Truly (New York Trilogy #1) (21 page)

Ben could see no way to tell May any of that, and no reason to tell her even if he had the words to make it sound okay.

She was watching him, waiting for him to say something, and what he wanted to say was that she didn’t mean anything to him. That none of this meant anything—not her, not all the methods he found to occupy his time, not the fact that he had to find somewhere to live when he no longer had any sense of purpose or use.

He said nothing, but his eyes had to be burning holes in her face. It couldn’t be comfortable. She would turn away and let him off the hook. Any second.

She lifted her chin. The frown lines in her forehead deepened, and her dairymaid’s eyes narrowed, wheat-stubble lashes drawing closer together. “Do you
need
to get another job as a chef?”

“No. But I want to.”

“Maybe you could look for something less stressful? Like at a hotel? Or an Italian restaurant. Just to ease your way back in?”

She smiled, tentative and sweet.

He walked away from her.

A hotel kitchen. A
fucking
hotel kitchen. She had no idea what she was talking about.

He heard her boots on the sidewalk behind him, but he ignored them, determined to get
hold of himself before he said another word.

It wasn’t her fault he was so angry. It was visceral, physical. It lived inside him, and he didn’t know where to put it anymore. In the first months after the divorce, he’d welcomed it, but now it made him feel shaky and sick. He’d purge himself of it if he could—but there was no way. He was stuck with it.

Ben reached the subway entrance at the corner and then realized he couldn’t descend. He wouldn’t get on a train and leave her. He couldn’t talk to her. He had no good options.

When he heard her coming up behind him, he whirled around and said, “Back off.”

She did that thing with her eyes and her mouth. That whip crack. “You said I could ask. I’m asking.”

“Hotel kitchens are for hacks.”

“And you’re not a hack.”

“No, I’m not a fucking hack. I’m good. I’m
great
.”

“Great at what?” she asked.

“I’m a great chef.”

She looked right in his eyes. “No, you’re not. You’re a beekeeper.”

“Seriously, back the fuck off, May.”

“Why, because I’m telling you something you don’t want to hear?”

Yes.
Yes
. “I didn’t ask you to psychoanalyze me.”

“I’m not. All I’m doing is telling you what you told me. You’re a beekeeper and a gardener, not a chef. You say you want to be a chef, but from what I’ve seen, you hate it. You like to
cook
, but not the chef part. That’s all I’m saying. And I keep waiting to hear you say I’m wrong—that you don’t hate it. But you’re not saying that. You’re just snapping at me for no reason.”

“I can’t do it right now, okay? I’ve got no real job, nowhere to live, at least a year before I can open another place, and no idea if I’ll actually be able to hack it when the time comes. You might want to rethink what you’re doing spending all this time with me, because I’m really not your type, honey.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What’s that mean?”

“It means I’m a loser, and your last boyfriend was an NFL quarterback. It seems safe to assume you go for guys who are ambitious, loaded, and boring.”

“Really?” She stepped closer until they were nose to nose, and her flashing eyes pinned him down. “What’s
your
type?”

You. When you’re like this
, you.

He didn’t like the thought. Didn’t want to be having the conversation. He didn’t want to think about the fact that she was right. He only had one plan—had only ever had one plan—and he couldn’t even
talk
about it without feeling his control slipping away.

He was trapped.

And he didn’t know how to get out of it, so he said the ugliest thing he could think of. “I’ll take just about any stray who comes along. Hadn’t you figured that out?”

She stepped back as though he’d struck her. Her whole face crumpled with the sting of what he’d implied.

“Don’t look so crushed,” he said. “You’re the best distraction I’ve found in weeks.”

She walked away. Head high, shoulders back, boots clipping along on the concrete, she receded with every step, and he thought when she got to the corner that she was actually going to choose a new direction and leave him.

For a second, he couldn’t get enough air. Spots danced in the edges of his vision, and he started after her, because he couldn’t let her go. Not like this. He would sprint after her, apologize,
beg
if he had to, but he wouldn’t let her leave.

She stopped in front of a bodega. Crossing her arms, she stared at the window display as though she might be able to decode her next move in the colorful ads for junk food and cheap cell phone plans.

Ben stayed where he was, shoving his hands in his pockets so he could ignore the way they were shaking.

He berated himself.
Get over it. Get on with it
.

The trouble was, he didn’t know how.

His phone buzzed. For a few seconds he ignored it, and then he remembered it might be for May and fumbled it from his sweatshirt pocket.

Missed call. The number had a Wisconsin area code.

Jittery, sick to his stomach, he approached her and held up the phone. “That was for you.”

She lifted her hand.

He wanted to tell her he was sorry, but he couldn’t, so he stared at the passing traffic and
left her alone.

The sound that came from the bench beside her was horrible. Like jazzed-up elevator music, unfamiliar and blaring in the otherwise quiet park.

