Something New (23 page)

“I said it was something
new
.”

He cracks up at that.
“Really.”

“Hey, all college girls experiment. They should offer a class in it. Girl-on-Girl 101.” Suddenly self-conscious, I look down at my feet, at the pavement, at the parking meter, at the dry cleaners across the street. Anywhere but at him. “Anyway, it’s not that exciting. It’s not jumping out of a plane, or climbing Mount Everest, or anything. But it was new to me, and it felt good. Still does. So thanks.”

My focus is now on a couple of teenagers hanging out on the corner fifty feet away, so I am surprised when Ben takes
my hand in his. His touch is no less jarring than it was in Starbucks, and I watch as if in a dream as he raises my hand to his lips and kisses it softly.

“I appreciate you sharing that with me, Ellen,” he says quietly.

Slowly, he lowers my hand and releases his grip. His gaze is penetrating and sears through me and in that split second, a series of images run through my head, a montage of Ben-and-Ellen fantasies that flash onto the movie screen of my brain so rapidly that they are indistinguishable from each other. And just as quickly, the screen goes dark.

I watch Ben walk away, this time facing Center Street instead of me, and this time, he does not look back.

W
hen
the key turns in the lock at eleven fifteen, I’m on the couch, Sally at my feet, staring blindly at the big-screen TV, which is playing an old Adam Sandler movie I’ve never seen. I have absolutely no idea what’s going on because my brain has been busy processing the evening, reliving and dissecting every moment from when I first laid eyes on Ben as he listened to the street performer to watching him slowly retreat from my car.

Connor, Matthew, and Jessie appear at the archway into the living room, trailed by Jonah. My three children look tired yet energized by their evening out.

“Okay, guys, kiss Mom, and then straight to bed. It’s late.”

One by one, they come over to me and give me kisses. Jessie’s eyes are already at half mast and I know she will be asleep within seconds of hitting her pillow. Matthew yawns right in the middle of kissing me, and I am treated to a sample
of his ten-year-old pre-tooth-brushing breath. Connor bends over and gives me a hug, then kisses my forehead.

“How was it?” I ask.

“Awesome!” Connor exclaims.

“Totally,” Matthew chimes in.

“Those guys are really silly,” Jessie says with a giggle.

“You can give me all the details tomorrow,” I say. “Right now, get some sleep.” I pat Matthew on the behind as he turns away from me. “You’ve got a game in the morning, partner.”

“I know,” he returns in a weary voice.

Connor lingers as Jessie and Matthew make their way to the stairs.

“Thanks for letting me go,” he whispers. I smile and ruffle his hair, then nudge him toward his siblings.

“Teeth,” I order, watching the three of them as they trudge up the stairs.

“Yes, Mom,” they say in unison. Jonah remains in the archway, also following their ascent with his eyes, then steps into the living room and heads in my direction. He glances at the TV, then squints at me.

“I thought you hated Adam Sandler.”

“I liked
Wedding Singer
,” I point out.

“This is
Happy Gilmore
.”

“Right,” I reply. “It’s not too bad.”

He perches next to me on the arm of the sofa as I grab the remote and pause the movie.

“The kids loved it, huh?”

“Oh, yeah. We had great seats. Three rows back, center. We missed you.”

“I missed you guys, too.”
Liar, liar, pants on fire.

“Did you get the honey for Mom?”

“Yeah, it’s in the kitchen.”

“Great, thanks. So, you had a nice evening to yourself?”

“Mmm-hmm.” I can’t bring myself to look my husband in the eye, even though I have decided, after careful consideration, that I have nothing to feel guilty about. Ben and I behaved innocently, despite what might have gone through either of our minds. Despite what went through
my
mind. If there was a definite attraction between us, and at this point that is no longer an
if
, we resisted, ignored, and suppressed it, just like two honorable, respectable, moral people should.

So he kissed my hand
, I tell myself for the tenth time.
It’s not like he fondled my clitoris in the back of Starbucks.

“Good.”

“What?”

“Good. I’m glad you had a nice evening.”

He sits quietly for a moment, gazing at the frozen image of Adam Sandler swinging a fist at Bob Barker. Then he returns his attention to me. I, on the other hand, am staring at the coffee table, my inner debate with myself continuing at full volume.

