Fade In (32 page)

“What the hell is a poochy?” he says, laughing outright. The way he says “poochy” is too funny not to laugh at. It does sort of sound a bit nasty.

“It's a fabulous fabric print. Good enough for you?” I smile and add, “I want to dance with you tonight.”

“All you have to do is ask.”

“Will you kiss me?”

Ben abruptly stops in the middle of the sidewalk and my feet leave the ground. He nails me with a deep one on me right there at the intersection of Union Street and First Avenue. When he finally plants me on my feet again, I'm a little less surefooted. Not quick to let go, he holds me around my waist and smiles down at me.

“What else will you do?” My wild eyes and pervy grin show him my true colors and hint to my sordid thoughts.

“Anything,” he answers. “Now let’s go clean me up for this night out.”

We shower together and I show him how to shave my legs. He does a great job, and I think I'll add that to his list of work duties when we return home. Shaving is considered a chore, right?

I'm buckling my pretty black gladiator heels when he comes out of the bathroom straightening his lapels. His hair is combed over neatly and he looks like he rules the world in that charcoal suit. No tie. Top button undone on his dress shirt. He's a king. His suit swagger exudes power. It's so fucking sexy that I contemplate scratching the whole night out and letting him fuck me against every surface in this place.

The concierge arranges for us a car and a table at an amazing restaurant that has live music and dancing. I have to hand it to Ben. For as short of a notice as this trip was, it's all come together like he'd planned it for months.

The Pier, the restaurant we go to, is lovely. Tables float across the back of a spacious room, and the dining area is located perfectly distanced from the band to allow for conversation. Just past the white linen tables is a bar area and the dance floor. Each table has fresh hydrangeas, and the room smells like heaven.

Ben orders us a bottle of their offered red and approves of the taste he's given.

“I never understood that. What do you do if you don't like it? You think they just throw it away?” I wonder.

A smart-ass grin cracks across his lips. “I think they fill by-the-glass orders from those bottles.” He chuckles quietly, unfolding his white napkin. “They'd have to be real bastards to waste it.”

“Bastards,” I confirm, wrinkling my nose.

The room is filled with couples and groups laughing and talking. The crowd is nicely dressed, and to say this place is classy would be an understatement. I bet there's a lady in the bathroom right this second waiting to give me a mint or a spritz of some stinky designer-impostor perfume.

My gaze wanders from table to table, playing my story game by myself. At a table not far from ours, there are two pretty girls. They look to be in their younger twenties. I imagine that they are celebrating a job offer or a promotion.

I fabricate that the girl in the blue dress is in a committed relationship and her friend, the girl in the teal pencil skirt, is in love with blue-dress girl. She's prayed that her friend will dump the rich, big-dicked boyfriend and confess her mutual same-sex feelings.

Of course, I laugh to myself when I hit ‘big-dicked’ in my head and Ben busts me.

“Are you making up lies about strangers again?” he teases and runs his foot up my leg as he crosses his under the table.

“That's what I do. Are you ready to give it another shot? You have to get good at this. It's mandatory for my next boyfriend.” I look to the sky as if reading a checklist written in the empty air in front of me. “Must play my game with me.” I check it off. “Yup, it's on the list.”

“Next boyfriend?” he croons.

“Yeah, the next boyfriend I have will play this exact game. It's a deal breaker.”

“I guess your current boyfriend needs to get his act together then.”

My heart leaps into my throat at hearing what he just said. I put a pin in it for now, but can't help the overwhelming pride his self-titled position gives me.

Ben says, looking around the vast room for a specimen, “The waiter?” He clears his throat like he's giving a speech. “He's thinking that he's only got three more hours until he can go home and look at porn on the Internet. He loves the job, but looking down into all this cleavage every night is giving him calluses and draining his bank account from purchasing so much of extra tissue.” When he stops, he shows me his perfectly straight teeth in the cheesiest grin.

“Ben, that's better!” He's either been practicing or just better under pressure. “Do the lady with the fur. Do her next.”

This is when our server returns with hot rolls and our salads.

“Excuse me,” I say to the stick-thin guy with a Freddie Mercury mustache. What a bad time for him to show up. When he walks away, Ben continues playing my ridiculous game.

“She's easy. She’s wondering if she can still make brunch with Kiki and Trixy after her ass bleaching on Tuesday.” He slaps his leg. Apparently that even surprised him. He can't help but cough his laughter into submission. Sweat beads on his forehead as he takes a sip of his wine.

“Yeah, that's it. See? It's fun.” He makes me laugh, too. I'm aware of how juvenile it is. I know it's not nice to make fun of other people, but they'll never know and it's all just pretend. It makes me happy that he's playing along. And that he's kicking major fictional ass.

It makes me wonder if—or when—I go completely blind if he won't play the game for me. So I ask, following our trip rules.

“Ben, promise you'll play this when I can't see them anymore. You'll do it for me. Won't you?” I'm not trying to be sappy or darken the mood, but it would make me feel better to know.

He's the one who called himself my boyfriend.

“I'll do it. I promise.” The green in his eyes dances. “I like you better outside of New York.”

“That's sweet,” I banter back sarcastically. “Any particular reason?”

“I don't know. You’ve just been different since we left. Different, but familiar. Just don't stop when we get back.”

We shake on our deal. He'll give me random made-up play-by-plays of perfect strangers and I'll keep running my mouth. That's a win.

Ben and I eat the best steaks on this side of the world. The portions are just right. I'm utterly satisfied and not too full to get my dance on with my new boyfriend.

“Do you want to dance, Tatum?” My eyes keep drifting to the dance floor that further fills with each new song the band performs. “You keep looking. Come on.”

