Chapter 18
I
THREW OPEN THE FRONT
door when Ben knocked at exactly seven.
He smiled and stepped in to hug me.
“You’re prompt,” I complimented him. “I like that.”
“I’m also clean, loyal, honest, friendly, cheerful, brave, reverent, and I can sew on my own buttons.”
“Were you born a Boy Scout, or did you have that beaten into you when you were twelve?” Sandy called from the sofa.
“Remember I mentioned having brothers?”
“Ah. Beaten into you, then.”
“Don’t get me wrong, I was almost an Eagle Scout.”
I raised an eyebrow. Almost? Ben noticed the question inherent in the brow arch and explained, “I had a difference of opinion with the Scoutmaster about my Eagle project.” His mischievous grin suggested he wasn’t at all sorry about it.
“Goody. A story. Sit down and tell us,” I said.
“Wait!” Sandy interjected. Her nose twitched, and her eyes zeroed in on the large brown paper shopping bag in his hand. “Is that food?”
“Yep. And three separate desserts. I learn.” He smiled.
“Okay. Then we’ll listen to your story,” she said.
“Hold up, hungry girl.” I took the bag from Ben and pulled one of his hands in mine, leading him to the kitchen. I plunked the food down on the counter, opened up the cabinet housing my dishes, and stepped out of his way. “Show me how the magic happens.”
“I’m not great in the kitchen. What’s the scooper thingy called?” He mimed using a spoon.
I laughed and pushed myself up from the counter then slapped a spoon in his outstretched hand. “I don’t know what you brought, but it smells awesome.”
“I brought the best noodles in the city,” he said.
When he pulled the first box out of the bag, I couldn’t hold back a cheer. “Yes! Boom Noodle! I love their food!”
His face fell. “You’ve been there already?”
“Ha!” Sandy hollered from the living room. “She’s turned me down three times when I’ve invited her to go there.”
I rolled my eyes. “No, I haven’t been to the actual restaurant,” I said. “But coworkers have brought takeout when we’re putting in overtime, and once, Sandy even let me have some of her leftovers.”
“Well, the only thing better than Boom Noodle takeout is eating there in person. It’s a cool place. We should go there sometime.”
“I’d like that,” I said, smiling.
He pulled off lids and opened more boxes, releasing incredible aromas as the steaming food poured into plates and bowls.
Lots
of plates and bowls. The bag disgorged an alarming number of containers.
“Whoa,” I protested. “I know we went back for seconds when you ate with us on Sunday, but seriously, we’ve never been this hungry for one meal. Ever.”
He pulled yet another dish down from the cabinet. “I didn’t know what you would like, so I got a bunch of different things to make sure you guys get what you want.” He spooned a spongy looking brown curd soup into a bowl. “I even got tofu,” he called to Sandy.
She wandered in, following her nose. “You’re all right, Bratton,” she pronounced.
“It’s so bizarre to me that anyone would thank another human being for putting them in proximity of tofu,” I said.
“Sheesh, Jessie. Tofu isn’t a punishment. It’s kind of good if you cook it right, and Boom Noodle most definitely does it right.” She leaned past me to pluck out the piece of tofu I was trying to protect her from, popping it into her mouth and smiling. “Yum.”
I shrugged. “If you say so.”
“So, Ben, do you have any riveting tofu trivia?” Sandy asked.
“You have no idea.” He shook his head. “There could be a whole
Jeopardy
just on soybeans. Soy farming, soy based products, soy poetry.” He slid her a look. “Should I go on?”
“I’m going to take your word for it,” she said.
“Too bad. What I know about soy sauce would blow your minds.”
“Now I have to know,” I said. “What about soy sauce?”
“Remember a couple of years ago when a thing went around about putting Mentos in a Diet Coke and making a crazy soda explosion?” he asked.
“Yeah. I saw it on Letterman or something.”
“That’s nothing compared to what happens when you stick a potato in soy sauce. Talk about explosive.” He shook his head.
We stared at him.
“You don’t know anything about soy, do you?” Sandy accused him.
“Nope.”
“You’re such a dork,” she said, but she laughed.
“Since he’s my guest, I have to defend his honor or something if you insult him,” I warned her. “I
will
fling noodles at you, if necessary.”
“How is that different from when you test your pasta?” she wanted to know. “I distinctly remember picking spaghetti out of my hair.”
