Page 3 of When Ben Loved Jace

“Yeah!”

I hand the pen to him, which is tied to a short string, so customers can’t run off with such a valuable prize. He notices.

“Hey, you have a pet pen too? It’s a good thing you keep it on a leash. These have been known to bite people. You don’t want to end up with an ugly tattoo.”

He’s goofy. I’m so into it!

“Actually…” Jason says, putting his wallet back. “I have a better idea.”

He takes out a tiny slip of paper—the fortune he got earlier—and writes on the back.

“I’d like to get to know you better,” he says when handing it to me. “Give me a call.”

“I will,” I assure him.

“Good.” He seems to have regained his confidence, his smile subtle but inviting. “I look forward to it.”

I nibble my bottom lip. “Okay.”

“All right.”

We both laugh, and it’s the best kind of awkward.

When he turns around, we both see a double thumbs-up on the other side of the window. Best friends can be so embarrassing. As soon as Jason is outside, Greg jostles him while grinning. Not such a bad wingman after all! Jason pauses as he’s about to get into his car and looks in my direction. I’m not sure if he can see me past the reflections, but I smile and wave. After he drives away, I notice how warm I feel, like someone cranked up the thermostat.

I glance down at the fortune I’m still holding and see the phone number written there. And his name. The one he must prefer because it’s different. And I like it. Especially when I say it out loud.

“Jace!”

— — —

I’m sitting impatiently at the kitchen table the next morning while obsessing over a tiny slip of paper. On one side is Jace’s handwriting, which is careful and tidy. Suddenly I’m a forensic analyst, extrapolating an entire personality from four letters and seven numbers. I’d be willing to testify that he keeps a clean house and is considerate. The kind of guy who never fails to send his mom flowers on Mother’s Day.

On occasion I flip this over to contemplate the other side.

Persistence holds the key to what you seek.

Fairly standard stuff. I never put much stock in fortune cookie wisdom, but this one speaks to me. I’ve often thought that if I simply keep trying, I’ll find the guy I’m looking for. Even if it takes most of my life. Falling in love at eighty is better than never at all. Of course it wouldn’t be the first time. That’s what always trips me up. Depending on the day, I either feel like I threw away my soulmate because I wasn’t patient enough to let him grow at his own pace, or that I did what was right because it’s important to take care of yourself. Allison assures me it’s the latter, not the former. Speaking of which, when is she finally going to wake up? I need her advice!

I check the clock. It’s nearly ten in the morning. Until recently, she always got up before me. I blame the new guy she’s dating.I liked Ken when I first met him, since he’s a lot of fun. But what I’ve realized since is that he’s the life of the party even when there isn’t one. And that means way too much drinking. Allison will be hungover, which is why I already brewed a pot of coffee. A bowl and spoon await on her side of the table, along with two packets of her favorite instant oatmeal. Once she gets all that into her system, her advice machine should be humming and ready for action within half an hour.

When I decide that I simply can’t wait anymore, I rise and noisily empty the dishwasher, making sure to slam the cabinets. Then I turn on some music, gradually adjusting the volume to make it louder and louder, but I love her, so I choose tunes that are soothing. My annoying behavior finally pays off.

“Whadya doin’ Ben? Iss-so goddamn early. Ugh.”

“Good morning!” I say sweetly as she trudges into the kitchen. “I made coffee.”

Allison eagerly accepts the mug that I fill. “You’re a saint,” she whispers. “Turn off the music. Please.”

I do so, covertly checking the clock again. T-minus thirty minutes and counting. I listen to her take sips between sighs. I get her oatmeal ready, figuring that should speed things up. Then I press my lips together to stop myself blabbering while she eats. Once the spoon clatters at the bottom of an empty bowl, I press my luck and attempt conversation.

“What did you do last night?”

“Jello shots,” she says. “Ken’s special recipe.”

“Now we know how Barbie stays so skinny. She can’t keep any food down the next morning.”

My joke is ill chosen. Allison raises a palm, as if she’s about to fill her bowl back up again. Then her hand drops to the table with a thunk. “I’m glad we’re leaving town,” she says with a sigh. “He wears me out.”