Something New (9781101612262) Page 20

  And then I see Ben. He is standing against the low fence between the spectators and the field, listening to Nina Montrose, who is talking candidly about God knows what, her fake tits nearly bursting from her low-cut sweater as she gesticulates like a thespian. A surge of jealousy sweeps through me, surprising me with its ferocity. Nina and her husband, George, are separated and are apparently in the process of splitting up their assets. (Rumor has it that George is demanding to get her tits in the settlement since he paid top dollar for them.) For the past few months, Nina has been flirting shamelessly with any person in a ten-mile radius who happens to own a penis. (Yes, according to Jill, even women with vibrators in their bedside drawers will do.) And now she is casting her plastic, coquettish spell on my Ben.

  My thoughts screech to a halt. He is not my Ben, I tell myself. He is Linda’s Ben. Linda, who I discover as I furtively glance around, is nowhere to be seen. I direct my attention to the field where the Polar Bears and their opponents, the Fire Ants, are doing warm-up exercises. Jessie sits beside me, completely engrossed in a Junie B. Jones book that she found on Matthew’s bookshelf (although he denies that a Junie B. Jones book has ever been in his possession). I keep my gaze fixed on the field, willing myself not to glance over at Ben and Nina. However, like the T-rex whose eyes are drawn to movement, I cannot help but look over when, out of the corner of my eye, I catch Nina making a wide-sweeping gesture with her left hand that concludes with said hand landing on Ben’s shoulder. She leans into him as he says something, and then she erupts into a fit of laughter, throwing her head back so violently I fear she might snap a vertebra.

  My insides do another jealous dance as my fingers white-knuckle the armrests of my chair. I am feeling profoundly—and yes, irrationally—angry with Ben for allowing Nina Montrose to touch him. (And also having criminal thoughts about detaching Nina Montrose’s hand from her bony arm with a machete—despite the fact that I don’t own one.)

  Ellen! my thoughts shriek. Stop this nonsense. I proceed to remind myself, yet again, that I am an almost-forty-three-year-old woman, not a high school freshman, and that even though I currently dislike my husband with the white-hot intensity of a thousand burning suns, I must stick to the decision I made last night. To steer clear of Ben Campbell. Who he flirts with is none of my business. Hell, he can screw half the soccer moms right there on the bleachers, and it will be none of my concern.

  Just as I am about to yank my attention back to the field, Ben turns away from Nina and his eyes find mine. A smile of secret pleasure spreads across his face. Nina is chatting away, unaware of her prey’s divided attention. Ben surreptitiously gives me an eye roll, then mouths the word Help.

  Despite all of my good intentions, I feel my resolve start to slip. I bite my lower lip to keep from returning his smile and quickly turn my attention to the field.

  As the players get into position for the starting kick, I steal a quick look at Ben. Nina is touching his arm again. I tell myself that this is not my problem and shift in my chair so that the two of them are out of my line of vision. A moment later, the whistle sounds and the Polar Bears face off against the Fire Ants, the field becoming a sea of thrashing ten-year-olds. And a moment after that, I feel the pocket of my jacket vibrate.

  I withdraw my cell phone and gaze at the screen. A text awaits me. I glance at Ben and discover that he is now holding his cell in one hand while Nina continues to babble, probably about something like how great divorce is for your complexion.

  Don’t look at it, I tell myself firmly. You know who it’s from. Just put your phone back in your pocket and ignore it.

  Oh, who am I kidding? If curiosity kills the cat, then I am about to be buried in kitty litter. No matter how much I try to stop myself, I can’t seem to keep from pressing the Retrieve button on my cell. I peer at the screen and read: Who the hell is this woman?

  I laugh, but on the inside so as not to arouse suspicion. And before I have a chance to contemplate the fact that I am about to throw my resolution into the waste can, I reply.

  Be careful of her. She’s extremely dangerous.

  With my peripheral vision, I see Ben peer down at his cell. A grin tugs at the corners of his mouth. He nods absently to the oblivious Nina as he nimbly types on his keypad. It takes a nanosecond for the message to reach my phone.