Together, we claim a place by the stage, and just like before, we melt into one solid being. Ben leads like he's been professionally trained.

“You're a great dancer,” I say, complimenting him.

“My mother was a dancer. She taught me.” He doesn't speak much of his parents, usually telling stories about his grandparents or his friend Keith. I think I would like all of them. Hungry for more information, I let him continue. “Her and my father used to dance all the time when I was a kid.”

“That's nice. My parents danced a lot too, only they just stood there shaking their shoulders without moving their feet. You can't really choreograph moves to a Grateful Dead album.”

He huffs, chortling. “They really are hippies, aren't they?”

My head nods a big yes. “Pot and all. They don't look as hippie-like in their older age as they did when we were kids, but you'll be able to tell. My mom’s hair has never been colored and it's platinum silver. She's really pretty, and her skin looks better than mine. My dad had a beard the last time I saw him. He has glasses now, so that helps make him look more normal I think. You'll change your mind when you hear him talk though. It's a wonder that Cooper and I don't call everyone 'man' and 'dude' because he does.”

“My parents smoked pot, too. I think.” This is news. I always thought that we were the only kids with pothead parents.

“They did? I'm a little shocked,” I confess.

“Not a lot, but I think they did every once in a while.” He squints, remembering.

“Huh? That's a weird thing to have in common.”

“It's kinda how I knew about the job,” he says and stops there.

A revelation.

I try to keep my cool. He's about to let me know how he knew about the job opening. I've been dying to know for so long, but now I realize that it really doesn't matter. I hardly care anymore.

Still, curiosity blooms within me. “Oh? How's that?”

“I know someone who said that you had some sight issues and might be needing some help. And I have experience with that. Both my mother and father are blind.”

“Both of them?” I stomp my feet and halt our dance. My hands grasp his biceps for balance. I look into his eyes. “Why didn't you say anything?”

“I thought it would make you mad. I don't know. I didn't think you'd like it. I didn't want you to close me off.”

Ouch. He's probably right though. There is worry and insecurity in his eyes. He kisses my head tenderly, holding me tighter as we speak quietly face to face.

“Wow. Is that why you spent so much time with your grandparents?” I'm stunned. I knew that there had to be a reason that he always spoke of them going places and doing things that typically parents would do with their kids, but I never thought it would be this. I bet they did smoke pot.

“Yeah. My parents did what they could, or what they thought they could, but my Moo...grandma and grandpa did a lot,” he explains quietly, setting us into motion again.

“That must have been an interesting house to grow up in. How did they manage? You said you have a brother right? Where was he?” I'm helpless to stop myself from firing so many questions.

“He was older and off to college by the time I was seven or eight. So he visited, but it was just me and them for the most part when I was a teenager.”

“How are they doing now? Do they still live where you grew up?” On one hand, I'd like to meet them, but on the other hand, it sounds a little daunting.

“Yeah. Same house, in fact. My dad says that he can't learn his way around anywhere else now. They do pretty great actually.” He kisses my head again, like he's trying to kiss away my rampant thoughts.

“I didn't see that coming.” My body finally relaxes back into our rhythm. I lay my head on his shoulder and let him lead me around a little longer. “That's how you know so much about blind shit.” I slap him on the arm.

“Blind shit. You're such a lady.”

We dance for hours, and even thought I have a whole new list of things I want to discover about Ben, we've made progress. He is trying just as hard as I am to build something lasting.

We're tired when we return to the room, and we lie facing each other, talking about the last few days and how much we are looking forward to The Keys.

Before falling asleep, I thank him for telling me about his parents. Something about the fact that two blind people had a good life makes me feel so much better and, I don't know…optimistic. Just knowing that some kind of normal will be possible if my sight leaves me in the dark is reassuring.

For the first time, I believe that Ben really can help me—and that I want him to.

Sex on a deserted island is everything I imagined it would be. Sure, Ben and I aren't completely alone here, but it's easy to pretend.

The waters are clear blue and the sand was powdery and white. I'm with a man who calls himself my boyfriend. Anywhere would look better with that knowledge, but as it happens, we are in paradise.

The bungalow Ben rents for us to stay in for the week is phenomenal. It's not a grand palace or anything like that. It is cozy and comfortable. We have a golf cart we can ride anywhere on—respectfully—and a few times, we pack a cooler and go exploring the trails that link the other cabins to ours. We never see any other residents though.

It's as if we're totally secluded in a real-life Jason Mraz video.

The little house has two bedrooms, a master suite on one side and a smaller guest suite on the other. Even the rooms are far apart. The kitchen is economical and smaller than either of our own, but the refrigerator was stocked when we arrived, and we can call the main house for anything. Even full meals, if we want.

My favorite part of the house is the open veranda. The glass wall that faces the ocean opens up completely, giving the living room and the veranda a one-large-room feel. I love it.

We spent our first night sleeping on the queen-sized bed swing that hangs from the ceiling outside. Even though I know creepy crawly things are out there, I'm not nearly as scared of them in this postcard-like hideout. It's just too beautiful a place for evil to hide.

We sunbathe—both topless. Ben's skin turned dark brown the second his shirt came off and mine caught up a few cautious days later. He hasn't shaved since our last night in Seattle, so he’s sporting a rustic almost-beard. I don't know if it's the sun that brings out the colors, but it is a lot redder than his dark blond hair.

We are drinking our weight in Corona. And we quickly grew tired of cutting up lime after lime, quitting on the beer garnish all together by night two.

“We're on chapter five,” Ben says as he looks for our last spot in the book he started reading to me yesterday. “What do you remember before you took your second nap yesterday?” He pokes at me and I pretend like I'm going to roll away. He overpowers me and rolls me back, pulling me onto his stomach.