“Are you okay?” When I crouched down next to her, she reached for my face, her hands covering both of my cheeks.
“You should have told me you were coming over. It’s my birthday.”
I wanted to say that we’d made plans for me to take her out just that afternoon, that it was dangerous to bring these guys home, that I’d been worried, and she’d disappeared for hours. The hopeful kid in me wondered how she’d just forgotten her son was waiting. I swallowed it all. “Happy birthday, Mom.” I wrapped an arm around her back and helped her to her feet. “Let’s get you some water and then you can go to bed.”
When she was settled and sleeping it off, I crashed on the couch. I’d make sure she didn’t choke on her vomit, like I’d been doing since I was nine. After midnight, I pulled out my phone.
B: I think the chicken turned out well. [photo attached]
B: Wish me luck!
I pinched the bridge of my nose, tucked the phone away, and sat back on the couch, listening to Mom’s snoring and the clock ticking.
Good luck.
19
7,985 VIEWS
“Hi, #TeamBritta. I wish it wasn’t the case, but so much of my relationship with my body is tied up in my history with men and feeling desirable (or undesirable). Last week I told you about how I now own the word hot, but today I want to tell you about the first boy who made me feel the opposite, like I was the furthest thing from it. My group of friends in high school was inseparable, but one night, only Isaac and I were free to hang out. It was a night like most others, until that moment when Isaac’s fingers brushed against mine in the dark movie theater and our hands intertwined. It’s been ten years, but I remember those tingles that zipped through me when his fingers stroked my palm. My head swam with the turn of events, and I was sure it was the beginning to some great love story, because holding hands with Isaac was the most romantic moment of my seventeen years, and that story lasted until . . . curfew.
“I don’t share this to introduce how I pined over Isaac for years (I didn’t) or how that night began a lifelong love of hand-holding (it did). I share it because that night, I felt desirable, attractive, and wanted for the first time in my life. So, the next day when he said it was a mistake, I was certain feeling wanted was a mistake, too. I know I’m not alone in having one of those moments. It took me years to fully shake that and realize his assessment didn’t have to shape how I felt about myself.”
* * *
I GLANCED AT my reflection in the mirror, turning from one direction to another. My jeans hugged my curves. Damn, I look good. I thought about texting a photo of myself to Wes but stopped. That would be weird.
My stomach rumbled as the spicy smell of the chicken wafted through my small apartment. Ben wasn’t coming over until close to nine, and I was starving. I was usually enjoying my evening snack by that time, and my body protested the wait. Checking myself over one more time, I returned to the kitchen to snap a photo of my handiwork—something safer to send to Wes. I wanted him in my corner tonight. The strange thing was that I’d felt guilty after telling him I was cooking for Ben, this odd feeling I was doing something wrong talking to another guy, which was silly, because of course he wouldn’t care. Shortly after I hit send, Ben knocked, and I set my phone aside.
“Hey, you.” He propped an arm against the doorframe and held out a bottle of wine, and an easy smile crossed his face. He wore skinny jeans and a black button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled on his forearms. His gaze trailed momentarily to the low vee of my shirt, and I gave myself a mental high five, though I wished his eyes returned to my face a little sooner than they did.
“Hey.” I stepped aside and invited him in, but instead of moving around me, he pulled me in for a side hug.
“It smells great,” he commented, setting the wine on the counter. “Sorry I had to make it so late. I had a meeting with the showrunner. The network ran that contest a few months ago for someone to be my cohost for an episode, and we’re filming this week.”
“Oh, I remember that.” I might have entered a few . . . hundred times. “How’s it going?” I asked, pretending to search for the corkscrew.
“Oh, fine.” He strode up behind me, casually reaching around to grab the tool. I expected a flutter when he brushed against me, but it didn’t come. “It would be more fun with you.”
“I bet,” I answered, stirring the chicken, my back to him.
“You look good, Britt.”
“Thanks,” I said, spinning into a curtsy, the wooden spoon in my hand.
“Really good,” he murmured, sipping from his wineglass, his gaze traversing my body again. “That weight loss thing is working, then?”
I bristled. “The fitness project is going well. Like I said a while back, it’s not about weight loss.” I turned again to scoop the chicken mixture onto the cabbage leaves with the hope that he’d pick up on my correction. “Have you seen the posts Claire and I have been putting up?”
“I saw that you were posting.” He took a sip from his wine, and I waited for him to share his praise. “I’ve been so busy, though.” He accepted the plate I handed him, and we sat across from each other at my two-person kitchen table. “I’ll have to check them out soon.”
A thread of disappointment tugged at me. It was such a big deal for me to have content up on the site, and I wanted him to be excited for me. Ben wasn’t the cheerleader type, but he’d been in my shoes, and I thought he might be proud. Wes would be proud. I’d teased him about using the same emoji to say “good job”—the confetti one—and he’d started using random emojis. That morning, I’d returned from my class with Helen and the girls to find a snowman, panda, and a fire truck on my screen. I’d grinned to myself.
“I don’t need to read it to know it’s great, though.” Ben lifted the fork to his mouth. “And this is great. I need to let you cook for me more often.”
Not exactly sweet nothings. “I’m glad you like it.”
“I do,” he said, meeting my eyes over the wineglass before dipping to my chest again.
After eating, Ben took his wine to the couch and patted the seat for me to sit next to him instead of clearing the dishes. “You can do those later. Come sit with me.”
He emptied his glass, and I had the strangest urge to text Wes and get his advice.
“You really do look good, Britt,” Ben said, his arm stretched out over the back of the couch behind me. The woody scent of his cologne filled my nose as he leaned in and brushed my hair off my shoulder, his index finger trailing down my arm in a way that left goose bumps.
“Imagine how hot you’ll be as you keep going,” he said, settling his palm on my knee and slowly sliding it up.
I watched his hand and expected a rush of arousal to flood my system. The deluge didn’t come, and I tried to make a joke. “I don’t know,” I said. “I think I’ve always been hot.” I hoped that might give him the opportunity to course-correct his gaffe.
Instead, he chuckled, saying “Sure,” and leaned in. I’d imagined a first kiss with Ben hundreds of times, but I wasn’t expecting him to kiss so badly, his tongue pushing past my lips and almost jabbing with a snakelike motion that made it difficult to kiss back.