  That’s OK. I’m armed.

  At this, I can’t help but laugh out loud.

  “What are you doing?”

  I turn to see my daughter staring at me with an expression of horror on her face. Feeling caught in this covert exchange by my eight-year-old, my throat goes dry and I am at a loss for a reply.

  “Mom, you’re texting!” She says this in the same manner in which she might say Mom, your head just fell off! or Mom, you’re growing another boob!

  “Yes, I am,” I say nonchalantly as my pulse begins to even out.

  “Since when do you know how to text?”

  Since about eleven thirty last night?

  “I know how to text,” I tell her. “It’s pretty easy once you get the hang of it.”

  “But you said you would never text,” she says suspiciously, as though she might be addressing an alien creature who has invaded her mother’s body. “Never ever, you said.”

  “Well, I am now.” I smile at her and place a finger under her chin, hoping to dispel her fear that I am no longer her mother but an intergalactic being intent on taking over the planet. “I figured that if my children knew how to do it, then I should learn, too.”

  She squints at me, probably considering the truth of my words, then smiles back and gives me a thumbs-up. “Good for you, Mom. You’re really doing it. I’m proud of you.”

  She wouldn’t be proud if she knew exactly why, and with whom, I am texting.

  “Is that Daddy?” she asks as if on cue. Not waiting for a reply, she says, “Tell him I love him.”

  As she returns her attention to Junie B., I think, ruefully, Tell him yourself, Jessie. Because I have no intention of ever speaking to her father again.

  My cell phone vibrates in my hand and I glance at Jessie before retrieving the text. Satisfied that she is immersed in her book, I read the message.

  Do me a favor. As inconspicuously as you can, call me. Please.

  My heart skips a beat and I suddenly feel like Angelina Jolie in Salt (albeit with a bit more poundage and a lot less collagen) having been drafted for a covert op. I wrestle with myself for a mere three-point-five seconds about the foolhardiness of granting Ben’s request, but by the fourth second, I rationalize that I am simply doing a favor for a friend in need. I don’t have to get close to him to answer his cry for help. I can maintain my distance and still do my altruistic duty.

  Donning a casual expression, I slowly stand and stretch, then quickly peer at Ben. Nina has him backed against the fence, leaning into him with a decidedly voracious expression on her face. I yank my eyes off them and look down at Jessie.

  “Want anything from the snack bar?” I ask and notice that my voice sounds unusually shrill. I clear my throat and try again. “Popcorn? Soda? Snickers?”

  She squints at me. “Seriously?”

  “Sure, why not?” I reply.

  “Because you never let us have candy before noon and it’s not even eleven thirty.”

  “Well, I can buy it now and you can wait a half an hour to eat it.”

  “O-kaaay,” she says doubtfully. “Snickers. Please.”

  I nod and, clutching my cell phone tightly in my hand, head for the snack bar. Ten yards from my daughter, I punch in Ben’s number and hit Send.

  He answers before the first ring ends. “Ben Campbell.”

  “Hello, Ben. This is animal control calling. We hear you are currently being attacked by a hungry and dangerous cougar.” Where did that come from? All I had to do was make the call, hang up, and let him take care of himself. But no, I have to go and make some cutesy comment. I mentally slap my forehead, but I do not hang up.

  “Yes.
That’s affirmative,” he says very seriously.

  “Will a tranq gun be sufficient?” Jesus, Ellen, just stop!

  “Um, that’s a negative. The situation may require more force.”

  I hear a muffled sound, then Ben’s faraway voice. “Sorry, Nina. I have to take this. See you later.”

  Relief surges through me as I end the call and pocket my cell phone. I helped Ben out and now I can go back to avoiding him. I reach the snack bar and make a show of perusing the offerings while at least a dozen kids elbow and shove at each other to get the cashier’s attention. I stand well away from them, not wanting to get bruised and battered by their pressing need for hydrogenated fat, simple carbs, and Red Dye Number Forty. I glance up at the menu and realize that there is nothing for sale that even remotely fits in with my food regimen.

