Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [129]
“Aunt Fi mentioned you’ve been friends for years, but is he—are you—?” He waits, hoping, I suspect, that I will fill in the blank. I don’t. Ben sips his beer and peers thoughtfully at me.
“I’ve known Richard most of my life. He’s an old friend,” I tell him, smiling. I’m deliberately being evasive because I’m enjoying the fact that Ben seems to be working so hard to find out.
“Just an old friend?” Ben asks.
“He had an accident and lives alone. It’s easier for him to recuperate here with me and Chloe.”
“You’re a really good friend,” he says, moving toward me. Ben’s lips are dry and warm. and his kiss is teasing, his soft lips brushing mine, then pulling away. He kisses me again, lightly, gently, burying his face in my neck and my hair, before returning to my mouth. I can taste beer, breath mints, and something deeper, sweeter, like carrots maybe, and it seems the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted. I want to give in to it, to eat my fill of him. Suddenly, he breaks away, and we part, like boxers in a ring leaning back against the brick, panting.
“I’m sorry,” Ben says quietly. “I’ve wanted to do that ever since the day I first met you. It was those damn bubbles.”
Despite the fact that I’ve enjoyed flirting with Ben, looked forward to it, really, his kisses have taken me by surprise.
I’ve gone years without another man besides Jake being interested in me, and I’m flustered by the sudden attention. I’m not sure how I feel about Ben and the possibility of anything more, but I owe it to him—and myself—to try to figure it out.
“Ben, I don’t know if—” The words leave my mouth reluctantly, as if I’m speaking a harsh and unfamiliar language.
When I’m unable to finish, he sighs. “Who am I kidding? I’m not in your league.” His tone is nonchalant, but I can tell he’s hurt. “You know I Googled you,” he says, sitting back against the wall and picking up his beer.
“You did?” I ask, surprised. “Why?”
“I wanted to get the scoop on you. You know, you’re not exactly forthcoming with the personal details.” He looks at me, juts his head in Richard’s direction, and shrugs. “Read a bunch of articles about you. Checked out Grappa. You’re pretty big-time.” He drains his beer and stands up. “I better get going. Gotta hit the slag heap early tomorrow. Thanks for dinner, Mira,” Ben says. He offers his hand and pulls me to my feet. I’m hoping he will kiss me again, but he doesn’t.
After Ben leaves, I make myself a cup of peppermint tea to try to quell the churning in my stomach. I turn on the computer and pull up the draft of the column I’d begun earlier, but it’s no use. I can concentrate on only one thing, and it isn’t low-fat tamales.
But, no matter how much I’d enjoyed Ben’s kisses, I couldn’t bear the thought of running into him at various birthday parties, holidays, and family occasions if things didn’t work out between us. Because, however mismatched, the relationship between Fiona and my father seems to be thriving. Since I moved out last week, it’s pretty obvious that Fiona has moved in. When we stopped over the other day, I couldn’t help but notice my mother’s china cabinet has been totally emptied and is now filled with Fiona’s rather peculiar collection of crockery, plates, shot glasses, salt and pepper shakers, and other assorted knickknacks collected from her various travels. There’s no trace at all of my mother’s antique china, which I’d never really liked. Even so, it’s a little hard to stomach its being replaced by a “What Happens in Vegas Stays in Vegas” commemorative nut dish.
And as if that wasn’t reason enough, there’s this: Despite my recent real estate purchase, I still haven’t given up the thought that Chloe and I will return to New York someday. Even with overseeing Richard’s recuperation, working on the column, and caring for Chloe, there’s a certain restlessness I can’t deny. Enid had been right; something’s missing.
Earlier, Ben had said he found me by Googling me. I’m no stranger to Google,