“That’s only because you walked right in front of the cupboard when I threw it to see if it would stick,” I said.
“Isn’t that an old wives’ tale kind of thing? How do I know you weren’t waiting to ambush me with a whole fistful of Barilla and Ragu?”
“First, because I make my sauce from scratch. Second, because I do it the way my mom taught me, and if she says to throw it against the door to check it, I do it. I don’t ask why. I quit arguing in the kitchen when I was nine and she told me the secret ingredient to beef stew is stirring it with your finger to make it taste better.”
“Seriously?” Ben asked.
“Very seriously. My mom is a Southern cook and a God-fearing woman, but I swear there’s a pinch of voodoo in every recipe below the Mason-Dixon line.”
Ben folded the paper bag and announced, “No voodoo here, but dinner is served anyway, buffet style. Grab what you want.”
Sandy needed no further invitation and scooped a bit of everything into her bowl and plate.
I took a more scientific approach. “What do you recommend?” I asked him. “Do you have any favorites?”
“Yeah, I do.” He dug into a bowl of flat noodles flecked with peppers that smelled like heaven. “This is spicy but awesome.”
“You like spicy food?” Sandy asked. I knew she was thinking of her spicy-food-means-good-kisser theory.
“Love it,” he answered.
She shot me a naughty grin, but luckily she said only, “You chose well, Jess.”
Ben looked confused, so I hurried to explain before Sandy did. “She’s talking about the food,” I said.
“Yep, that’s it. Talking about the food,” she agreed.
Well, it was true on some level.
After we all made our third (or fourth) trip back to the makeshift buffet, I folded my arms across my chest and narrowed my eyes at Ben. “Deep, dark secret time again,” I said.
“Isn’t it enough to know about my secret alter ego, Nerdy Trivia Man?” he asked.
“Not nearly enough. I think we have an episode with your Scoutmaster to discuss.”
“Jessie’s right,” Sandy said. “You’re the floor show this evening.”
“Meaning, I’m supposed to do a dramatic reenactment while I tell you the story of my misbegotten youth?”
“Yes,” I said. “Don’t leave anything out.”
“Okay, but I warn you. The truth is ugly. This is a tale of malice, revenge, and ultimate redemption.”
I turned to Sandy. “And you thought you might want to go to bed early tonight.”
“Shhh . . . I want to hear about the revenge and stuff.”
“Long, long ago in Brother Atkins’s Scout troop, I was on track to get my Eagle by fifteen. My final project was simple: organize a work party to fix up a rundown park near my house. Slap paint over the graffiti, upgrade a couple of benches, and pick up the trash.”
“That doesn’t sound too controversial,” Sandy said.
“It wasn’t. Brother Atkins liked the idea. We got the whole thing done in a Saturday.”
“So where did it all go wrong?” I asked, propping my chin in my hands.
“On Sunday. After church, my dad suggested a walk over to admire my handiwork. That’s when we discovered that someone had trashed the place, probably during the night.”
“That stinks,” Sandy said.
“Yep. Tagging everywhere, trash cans emptied out all over the park. They’d tied all the swings into big knots so the little kids couldn’t untangle them.”
“That’s so mean,” I blurted.
“Yeah, it bummed me out at first. But then I noticed my sister Lindsay crying. She was only five at the time, and I got mad.”
“So what did you do?” Sandy asked, caught up in the story.
“Nothing. At least not at that moment. I let my parents try to make me feel better, and we left. But when we got home, I pulled Dean and Logan, my older brothers in for a powwow.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Exactly. We grew up on too many A-Team reruns. We figured the vandals were probably a crew of troublemakers who hung out in the park after sunset, but they weren’t exactly a criminal brain trust. It wasn’t the kind of area that had issues with real, hard-core gangs or anything.”
“Yeah, we had a group of kids like that at my high school. They always graffitied the desks and bathrooms and stuff,” I said.
“Well, we decided to do something about it. I don’t want to spoil your image of me as a guy who is all that is good and holy—”
Sandy snorted.
“—but let’s just say the plan involved an ambush with our quads and paintball guns, a potato shooter, water balloon launcher, camo and greasepaint, and about eight other Scouts out way past curfew.”
“Your Scoutmaster caught on to what happened?”
“He overheard another Scout talking about it at our campout the next weekend. He confronted me, I told the truth, and it turned into kind of a thing.”
“What thing?” I wanted to know.
