Page 50 of Seven Summer Weekends
Ben helped himself to a crisp piece of bacon, avoiding further commentary.
“Where’s he at,” he asked, faking indifference and adding, “Still asleep? I kept him up pretty late.”
“You’re not the only one.” Addison hummed to herself with a little grin. “He’s in the guesthouse. Can you tell him breakfast is ready?” She broke off a piece from her latest batch of scones, tasted it, grimaced, and dumped them in the bin.
The door to the guesthouse was cracked open, so Ben let himself in.
“Hey,” Ben called out upon entering.
“Hey,” Terrence responded from the bathroom.
Ben sat on the edge of the bed, waiting, until he noticed a condom wrapper on the floor. He jumped up like the bed was on fire, contemplating whether to flee, when he saw a second one mere inches from the garbage pail. That Terrence was a bad shot was of little consolation. Ben was mad. Mad at himself, mad at Terrence, and mostly mad at Addison. The first person he had truly felt something for since Julia died, the first brunette whose hair he could imagine running his hands through. Could he be that out of touch that he misconstrued the chemistry between them?
Terrence ascended from the loo and, without further ado, Ben confronted him. He pointed to the condom for a visual.
“So, is that what this is all about? Your thirst for another wave is all just BS?”
“No, man. Lighten up. We were just having fun.”
Ben clenched his fists and rolled his shoulders back.
“You know—there are women throwing themselves at me everywhere I go. It’s, like, beyond consensual,” Terrence added, clearly confused by Ben’s nunlike reaction to two consenting adults having relations.
Ben controlled the urge to sock the guy and decided, right there and then, he would hit him where it would hurt more—in his piece inSports Illustrated. It was irrational, and he knew it, but he didn’t much care.
And then Terrence dropped the real bomb.
“It’s getting old, man,” he complained, adding, “and I’m gettingold too,” before flipping himself onto the bed like a teenager would.
“I’m thinking of asking if I can see her again. You think she would want to? I know she’s in a transitional time in life—lots to figure out.”
Ben weighed his options. He could do his best to thwart it right now, but where would that leave him?
All he could manage was, “Go for it, man.”
Terrence’s face lit with promise, and Ben felt a spark of happiness for him before remembering it was at the price of his own.
“You need anything else from me before I go?” Terrence asked cluelessly.
“No. I got all I need,” Ben answered, and reluctantly received Terrence’s bear hug goodbye.
WeekSix
Chapter Twenty-five
Usually, when Ben Morse had to leave the island midsummer, he was immediately filled with dread. Today, he was filled with relief. He couldn’t get away fast enough.
The woman next door had cracked his hardened resolve, crawled under his skin, and then jumped back out, leaving an open, festering wound. OK, it wasn’t quite that dramatic, but that’s how the novelist in him perceived it. Even the fact that he could work up that over-the-top sentiment alarmed him. The closest he got to writing with emotion lately was this past winter when the petulant goalie he was writing a feature on stopped a goal at the buzzer and won the Stanley Cup. Even that only garnered the sentence “Grown men blinked away tears as he circled the arena with the legendary trophy.” It figured that the first time he had enjoyed talking to, even flirting with, a woman since Julia for reasons other than purely carnal satisfaction had left him broken and rejected.
Lesson fucking learned, he thought, before burying his nosein theFire Island News, hoping to discourage early morning conversation on the ferry.
Ben had turned in his first draft of the Terrence Williams piece the night before and was meeting his editor at theSports Illustratedoffices late that afternoon. Enough time to grab lunch with his agent first at one of his favorite downtown haunts.
The Paris Cafe was a dark waterfront restaurant circa 1873 where Thomas Edison, Teddy Roosevelt, and even Butch Cassidy are said to have dined. After eating at the same handful of places all summer long, he was definitely looking forward to mixing it up a bit. At least his tastebuds were excited about something.
He arrived first and ordered an iced tea from the bar. He didn’t like to drink before meetings. His agent, Elizabeth Barnes, arrived before his beverage did. Ben’s sportswriting gig had little to do with his formidable book agent, but she kept close tabs on him since Julia died. Her greeting lacked the pity-based warmth she had presented with as of late.
“What the hell, Ben? You skewered that surfer.”