If he
had
tried to fondle my clitoris in the back of Starbucks, would I have let him?

That is the $64,000 question.

“We’re okay, right?”

I turn toward Jonah but say nothing.

“I was a total shit the other day,” he says, taking my hand in his. His hands are larger than Ben’s, and rougher. I instantly put a stop to the comparison. It will lead to tragedy, I’m certain.

“I really am sorry. I know I said it before.” This is to remind me that he is now apologizing for a
second
time, and I should be intensely grateful. And I am. Unlike many men, Jonah is great about apologizing.

“We’re okay,” I tell him, because, let’s face it, after my
spending the evening in the company of another man, seriously flirting and indulging in luscious, albeit brief, fantasies, Jonah’s behaving like a jerk kind of pales in comparison.

“I’m glad,” he says. He bends over and kisses my cheek, and I feel the familiar and comforting chafe of his five o’clock shadow. “I didn’t want to leave on Sunday without us resolving things.”

“Consider them resolved,” I assure him, and give his hand a squeeze.

“So.” He glances back at the TV. “Are you going to watch all of this or come up?”

“I think I’ll give it a few more minutes. Want to join me?” I ask this last because I know he wants me to; it serves as a confirmation that things really are back to normal. Of course, in reality, things are as far from normal as they ever have been within the construct of our marriage.

“It’s tempting. You know how I love Adam Sandler. And this is a classic.”

I pat the cushion next to me, but Jonah shakes his head. “I think I’ll go check on the kids.” Which is code for
As soon as I’m sure they’re down, I’m going to crash
. I nod to him. “Don’t stay up too late?” he adds.

“I won’t.” Just long enough to rehash my evening with Ben one more time, in an effort to defuse its power over me.

He releases my hand, stands, and makes a beeline for the stairs, turning back to me when he reaches the bottom. “Love you.”

“Love you, too,” I reply.

And then, the most unexpected thing happens. My cell phone, which I actually remembered to plug into its charger in the kitchen, makes a pinging sound that I have heard only once before when I accidentally accessed the ring tone menu.

“That’s your phone,” Jonah says as he steps onto the first riser. He stops and gives me a quizzical look. “When did you start texting?”

“I didn’t.” I set down the remote, push myself off the couch, and head for the kitchen. The phone’s red light flashes conspicuously at me from the computer station and I move toward it as though it is a beacon. My fingers close around the phone and I think,
Could it be?

I stare at the device, not lost in thought, but rather trying to figure out how to receive a text, since I have never done it before. When Jonah gave me the phone the previous Christmas, he treated me to a long and stupor-inducing dissertation on the infinite number of apps this particular model possessed. I had subsequently made it clear that I had no intention of texting anyone,
ever
. This led to an argument about the indisputable benefits of cell phones. How could I not be rapt with elation over possessing such an amazing piece of technology? Jonah even sank so low as to call me a dinosaur, which, since I hadn’t really been paying close attention to his whole diatribe, offended me no end. I told him that he might as well have called me an elephant or a hippo or a cow, to which he responded that
dinosaur
was a comment not on my girth but on my archaic sensibilities.

Speaking of archaic sensibilities, I have to say that I am not enamored of my cell phone at all. In fact, I pretty much hate it. Of course this is something I dare not profess out loud, lest someone hear me and call the nearest insane asylum to alert them that there is a loony tune on the loose.

I remember a particular PTA meeting a few years back at which I confessed to Lila Bonaventura that I had accidentally left my cell phone at home. The PTA room went thunderously silent and all eyes turned toward me. Sixty faces regarded me wearing expressions of complete disbelief as
though I’d just been caught fornicating in church or I had voted to let Susan Smith out of jail free. A moment later, when the moms returned to their tittering, Lila whispered to me, “Next time you should just say you dropped it in the toilet.” As if I ever would take my cell phone into the bathroom with me. Jesus.

I know that they are great for emergencies, but I just don’t understand why it is so imperative that we feel the need to be
reachable
every hour of every day. As far as I’m concerned, cell phones have changed our society for the worse. They allow people to ignore their own children and be unfailingly rude to cashiers and servers. I’ve read they cause brain tumors, to boot.

