Page 10

CHAPTER 10

Max

I don’t remember much of the drive over to Ben’s house. My mind is tangled with the break-in at my apartment. How am I ever going to feel safe there alone again?

After a few minutes parked in the driveway, I finally shake off my nerves and get out of the car. Ben’s house is a two-story, modern home with large windows and a two-tone facade—black and white, very clean. The well-manicured landscaping, brightly colored flower beds, and succulents lining the driveway are surely the work of a professional. A busy ER doc like him must have someone to take care of his yard because it's absolutely perfect.

I hustle up to the front door and let out a held breath. Adjusting my shirt that suddenly feels too small, I ring the doorbell and manage a smile. A few seconds pass when I hear footsteps approaching the door before it swings open.

“Max,” Ben greets me. “I’m so glad you were able to make it. Any problems finding the place?”

“Not at all.” I step inside and immediately feel at ease. Our styles are similar—no clutter, clean lines, dark wood floors, and a white sofa with red patterned throw pillows. And the place smells amazing. “Are you cooking something?”

“Was it the apron that gave it away?” Ben asks, pointing at himself.

I laugh. “Actually, I didn’t even notice the apron… but I love whatever is cooking in the kitchen.”

“It’s my family’s world-famous ravioli. Only I bake it into a casserole rather than the traditional serving style.”

“I love Italian food,” I say. “World-famous? Really?”

Ben chuckles and covers his smile with his hand. “Okay, you got me. My grandmother won a cook-off in a small suburb of Chicago, many moons ago, and ever since it’s been our family’s biggest right to brag.”

“I love it.” I glance over a small terracotta sculpture on the built-in shelf across the living room. “No way… is that a Picasso?” I hurry over to it, leaning in to get a better look but careful not to touch it uninvited.

“Wow, you really know your art.” Ben comes over to stand next to me. “My grandfather knew a guy who knew a guy who traded Picasso a statue for a dinner and a free place to stay for the night. Apparently, the world famous painter wasn’t that well to do while he was alive.”

“That’s absolutely true.” I turn to face him. “He was one of those artists who became appreciated posthumously. Not that many people realize that toward the end of his life he’d started dabbling in small terracotta figurines, mostly of animals. This looks like it might have been a cat?”

“I think you’re right,” Ben says with a smile. “I’m glad you appreciate these kinds of things. The last few people I’d invited to my house asked if I had made it in grade school.”

We both share a laugh.

“You have a lovely home, Ben. I share a lot of your taste in design.”

“Thank you,” he says, his face blushing a cute hue of pink. “ Oh, would you mind helping me get the last little bit of dinner ready?”

“Not at all. Show me the way.”

Ben leads me into the kitchen where the aroma of the lasagna takes on a life of its own. I hadn’t even realized I was hungry until my stomach growls at the sight of the four-inch-thick block of pasta oozing with cheesy goodness when Ben pulls it from the oven.

“What can I do to help?” I ask.

“If you wouldn’t mind chopping up the rest of the salad? I filled that bowl with Romaine lettuce, but there’s onions, carrots, tomatoes, and whatever else you can find in the fridge to put in there if you want. Help yourself and make it however you like it.”

“Sounds great.” I open the fridge and pull open the fresh produce drawers, taking out the fixings I feel would work best in an Italian dinner. “What kind of dressing do you like?”

“I think either ranch or Italian… but there are a few options in there.”

“I love how you white boys always reach for the ranch dressing.” I look over at Ben and wink.

“Us white boys, huh?” Ben asks. “I have to admit, I do like ranch dressing on pretty much anything. I even like to season my microwave popcorn with ranch seasoning.”

“I knew it,” I say triumphantly. “Ranch dressing it is.” I pour some into the bowl and toss it through, careful to evenly spread it around without making it too heavy. “How’s that look?” I tip the salad toward Ben so he can see it.

“Perfect.” He points toward the kitchen table. “The table is set. I’ll dish up the lasagna and bring it over.”

I walk over to the table, set the salad in the middle, and take a seat. I look over and watch Ben as he works in the kitchen. I enjoy seeing how he moves; careful and exact, but not slow or uncertain. The look of concentration on his sweet face makes me melt on the inside, the guy seems really kind and genuine. There’s something about this guy that just seems too perfect, too good, too right—someone I could actually see myself with for a change.

“Here you go,” Ben says, putting the plate down in front of me. “I hope you enjoy eating it as much as you did smelling it.”

“Wow, this is awesome. It’s so thick… good thing I can fit a lot in my mouth at one time.”

Ben freezes in place, fork halfway from his plate to his mouth. I realize how my comment sounded and add, “That’s what he said.”

We both start laughing. Ben puts the fork down and lays his head back and belly laughs. “You sure have a way with words, don’t you? I was trying so hard not to laugh and seem like I was the perverted one.”

“I saw you freeze like you were wanting to make a comment but wasn’t sure,” I say. “I decided to put you out of your misery right away.”

