Page 28 of An American in London

His words bring my heart to an abrupt stop. I have to pull in a breath to start it again.

He blinks. “I don’t remember us picking that one up. It’s a no.” He looks back to his phone.

What?

I’m completely confused, and my neck aches from the whiplash. He seemed to really like this dress. He told me my fiancé was an idiot for dumping me when he saw me in this dress. Maybe I misunderstood. My brain starts to push away the question I have for him:Why is the dress a no?It will sit alongside all the other questions I’ve never asked.

The ones for Jed:Why haven’t we set a date yet? Is our life together what you want?

The ones for my dad:Do you miss Mom? Do you think she’s proud of me?

The ones for me:Are you happy?

I don’t want to push my question to Ben away. New London Tuesday wants answers. “It’s ano?” I ask. He doesn’t reply. My heart sinks a little. I guess I read him wrong. Not difficult when he’s such a closed book. “Not a nine, then?”

He looks up and his brows are pulled together like he’s confused. “What’s not a nine?”

I sweep my hands down my body. “The dress. You ... don’t like it?”

“The dress is a ten on you. But for the weekend it’s a two.” He says it like he’s telling me water is wet, like it’s a law of the universe I look good in the dress, but the law can’t apply this weekend.

I push my lips together to avoid a smile. Waves in my stomach crash together, taking me by surprise. I think that might have been a compliment, and I get the impression Ben doesn’t dish those out very often. I’ll take it. “Right. It’s not suitable for the weekend.”

He still looks confused, but it’s more that he’s confused at whyI’mconfused. “Right.”

Ben is so direct, so clear about everything. It’s refreshing. And only now is it obvious that Jed wasn’t like that. At all.

I bet Ben doesn’t harbor any secrets about wanting to move to Iowa.

“What about you?” I ask. Ben’s engrossed in his phone. “Do you have any ex-fiancées I should know about?”

“No,” he says simply, not even looking up.

But I want more than a syllable about his relationship history. Who is this guy as a boyfriend, fiancé, husband?

“Wives?” I ask.

“No.”

“Serious girlfriends?”

He pauses, and for some reason my heart sets off like a hen’s at the sound of a circling fox.

“No.”

“Are you gay?” I ask.

He doesn’t miss a beat. “No.”

“Good chatting with you, Ben,” I reply before slinking back into the changing room.

“Would you like me to make something up? I don’t have any serious relationships in my history. That makes it easier, doesn’t it? Nothing for you to remember.”

“I guess. But is there anything you want to tell me about your personal life?”

He sighs on the other side of the curtain. “There’s nothing to tell. I’m focused on my job. I’m not saying I’m a monk, but you’re asking about important romantic relationships. And I’m telling you there’s nothing notable in my history.”

“How does that happen?” I take off the black dress and try the more-than-suitable gray silk maxi skirt with a matching shirt. The white pearl buttons are so tiny it takes at least two and a half hours to do each one. “You really haven’t dated anyone seriously?”

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