Page 33 of Forget About Me

“Lucy, wait up.” He tries to follow me, but Puck sprints for a patch of grass. “Sorry. Guess he needs to go.”

I grab a sweater from my car while Puck does his thing. As soon as Ben gets close, I’m shivering again, and it’s not from the cold. While we were surrounded by other people, it was easy to put my confused mass of feelings aside. Now they’re bumping around inside like popcorn in hot oil.

We both just stare at each other for a long moment. Finally, he takes in a sharp breath and blurts, “I was just wondering if you want to have dinner? Maybe tomorrow night after rehearsal? I get out early.”

“Um, sure,” I say, even as I know it’s probably not a good idea. “I think my family can spare me for one night. There’s a new restaurant in Arlington Center that I’ve been wanting to check out.”

“If it’s okay with you, I’d prefer to eat in. I can cook if you want to come over.”

“What, you don’t want to be seen with a girl who isn’t a movie star?” I say, only half joking.

A pained look crosses his face. “No, I just don’t want to be seen at all. It’s just too much work.”

“Yeah, I get it. I guess.” Spending time alone with him at his apartment—a place so full of memories of my bad-girl days—is not easy. At least without knowing what’s going on between us. Being direct worked in the past, I suppose, so I just spit out the question, even though I’m not sure I’m ready to hear his answer. “What do you want from me, Ben?”

His answer is instantaneous. “Whatever you’re willing to give me, Lucy.” His eyes are half hidden by a flop of hair, but the loneliness there is clear. “A friend I can just be myself with.”

And who is that?I wonder. But what I say, because I’m a sucker for an animal in need, is, “Sure. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“Who knew you were so funny, Ben?” Tony asks as he whaps Ben on the back of the head, knocking his baseball cap off. “Catch you two later.”

Ben picks up his hat and then jangles the keys in his pocket. “You don’t need a ride home?”

“Nah. Tory ’n me are gonna hang out,” he waggles his eyebrows as he says the words. “And then she’ll give me a ride home.”

He shoves Ben and goes for me, but I duck out of his way. “Tell mom I’ll get something for dinner, squirt.”

Ben’s already halfway to his car, and I have to run to catch up.

“I knew,” I say, panting.

“Knew what?” Ben’s face is kind of red. Not sure if he’s embarrassed or mad. Or happy.

“That you’re funny.”

He smiles that smile that I feel like is just for me. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” I bump shoulders with him. Or I try. My shoulder hits his elbow these days. I swear they both grew a foot while I was away at my cousins’ farm this summer. “Those faces you make at the dinner table whenever Tony’s being a showoff? I have to work really hard to keep from laughing.”

He turns to me, his chin drawn down. “What do you mean?” He sounds as droopy as he looks. Then he squeezes his whole face over to one side somehow. It’s like he’s made of rubber. “What faces?” Lifting his brows and fluttering his lashes he says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” in a high, squeaky voice.

I can’t help but laugh, and then he attacks me, tickling me, “What are you laughing at? There’s no laughing at school.”

When I manage to get my fingers under his shirt to tickle him back, he declares, “No tickling! This is a very serious place, young lady!”

By the time we get to his car, we’re both breathless, but he manages to beat me to the passenger side and open the door for me with a flourish. “Inside, wench!”

I try to match his English accent. “Call me not wench, peasant.”

“Forgive me mistress,” he says, bowing low. “I am thy humble servant.”

When he offers his hand to help me into the van, I say, “You may kiss my hand, serf.”

But when he does, suddenly it’s not funny anymore. His gaze holds mine prisoner while his lips whisper a caress over the back of my hand. As a tidal wave of desire swamps me, I jerk my hand away and stumble back, landing on the van seat ass-first. Like a total dork.

After getting my legs inside, I make myself look at him. His face is as red as mine must be. But before I can figure out how to tell him that Ilikehim like him, he slaps his hands to his cheeks and pushes them together to do the old “Lady, can you please open the elevator door?” routine.

Playing along, because I probably misread what happened anyway, I press his nose and he separates his hands slowly, like doors sliding open to say, “Thank you.”

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