“Today, I found out that Ben inspires me.” Ben’s gaze snapped in my direction, his eyes filled with warning.
“That’s quite an epiphany. Was it the Fred Flintstone costume?”
I shook my head no, while Hunter laughed. “Benny Hoffman donned a Flintstone costume?”
“He sure did.” Marla grinned, and for a second, I thought the conversation would naturally drift away from my revelation, but it didn’t. Turning back in my direction, Marla asked, “If it wasn’t his prowess as a caveman, then what? What did you find out about Ben today that spurred inspiration?”
I swallowed, and then honest to a fault, I said, “I saw my first Hoffman painting that absolutely blew my mind.”
Angry, Ben pushed his chair back and slammed the table with his fist and sneered through clenched teeth, “Enough, Jess,” before storming out of the room.
He didn’t come back during dinner or dessert, and no one seemed to really think much of it. At some point, Max, who had also known Ben most of his life, sat down next to me and said, “He does this sometimes. Big emotions are hard for Ben. It’s like he’s less flexible than the rest of us.”
I played it off, nodding. “Believe me, if anyone knows that, I do.”
“Of course.” Max smiled. “Why am I telling you this? You love the guy. You know what he’s like.”
“I do,” I confirmed. “But it doesn’t hurt to feel supported.”
Throwing her arm over my shoulders, Max gave me a little squeeze. “Ain’t that the truth.”
Remembering his likes on his profile, I added, “Nothing a little night walking won’t fix.”
Max laughed. “Jesus, is he still doing that? When we were kids, we used to find him out walking all the time. Like we’d be on our way home from a party, zooming down some back road, and there was Ben, speed walking in the bike lane like some eighty-year-old geezer, swinging his arms back and forth.”
“He wasn’t with you at the parties?” I asked.
She raised her eyebrows at me. “Does he go to parties with you?”
I laughed, but it wasn’t really funny. It was sad. These were Ben’s childhood friends and even they didn’t seem to know exactly what made him happy or how to connect with him.
When the guests were gone, I helped Marla carry the dishes into the kitchen and then excused myself. Making my way to the front of the house, I popped a squat on the front stoop and set out to wait for Ben. I’d overstepped. I knew I had. I acted as I would have if he was my boyfriend, but he wasn’t really. I was his employee, so I should have kept my mouth shut and only spoken up in service to the mirage that he was looking to create for his parents. I would tell him as much, apologize again, and recommit myself to the task at hand—being a perfect date to his parents’ Halloween party.
Time passed slowly on that stoop, but I waited. After a while, Devin came outside and handed me a mug.
“Mulled cider,” he explained.
“Thank you,” I said softly.
“He’ll be back with his tail between his legs eventually,” he offered, sitting down next to me. “Always comes home calm and rational.”
“I know,” I said sweetly, even though I didn’t.
“He’s like a teapot; he has to blow off some noisy steam but it's fairly harmless.”
I turned to him and smiled but didn’t say anything.
He patted my shoulder and pushed off me to lift himself up to standing. Turning to head inside, he stopped suddenly. He was quiet when he said, “They’re exquisite, aren’t they?”
“What?” I asked, not following his train of thought.
“The paintings in the studio.”
I nodded before saying, “It almost hurts to look at them.”
He smiled sadly and then affirmed, “It absolutely hurts to look at them.”
I must not have realized that I dozed off on the Hoffmans’ stoop because when I woke, I was in Ben’s arms, and he was carrying me across the lawn, down to the studio. I tried to push through the haze of sleep and apologize, but Ben didn’t let me.