Ben wipes a tear of laughter from his eye and takes a sip of red wine as he stifles another outburst of laughter. “I haven’t laughed quite that hard in a while. Life in the ER can be… well, less than hilarious at times. I mean, don’t get me wrong… we all have a sick sense of humor at the hospital. If you didn’t laugh at some of the crazy shit you saw some nights, especially during the full moon nights, you’d go insane.”

“I’m really glad you asked me to come over tonight. It is a good change from being in my apartment scrolling through the same four channels on the television.”

Ben takes another sip of wine. “Tell me about your evening. I know you just said about being bored and nothing on T.V. but what else did you do?”

A vicious internal debate plays out in my mind. Confide in Doctor Ben or play it cool and pretend my life is peachy? “Do you want the generic answer?”

“There’s more than one answer?” Ben asks.

“Well sure,” I say. “I could tell you that I had a decent evening. Nothing special. Living the dream. That sort of thing. Or… I could tell you the truth.”

Ben snickers but then grows quiet when he realizes I’m not joking around. “I think I’d like to hear the real answer. I’m a big boy… I can handle it.”

“The Cliff Notes version is that someone broke into my apartment, scared the shit out of me, and now I hate the idea of ever being home alone again.” I stop and take a sip of wine. “Makes me quite the chicken shit, huh? Does this make me more or less attractive to you? You know… since we’re being honest and all.”

“First of all, are you okay? Do you know who did it? Are you sure you should even be going back home? Have you contacted the police?”

“Woah, doc. One question at a time.” I regret opening up. It’s not like me to be so honest with people I barely know, even though I’m really enjoying getting to know Ben more. “It’s nothing to worry about,” I lie. “I’m not too concerned. Probably just some tweaker looking for money, drugs, or something to sell for drugs. I don’t exactly live in the best of neighborhoods.”

“I’m glad you’re okay.” Ben reaches over and puts a hand on mine and squeezes. “You are more than welcome to spend the night here.” There’s a twinkle in his eye that sends a little tingle through my belly. This is potentially the closest I’ve been to having sex in years, and I don’t want to blow it by being weird.

But tonight, is not the night to go to pound town.

“I would love to, but I’ve got to be up early in the morning and then work a later shift than I usually do. ”

“I know all about working late and getting up early the next day. Sometimes being an Emergency Room doctor isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.” He looks down at his wine and takes a sip. “Sorry, I shouldn’t be complaining. I bet that makes me sound like a real whiny piece of shit?”

“Oh god, not at all,” I say quickly. “Trust me on this… there’s not a job out there that I couldn’t find something to bitch about after a while. I think it’s probably more about the annoying people we have to work with than the actual work. And that is completely normal in my book.”

“Good, I’m glad you think so. I’ll still try and be mindful of it, so I don’t get annoying.”

We share a laugh, and the conversation goes from there. We discuss our hopes and dreams. How no matter what we’ve accomplished so far, in life and career, there was so much more to do, see, and experience. I can’t help but think that we were really made for one another. At least to be really great friends, if nothing else comes of this.

Time flies by, completely unnoticed by either of us. That is until I yawn. Since we’re all done eating and it’s getting quite late, I stand up to say my goodbyes. As I do, I bump the half glass of red wine sitting in front of me and reach to steady it. I haven’t sipped a drop in well over an hour, having switched to water to make sure I could drive home safely. Having said that, a slow-motion disaster begins to play out with me picking up the glass, fumbling it, and ultimately losing control. The glass hits the table and wine splashes everywhere.

“Oh, shit,” I say as a large droplet of wine hits my face. I close my eyes for a few seconds, embarrassed and listening for signs of annoyance by my mishap.

Ben bursts into laughter. I open my eyes. The tablecloth looks like a murder scene, as does my shirt. Other than a few drops on the chair and floor, my shirt took the brunt—thank God. Instinct takes over, and I pull off my shirt to help mop up the rest of the wine before it stains anything else.

I work hard to get every last drop soaked up when I become painfully aware of Ben’s eyes boring into me. I look up and realize by Ben’s expression, the scars etched across my abdomen and side shocked him. I stand and put the shirt awkwardly in front of me to cover up The Butcher’s handiwork. “I’m so sorry, Ben. I should really get going.” I start backing away and go straight to the front door without slowing down or waiting for a response.

Ben hurries to catch up but is only in time to catch the screen door as I run out to the car, embarrassed and ashamed. I curse under my breath. “Why did I take off my shirt? I’m such an asshole.” I’d only shown a handful of people the scars left behind by the madman, and usually, it was after a lot of prep work on my part. Making sure the viewer was ready to see my mangled flesh.

I look up from behind the wheel, and Ben stands on his top step waving to get my attention. I roll down the window to hear him out.

“Don’t worry about anything, Max. It’s not a big deal.”

Not a big deal? Bullshit.

Ben continues, “I’ll give you a call.”

I wave and whisper, “I’ve heard that before.” I roll my window back up and peel out onto the street.

I’m no longer scared. It doesn’t matter to me at this moment whether I return to my apartment and am killed by the intruder, or if I simply die of embarrassment.