What you don’t see is that Ben has wrapped both arms around me and is patting me on the back. What you can’t learn from watching is that this was the moment when I knew for the first time what it really means to have a friend. What this tape can never show you is the instant I first felt true connection.
And in that sense, this video doesn’t show you anything at all.
two
I’VE BEEN WORKING up the courage to open my eyes again.
I tried once about ten minutes ago. Stab of light. Vise on my brain. Jackhammer in my stomach. Deep breaths. Don’t throw up.
Lately, I’ve been having these moments where I examine my life and think, Kate Weston, how did you get here? How did this happen? Sometimes it’s a situation so excellent I’m convinced I did something truly selfless in a past life to gain the extreme good fortune of my present.
This is not one of those situations.
When I woke up, I was pretty sure I’d managed to park the old pickup I inherited from Dad last year on top of my own head. A glimpse of the curtains as the room spun by confirmed I’m in my bedroom and not in the driveway. This allowed me to rule out a dinged-up Chevy Silverado as the source of my pain and work backward through the events of last night to find the true cause. I did so while holding one pillow over my head and moaning, facedown, into another. After several minutes of deliberation, I’m pleased to announce I’ve reached a verdict: I blame John Doone’s grandma.
If Betty Lee Troyer hadn’t decided to try sushi for the first time at a mall food court in Grand Island, Nebraska, a few days before Christmas, she wouldn’t have spent the last two weeks of December in the hospital. If her mother hadn’t been in the hospital, Margie Doone wouldn’t have postponed the family ski trip until spring break so she could rush to Grand Island. If the Doones had gone skiing over Christmas instead of spring break, John would’ve gone with them. Instead, he stayed home alone so he wouldn’t miss the final basketball practices before the state tournament. If John hadn’t had the house to himself, he never would’ve been allowed to throw a party that inspired its own hashtag. And if there had been no party last night, I wouldn’t have lost count after three shots of tequila, and wound up lying here terrified to open my eyes again.
I waiver back and forth between the fear of dying and the fear that I will not die—that instead this pain will continue indefinitely. There are a few snapshots of last night in my head—animated GIFs at the very best. No video so far. The only thing I remember for sure is more of a feeling than a conversation.
Something about Ben.
His arm around my waist, propping me up. His hand in the pocket of my shorts, fishing for my keys. His breath on my neck as he said he wasn’t letting me drive my truck home. I know we were on the sidewalk, but I can’t remember what I said back to him. Maybe “thank you”?
His cheek against mine. Spring breeze. Goose bumps. That grin.
“Sure,” he whispered. “What are friends for?”
I do remember one thing for certain: Ben, leaning in toward me. So close our foreheads touch. Closer than we’ve been in a long time.
It was different.
It was more.
More than chivalry. More than playing soccer as kids. More than just friends. The certainty of this is a laser, slicing through the thick fog of too much tequila. I replay the scene. This time I remember how close his lips were to mine.
And the hiccups.
The first one occurred at exactly that moment, his forehead resting against mine. Any other girl in any other town in any other state on any other sidewalk with any other guy—that’s a sure bet, right? I mean, forehead to forehead? You just close your eyes and lean in.
Not me.
Nope, one inch from the lips of a guy who’s had a few beers on a night when Coral Sands, Iowa, is the center of the universe? Kate Weston comes through with the hiccups. Just the way I roll.
He laughed as he pulled away, taking my keys with him.
Shit. The truck.
Did Ben drive me home in my truck or his? This thought pulls me into a panic. My stomach rolls like a ship in heavy seas, threatening to crest my tongue and spill across the rug. If I left my truck across town, I won’t have to worry about the alcohol killing me. My father will be happy to assist.
My phone chirps and flaps across the nightstand, a rooster that’s been crowing for the last ten minutes. Each new alert sends a rattle through the fossils I’ve arranged there, little petrified skeletons, three of the specimens for geology that Ben and I collected last fall. Who knew Rocks for Jocks would get us talking again? Eyes still closed, my fingers fumble for the phone, knocking a piece of coral to the carpet. Finally, I squint at the screen. Seven texts from Rachel Henderling.
The last one is a picture of me from last night.
It isn’t pretty.