  I feel his presence before he opens his mouth, and my whole body reacts as though I am a tuning fork that has just been tapped. I turn around and there he is, taking his place in line behind me.

  “Thanks,” he says, grinning crookedly. “She’s, uh, tenacious. I thought I might have to draw down.”

  “You’re welcome,” I say, my voice neutral even though my insides are churning at his proximity. “Just doing my civic duty.”

  “You’d make a great secret agent,” he jokes as he scans the menu. “What’s her story anyway?”

  “Soon to be divorced. Lonely. Horny.” God, did I just say horny out loud? I quickly glance around to make sure the kids didn’t hear me. But they are far too busy buying junk food to notice our conversation.

  Ben is smiling at me. As if reading my thoughts, he says, “I think they all know what the word means.”

  “I just don’t want them to think I know what the word means.”

  “But you do, don’t you?”

  Oh shit. Danger, danger, Will Robinson.

  “I have heard it used on occasion,” I say, returning my attention to the menu, where it belongs.

  Ben takes a step closer to me and I can feel the heat of his body. If I were to lean back a couple of inches, I would be pressed against his chest. I don’t move, don’t flinch, but I realize with crystal clarity just how much I am craving contact with this man. I step forward a few inches, pretending interest in the display case, but Ben closes the distance with a step of his own. I keep my eyes glued on the snack bar.

  “Last night was fun,” he says in a low voice only meant for my ears. I nod, but don’t turn to him. I am suddenly worried about the inquiring minds of all of the people around me: friends, acquaintances, fellow soccer parents, even the children. Anyone looking at us, at this moment, would simply see two grown-ups standing in line chatting. But there is more to it than that, and I am afraid that if I smile too much or make a familiar gesture toward Ben, everyone will know what’s going on.

  But nothing is going on, I remind myself. And I’d believe it, too, if it weren’t for the fact that I am suddenly perspiring and feel the need to clamp my thighs together because of Ben’s proximity.

  “Come on, guys!” the older woman behind the counter barks. “You have ten seconds to decide! There are other people waiting!”

  This is Doris, the snack bar empress, a petite yet over-bearing sixty-something who has made it her life’s work to send Little Leaguers and soccer players down the road to juvenile diabetes. At her coarse command, the kids quickly make up their minds and hand over their parents’ cash for their desired treats. A few seconds later, they disperse, leaving Ben and me alone in front of the counter. Doris stares at us expectantly.

  “What’ll it be?” she demands.

  Ben ushers me forward and I step up to the counter.

  “One Snickers.”

  “It’s so satisfying,” Ben singsongs.

  “For Jessie,” I qualify, feeling the need to make it clear that junk food never passes my lips. “And a bag of M&Ms. For Matthew.”

  “What about for you?” Ben asks, sidling up to the counter.

  “I’m good,” I tell him as I withdraw a couple of singles from my pocket.

  “I know you are,” he says with a smile, and I can feel Doris’s speculative gaze on the two of us as she lays my bounty on the counter.

  “I’ll take some Corn Nuts and a Diet Coke, please,” he says to her, bestowing upon her one of his most ingratiating smiles. She doesn’t look impressed by either his smile or his manners, but merely scowls at us. “And just add all of it together.”

  “No, no,” I say, proffering up my bills.

  “It’s the least I can do. You saved me from a most unpleasant experience.” He places a five on the counter, which Doris snatches up, then hands me my candy and grabs his Coke and Corn Nuts. We move away from the snack bar as a new herd of children scrambles toward it.

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem,” he replies.

  We walk slowly toward the field, and I realize that every time I attempt to put space between us, someone passes on either side of us or we have to narrow the gap to avoid an obstacle like a trash can or bicycle or a soccer bag. It feels like we are magnetized to each other, and I am powerless to fight it. Okay, that’s a fib. Unwilling to fight it. As we maneuver through a crowd of players listening to their coach, Ben’s free hand brushes against mine and I can’t help but recall the way he kissed it last night.

  “Where’s your husband? Jonah, right?” His question is casual, but it makes me tense nonetheless.

  “He had to work.”

