hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “I’m glad.”

Is it warm in here?

When he releases my hand, I peel off my sweater and tuck it over the back of the stool and sit as Ben eases me toward the bar. He takes his own seat and raises a hand to the bartender, then looks at me.

“What would you like?”

Multiple orgasms would be nice.

“Vodka soda, please,” I answer instead.

He repeats my request and we sit in silence for the three minutes it takes the bartender to fill my order. Then we each raise our drink to each other.

“To Tuesday nights,” Ben says.

I laugh, then take a long swallow of the highball. For thirty seconds neither of us says anything, and I am suddenly overcome with awkwardness. What on earth are we supposed to talk about? Basketball stats? Obama’s health care plan? The global economic crisis? The cheater’s new online mecca, AshleyMadison.com? Thankfully, Ben comes to my rescue.

“How’s the spring cleaning going?”

“Great,” I say. “It’s very therapeutic, getting rid of stuff. It’s amazing the things we hold on to.”

“Life is an accumulation of crap,” Ben says, and I look at him with surprise. He raises his eyebrows at me. “What?”

“I said that very thing today. Word for word.”

“Great minds think alike.” He laughs, then scoots his stool closer to mine to allow the bartender to pass behind him. Our thighs touch, and I can feel his heat through both layers of denim, his jeans and my skirt. I clear my throat and take another sip of my drink.

“Are your kids back from San Diego?” I ask him and he nods.

“Got back this morning. Bright and early. I swear, Linda’s parents must have left at the crack of dawn. I think they have a canasta tournament at the senior center today. Couldn’t miss that.”

“God, no.” I laugh. “Did they have fun?”

“Oh, yeah. Got lots of souvenirs. Shamu bobble heads and stuffed lions and a couple of T-shirts with elephants on them that say
Keep On Trunking
. Nanni and Poo-pop can’t resist those little guys.” He says this without rancor, and his fondness for his kids shines in his eyes. “They had a great time. Totally wiped out. They were asleep by seven thirty, which is miraculous in my house.”

I let the warmth of his words drift through me, yet I can’t help but circle back to one word in particular. I squint at him. “Poo-pop?”

“I know. How
Grandpa
became
Poo-pop
I have no idea. But it stuck. He’s a good sport about it. Doesn’t seem to mind. I even call him that. Not to his face, of course.”

I chuckle, but my thoughts turn serious. We are talking about his in-laws. The parents of his
wife
. The grandparents of his
kids
.

What the hell am I doing on this bar stool?

“Can I ask you a question, Ben?”

His eyes are hooded as he turns to face me. His voice is low and sultry. “I like it when you say my name. Say it again.”

My breath catches in my throat, but I manage to whisper his name. “Ben.”

He reaches down and places his palm on my leg, and I instinctively want to slam my thighs together. Not as a defensive move to imply I will remain chaste, but because this simple gesture on his part, this infinitesimal contact makes a surge of moisture shoot to my crotch. (God, I am
so
easy.) I try not to stare at the thick gold band decorating his ring finger.

“Ask me anything.”

“Where does Linda think you are right now?”

He looks down at his hand on my thigh but doesn’t remove it.

“She thinks I’m doing surveillance…you know, a stakeout,” he admits, raising his eyes to mine. “It happens sometimes in the middle of the night. And I do have one, tomorrow. I just fudged the time a little.”

“Oh.”

He lifts his hand from my thigh and rests it on the bar, his gaze falling on his half-empty beer bottle. “Ellen…I have never done anything like this before. But I…I just want…I just, I think about you…I want to be with you…” his voice trails off as he thoughtfully fingers the label of his beer.

Oddly enough, his words, spoken haltingly and in a sincere boyish manner, do not fill me with warm fuzzies. Instead, I am immediately suspicious. I am suddenly ten years old, standing on the playground of Kellerman Elementary School, and Noel Zimmer, the most popular boy in the fifth grade, is asking me to go to the Emerald Dance with him. I
can’t believe my good fortune, and because I am a cynic, even at such an early age, I immediately accuse him of ulterior motives, like being put up to the whole thing by his bully friends.
But why?
I’d asked Noel.
Why me?

“Why me?” My voice is not that of a grown woman but of a little girl, the one who found out that Noel Zimmer’s invitation was, in fact, a prank. I feel foolish, wish I could take the question back.
Of course you want me! I am woman, hear me roar. I am smart and funny and beautiful and…
why me?

“Ellen.” I turn to see his chocolate fondue eyes on me. “Are you seriously asking me that?”

“Sorry. This is my first time, too.”

What is the proper etiquette for officially embarking upon an affair? Is there some ribbon-cutting ceremony? Undie cutting? Does someone fire a gun, and off we go? (Ben’s armed, we can use his.) Is there a whistle or a horn or a guy waving a flag? Inexplicably, I cannot go further with this whole
thing
until I know Ben’s reasons. I know my own, regardless of the fact that they are all, every single one of them, rationalizations of the highest degree. But now, I need to know
his
why.