Pug Hill - Alison Pace [87]
“Sometimes,” I continue, “Benji made mix tapes for me, and other times I’d just take tapes he’d made for himself, and pretend he’d made them for me. I’d take them home and sit on the floor by my stereo, hitting pause and play again and again, until I’d written down every last word to every last song in a notebook that I don’t have anymore but wish I still did.”
My speech is almost over. As I work my way through another few sentences about Benji, I remember kissing him. I remember kissing him in November when we were home from college. We’d gone outside at a party and were lying together by someone’s swimming pool, on a lounge chair. Wherever we were, whoever’s party we were at, I remember thinking how their family was much more relaxed than mine about when to pack up and put away the pool furniture. I remember telling him that, and I remember him saying that it was a good thing we weren’t at my house. I remember thinking how it wouldn’t have mattered, how I would have been with him in the wet November leaves. I would have been with him in the almost frozen pool.
I remember how we decided that November that we should see other people since my college was in New Hampshire and his was in Virginia, how college was important, and we didn’t want to spend it on the phone. I remember how he went back to the University of Richmond where I’d wished I’d applied, and I met someone new at college, his last name was Glickman. I remember Nana called and said she heard that at last someone had the sense to date someone Jewish.
“Hope?” Oh, damn, I’ve stopped talking again. I have no idea how long I’ve been standing up here so very much like a deer in the headlights. I take a deep breath. I get ready for my big finish. I like my big finish. I begin speaking again,
“I’ve noticed in life that the older you get, the fewer men there are who will take the time to make you a mix tape. I’m not sure,” I say slowly, taking care not to rush, “that there are any men left in the world who are going to make me a mix tape. I’m still optimistic, though. I like to think he’s out there, and that I’ll meet him, and on our third, fourth date, he’ll say, ‘Here, look,’ as he pulls something out of his jacket pocket, ‘I made this for you.”’
I look out at the room and then over to Lawrence. He is on his feet in a flash, clapping away quickly and saying, “Bravo!”
“Very good job, Hope,” Beth Anne says, and I’m happy she doesn’t want to talk about the part when I forgot that I was in the middle of giving a speech. But then I think, Wow, I really did forget I was giving a speech.
“Thanks,” I tell her.
“What was your anxiety level?”
“You know, it really wasn’t that bad. Like, at most a five.”
“Excellent, Hope, good to hear.”
Lindsay also selects Lawrence as her coach and they head off into the hall. When they return Lindsay delivers a slightly choppy, but actually very funny, speech titled, “The E-mail That Got Away.” I don’t pay as much attention as I really should, because my mind is still all tripped up, my mind is still a freshman in college, saying a long good-bye to Benji Brown, a good-bye that I didn’t believe was ever going to be real.
I’m trying to remember the last time I kissed him, and I can’t. I wish I had known when it was going to be the last time I was ever going to kiss him. Because I would have concentrated more, paid closer attention, tried to somehow record every last detail about it. If I had known it was the last time, I would have kissed him for longer than I ever had before. And then, just for old times sake, I would have kissed him again.
As everyone except for Rachel sits around the big table up on the second floor of the Cedar Tavern, the air between us is softer, kinder than it’s been. It’s more familiar also, like we know each