  “Sore subject?”

  I hadn’t meant to sound curt or angry, but apparently my ire has seeped through.

  “Um, a little. Where’s Linda?”

  “At home with Evan. He says he has a sore throat.”

  “You don’t believe him?”

  “There’s a new episode of Imagination Movers on today.”

  I nod knowingly. “Ah.”

  “I think what the situation needs is some imagination!” he sings loudly enough to make a group of parents in the parking lot turn and gape at him. “Don’t worry, folks, I’m all right,” he calls to them, and I have to laugh.

  We stop at the outside edge of the field and I check to make sure Jessie is where I left her. There she is, curled up in her red chair, nose in her book. I see that the game is in progress and we have made it back just in time to catch Matthew successfully (if uncharacteristically) pass the soccer ball to Liam.

  “All right, Matthew!” I cheer, then watch as my son trips over his own feet and takes a flying header onto the grass. Liam, who has already scored, trots over to Matthew and helps him up, then slaps him on the back enthusiastically and holds up his fist for a knuckle bump. I read Liam’s lips well enough to ascertain that he is complimenting Matthew on his pass. Matthew, whose face is bright red with embarrassment from his fall, allows himself to smile and return Liam’s knuckle bump.

  “You have a nice boy there,” I tell Ben, meaning it.

  “Yeah, he’s a good kid,” he replies, then takes a long swallow of his Diet Coke. We stand in companionable silence for a few minutes watching the game. Our arms are inches apart, and I swear the hair on mine is sticking straight out as though I’m in the middle of an electric storm.

  “So what are you doing for the break?” he asks, tossing his spent Coke into the nearby trash can. “Anything fun?”

  “I have a very detailed agenda,” I say. “Starting with the upstairs closets and moving down to the garage.”

  “Sounds exciting,” he teases.

  “It’s spring,” I remark. “You know? Spring cleaning. Plus, it’s the only time of the year that I can throw out my kids’ junk without them knowing.”

  I glance up at him to see that he is peering at me speculatively.

  “Jonah’s taking the kids to his parents’ in Arizona,” I explain. “They leave tomorrow.”

  “A week on your own!” He laughs. “How will you ever manage?”

  “Six days, but who’s counting?”

  A whistle sounds and the players march t
o either side of the field for halftime. I catch sight of Matthew scanning the crowd for me and I raise my hand to wave at him. He smiles as though he is genuinely enjoying himself, and I feel something pluck at my heart strings. Thanks to Liam’s generous spirit, Matthew finally feels like he belongs on the soccer field. I give him a thumbs-up and he returns it, then hurries over to the huddle, wedging himself next to Liam, who immediately moves to give him space.

  “What about you?” I ask. “Is your family doing anything for the break?”

  “Actually, I’m kind of in the same boat as you. Linda’s parents offered to take the boys to San Diego for a few days. Sea World, the zoo, Balboa Park. They’ll be so overstimulated by the time they get back, we’ll have to put them on Ritalin.”

  “Wow. A couple of days without your kids. Sounds romantic.”

  I regret my words as soon as I see the look on his face.

  “If only,” is all he says.

  A question about the state of his marriage is on the tip of my tongue, but I bite it back.

  Stop, Ellen. It’s none of your business.

  “Anyway, I do have something fun planned for me. It’s, uh, something new.” He looks at me for a second too long, and my legs threaten to morph into Silly Putty. “You said last night that doing something you’ve never done before felt really good.”

  A thrill races through me as he recounts my words from the previous evening. Knowing that someone—especially an attractive man—has really listened to you and remembered what you said is pretty exciting. I can’t recall the last time I was certain that Jonah was actually listening to me. Years ago, maybe. And, truth be told, I was probably deluding myself back then, because every single time we had one of those deep, meaningful conversations that lasted for hours, we ended up having sex. Looking back now, I realize that Jonah could have been faking it, pretending to give good ear, in order to get laid. Well, I occasionally fake orgasms, so I guess it serves me right.

  “What do you say?” Ben asks, pulling me back to the present. I guess I’m not such a great listener myself.