“Need any help?”

I jump at the sound of Jonah’s voice.

“No,” I lie. “I got it.”

He watches me from the doorway as I follow the prompts on the screen and actually manage to get to my texts. Or,
text
. I do not recognize the phone number at the top of the box, but then, that’s no surprise. Anyone who knows me knows not to text. I press the Select button and a message of only four words appears on my screen. My heart skips a beat and I tighten my jaw muscles to keep from smiling. Donning a mask of casual indifference, I look up at Jonah.

“It’s one of those spam texts,” I tell him. “I’m supposed to delete it, right?”

“Oh yeah. You can delete those. You know how to delete, right?”

I smirk at him and stick out my tongue. “Yes, I know how to
delete
.”

“It’s a miracle. See you upstairs.” He disappears from view and I listen to his footsteps on the stairs. Once the floorboard of the second-floor landing creaks, I return my
attention to my phone, ignoring the fact that I have just officially lied to my husband.

Thanks for tonight. B.

My hand is shaking as I depress the Menu button and choose Reply. A blank rectangle appears on my screen and I stare at it for a moment, considering my words. As I type, my fingers hit several wrong keys, and the resulting message is a garbled sentence that might mean something to an alien visitor. After backspacing to the beginning, I carefully reenter my reply, check it twice, then hit Send. It is a question:
How did you get my cell number?

Not thirty seconds later, the cell vibrates against my palm and pings so loudly, I’m afraid Jonah can hear it from upstairs. I look down, a bubble of excitement bursting through me.
I’m a detective, remember?
I read, and, God help me, I giggle like a teenager. I only make a couple of mistakes the second time around:
How could I forget?
Thirty seconds later,
ping!
He writes:
The soccer team contact list.
I want to slap my forehead. Instead, I write back:
Duh. Must be the sake.

He doesn’t reply right away, and after a few minutes of standing in the kitchen staring dumbly at my phone, I pull out the chair at the computer desk and sit down. Another couple of minutes pass and I set my cell aside, trying not to wonder about his abrupt silence. Instead of allowing my mind to loop around that unanswerable question, I congratulate myself for diving into the texting world so quickly and easily. Of course, when properly motivated, I can pretty much do anything.

A full ten minutes stretch by, during which time I boot up my computer. I start up my browser and type in my blog’s address. I had no intention of posting tonight, or even logging in to see the number of hits I’ve had or to read people’s comments, but I am suddenly wide awake. I almost have myself
convinced that I am
not
staying up in case Ben texts me again, but I probably wouldn’t pass a lie detector test on that subject. Yet as I scroll through the comments left by a gaggle of readers, most of whom are supportive and complimentary, and see that I have almost a hundred thousand hits, I am overtaken by an emotion as powerful as the one I felt when Ben Campbell kissed my hand tonight. (Okay, maybe not
quite
as powerful, but close—and yes, that does say a lot about my life.)

Ellen Ivers has done something to be proud of, something she can point to and say without modesty,
I did that!
I know that for a woman, children are a great source of pride, and I am exceedingly proud of my children, but I have to share that success with Jonah. And really, I have always believed that being a good mom isn’t something you should be proud of, it’s just something you should
do
. But this blog is all me, and that fills me with a sense of validation and purpose that I thought I’d lost somewhere between diapers and Big Wheels and projectile vomit from a four-year-old’s overindulgence in corn dogs.

I am a realist, so I am not blind to the fact that the
Ladies Living-Well Journal
has a readership in the millions, which makes my blog’s hundred thousand hits proportionally low. Still, I am going to allow myself to feel like hot shit for a little while. It beats brooding over Ben Campbell and feeling guilty about Jonah.

I have just finished reading a touching comment about my meat-eating post from a reader who calls herself CowLover when my cell phone pings. (I was prepared for the comment to be a scathing dressing-down on the perils of ingesting flesh, but apparently, CowLover is enamored of plate-sized portions of bloody beef and she wrote that if I am ever in Des Moines, she knows of a great steakhouse that
serves forty-eight-ounce servings of prime rib and she would love for me to be her guest.)