Page 137 of When Ben Loved Tim
“Fine!” he snaps. “Maybe I will!”
“Great! Have fun! You deserve each other.” He’s already halfway out the door. “Just don’t ever come back!”
“I won’t!” he snarls in response.
I slam the door. Then I pace my room, seething while resisting the urge to cry. I won’t let him make me. That would be even worse. Eventually, when the adrenaline begins to ebb, I flop onto my bed and stare up at the ceiling, feeling like I did get fucked by him. Just not in the way that I wanted.
* * * * *
“What are we doing here, Ben?”
“Enjoying the beautiful weather?” I reply, even though I know Allison won’t be convinced.
We’re sitting on the bleachers that overlook our school’s baseball diamond. Which is a first for us both, because we’ve never cared about sports. I just want to see him again. Tim and I haven’t talked for a week. That was easy the first few days, with anger fueling my determination to avoid him. But now it’s slowly starting to sink in that our relationship might not recover.
“Most of the weather is up there,” Allison says, lifting my chin skyward.
As soon as she lets go, I return my attention to centerfield, where Tim is keeping a vigil on—I don’t know—wherever the ball goes, I guess. I haven’t been tracking it myself. I keep waiting for the brim of his ball cap to turn in my direction so two silver eyes can glimmer at me from the shadows. He seems completely unaware of my presence. Just like it used to be.
“I thought it was over,” Allison presses.
“I’m not sure,” I admit.
She arches an eyebrow at me. “He’s dating someone else, and you’re not sure?”
“Everyone deserves a second chance. You know that better than anyone.”
Her other eyebrow raises, completing the set. “Are you talking about my dad? Because that isnota fair comparison. He lost his wife. The only thing Tim lost is his backbone.”
I swallow, knowing that she’s right. “How did the support group go last night?”
“Just fine. We both listened more than we talked, but I really like the woman who runs the group. She reminds me of a wise old owl. And boy can she bake! You might want to fake losing someone, just to get access to those brownies.”
“Smuggle some out for me. So this was the survivors’ group?”
Allison nods. “Dad is going to the Alcoholics Anonymous meetings by himself. I thought about driving him there and waiting in the car, just to be sure, but he came back with enough pamphlets that I know he’s taking it seriously. He hasn’t touched a drop.” She hesitates. “Except for the six-pack of beer the other night.”
“You said he drank two and poured the rest out, right?”
She nods. “He thought it wouldn’t be as bad as the whiskey, so I sat there and made sad eyes at him until he changed his mind.” Allison shakes her head. “I know how this is going to sound, but I’m almost glad it happened.” The welt on her cheek has faded to a flat pink line. “As the woman who runs the support group put it, ‘Nobody wants their toilet bowl to be filled to the brim with shit, but at least it gives you the opportunity to flush.’”
“Wow, she does sound wise!”
“Uh-huh. And so am I, so don’t think that change of subject threw me off.”
The crowd around us erupts in excited roars for reasons that are beyond me. Allison doesn’t even look at the field. She keeps her gaze trained on me until the applause has died down. “We could be jamming with our band right now. Especially with the talent show coming up. We should be practicing! Besides, it looks to me like Tim already has his own cheerleader.”
She nods across the heads of spectators to where Krista is sitting with her step-brothers. I can already picture Tim meeting them after the game to autograph a ball or ruffle their hair affectionately. I bet he’d be a great father. He could play catch with any of our kids who are into sports and teach the rest to paint. I imagine him going for a run with our daughter, who is in track and field, while I stay home and sing with our son, who loves to play guitar. What would their names be though? And how many kids would we have?
“Ben!” Allison says, pulling me back to the present. I was staring at him again. She points at Krista this time, who is standing and waving as Tim’s team jogs toward the dugout, clearing the field. He notices her and waves back.
“Okay, I hate him again.”
“Me too,” Allison says, before standing and waving.
“What are you doing?”
“Come on,” she says. “Let’s see what he does.”