“He thought I had exhibited the wrong kind of leadership, and I thought I had done exactly what I needed to. Those kids never messed with the park again. He wanted me to plan another project, and I refused as a matter of principle. He wouldn’t sign off on the park project, which my parents agreed with, and I wouldn’t change my mind. And that was that.”
“But this is the guy who called you in as a Cubmaster.”
“As the assistant, yeah. He’s a great guy who felt at the time like I should have been setting an example of turning the other cheek and not seeking revenge. I saw it more as teaching a lesson than seeking revenge. We agreed to disagree, but I never held a grudge about it. It was my choice not to do another project.” He shrugged, his tone unconcerned.
“Boy, you’re full of all kinds of juicy secrets,” I said. “You got any more you can spill?”
“A few dozen, but I’m limiting them to one per hang out so you’ll keep coming back for more,” he joked.
“Feeding her old
SNL
skits will do the trick,” Sandy reassured him.
“Speaking of . . .” I gestured to the sofa across from the TV. “Sorry about the television,” I said. “It’s a girl TV.”
“I don’t know what a girl TV is. Does it only show
Bachelor
marathons?”
I raised an eyebrow. “You know about
The Bachelor
because . . .”
“That sister I keep mentioning? Loves it,” he said.
“Got it. And no, no
Bachelor
.” I flushed. I had the whole current season on the DVR. “The TV’s old school. Under fifty something inches and no plasma screen.”
“Yeah, Ben. What’s your TV look like?” Sandy asked.
“It might be a fifty-something inch plasma,” he mumbled.
“Because you’re a guy and truly believe you must have a giant TV to be complete as a man,” she said.
“Oh, I thought they bought them because they like shiny buttons and blinking lights,” I said.
“No, Sandy’s right,” Ben said. “It’s encoded in American male DNA.”
I shook my head and grabbed the DVD box. “Time to let Will out.” I stuck the disc in the player and went to settle into the sofa. Sandy sat curled up in her usual corner, and Ben hadn’t taken a seat yet. It was going to be mighty cozy with all three of us on the couch. I guess I hadn’t thought through the movie seating when I insisted on Sandy joining us. I stood there, wavering for a moment about what to do when Ben said, “Don’t worry about it. I’ll find a spot. Go ahead and sit.”
So I did, stretching my legs to the side and feeling like a bad hostess. No sooner had I sat, though, than Ben settled onto the floor in front of me, his back leaning comfortably against my legs. Twisting around for a quick glance at me he asked, “Is this going to bother you?”
I smiled and placed my hand on his head, gently shaking it from side to side. “Not at all,” I answered.
“Good.” He took my hand off his head and tucked it comfortably under his own on his shoulder.
“This DVD was the best idea ever,” he pronounced. “I hope it’s really, really long.” And he gave my hand a slight squeeze.
Since I had temporarily lost the power of speech, I squeezed back.
And discovered a new favorite way to watch TV.
* * *
We were laughing like punch drunk hyenas over Will Ferrell as a Spartan cheerleader when Sandy broke into a huge yawn, which she tried to smother behind her hand.
“Sorry, guys,” she apologized. “I’m so sleepy. I think I’m going to crash for the night.”
The clock showed it was barely after ten, but she looked thrashed. “Night, kids,” she called over her shoulder as she headed for her room.
“My cue to exit?” Ben asked, his head tilted back to look at me.
I gnawed on my lower lip, torn about what to do. I wanted him to stay, but I didn’t want to risk staying up so late that it made me useless for work the next day.
Ben watched me for a moment, and then pushing up from the floor, he took the middle cushion on the sofa next to me. “I probably need to go. I think if I overstay my welcome tonight, you’ll find some reason not to hang out with me this weekend, and I have every intention of tying your weekend up.”
I started to explain that only my weekdays were occupied when he stopped me with a knee-weakening grin. “I’m onto you, Jessie. And I think I might like you as more than a Saturday and Sunday friend, so think about that, okay?”
I watched, mesmerized, as he reached up to cradle his hands around either side of my face and leaned in. He smiled, but his eyes gleamed with intent. My hand crept to his chest. I meant to steady myself but instead gave his shirt a tug. His grin widened in the split second before his lips touched mine. My eyes drifted closed, and I quit thinking, quit worrying, quit overanalyzing. I fell into the moment and that first, amazing kiss.