Allie jumped. Her hand shot out to clasp the phone but missed, and it ended up in the flat patch of dirt beneath her feet—the oblong where no grass ever grew, and the soil wasn’t soil at all but that soft, fine, pulverized dirt that would work its way into the cracks of the casing, and she’d never get it out.

She snatched it up, unsure why strange music had possessed her phone—had Matt changed it?—but so pleased it was ringing, she didn’t care. The wavy, excited ribbons of blue snaking around the IM notice matched her mood.

Allie stabbed at the screen until the message came up.

Finally
.

Allie had come into town for the express purpose of communicating with her sister. She’d resolved to sit on the fucking bench in the fucking park all afternoon if she had to, because she couldn’t handle the uncertainty anymore. Where was her May, and why wasn’t she
here
? Why had she stabbed Dan, then dumped him—and did she know Dan refused to accept the finality of the dumping? That he’d chased May to the nether regions of Michigan to win her back?

She typed a hasty “I’m here!”

The cursor blinked, and the words
XChfSardo is typing
came up. Then, the
bloop
of a message arriving:

What was up was that Allie had a hundred questions to ask her sister, a thousand things to say, and a clawing feeling of panic that kept rising into her throat at the weirdest moments, like when Matt took off his shirt in their room last night before he went to take a shower. He did it with his back turned to her, and she thought,
I do that, too
. They always undressed with their backs turned.

That wasn’t right, was it? That wasn’t how about-to-be-marrieds were supposed to be.
Allie was fairly sure they were supposed to be knocking over gallon jugs of milk to fuck on kitchen tables, not falling asleep side by side, as asexual as a species that reproduced by budding.

What was up was that at this very moment, Dan and Matt were down on the dock, plopping fishing poles in the lake and drinking epic amounts of beer, while Dad carried on with his winterization chores and Mom sprinkled garlic salt on steaks in the kitchen.

After breakfast, Allie had broached the subject of May, and Mom had said,
I’m sure your sister will be here soon, and when she sees him, they’ll work it out
. As if May were simply suffering from a brief episode of senselessness.

What was
up
was that the future had completely lost its shape. Everything was strange and backwards, and Allie needed May. Not text messages, but May’s voice, if May’s presence wasn’t an option.

The phone chimed right away with May’s reply.

And then, a moment later, her explanation:

Fighting back disappointment, Allie tried to pare her questions to the bare minimum.

Allie plopped back onto the bench, because it was either that or hurl the phone into the pond in front of her, and if she did that, she’d be even worse off than she was now.

May had met a man at a Packers bar.

When Allie tried to wrap her head around it, her brain kind of shied away, like a skittish horse.

The cursor blinked.
XChfSardo is typing
. Allie stared at it, willing May to fill the void
between them with an explanation and a promise.
I am the same sister I’ve always been. I haven’t abandoned you. I’d never do that
.

But May would never attack Dan with a fork, disappear, or shack up with a strange man, either. She would never drop out of contact for a few days. She would never be this inconsiderate, because
Allie
was the inconsiderate one. They had their roles. It was rude of May to step outside them, rude and just … just
wrong
.

With a chime, May’s message popped up.

The cursor blinked. Allie read the messages three times, but it was all gaps. Her
purse
got stolen?
I met this guy
—but how? And where did the Packers bar fit—was it at the airport? Was he older, younger? Was he hot? Was May having a fling with some New York guy while Dan moped and drank and fished with Matt?

Another chime.

At least her sister knew her well enough to anticipate that question.

It wouldn’t be a strange statement from someone else, but for May to do anything but deny the possibility was totally out of character.

After considering for a moment, Allie tapped her reply.

A minute passed, and then a slightly fuzzy picture appeared of a guy in profile. He had hard features and a mean mouth, hair so short it was practically buzzed.

This was Ben?

He looked like the sort Allie had always gone for before Matt—hot in a stern, mysterious sort of way. The type of guy who’d chew May up and spit her back out.

Her sister was
staying
with him?

Oh man.

The pause that followed was longer than Allie felt comfortable with. Especially when May simply replied,

That hadn’t been a typing delay. Was she talking to him? Thinking about whether she was okay or not?

She’d said Ben was in a bad mood, and Allie could just imagine May placating him. She was sweet like that, always trying to smooth over trouble, to keep people from fighting. May didn’t do well with excess emotion of any kind—too much anger, too much sadness, even too much excitement or elation, and she’d try to find a way to bring the level down.

They were so different. Allie was the small one, but otherwise she was all excess—an explosion of hair and language and big, dramatic feelings—while May was so much bigger but quieter in every way that counted. Her earth-toned clothes and her empathetic, emotion-dampening ways.

And yet here Allie was, about to get married to the kind, quiet boy next door, while May was in New York, possibly instigating a fling with a stern-featured, ticked-off man right after making national news for attacking Dan in front of an audience.