A Clean Slate. Laura Caldwell
“Well, anyway,” he said, with another doggy shake of his head, “Therese asked me to speak to you about today.”
I looked over my shoulder at his girlfriend who was pretending to be engrossed in a conversation with Steve, but I could sense her antennae pointed in our direction. “Yeah, I’m sorry about that.”
“This coming over to my place really has to stop.”
“I know. It’s done. It won’t happen again.”
He gave me a look of patent disbelief. “Seriously, Kell, Therese is getting upset. This can’t keep happening.”
His mouth continued to move, talking on and on about how poor little Therese could barely sleep, how I needed to get on with my life, et cetera. The more he talked, the more I wanted to laugh, because right then the thought of waiting for Ben at work or calling him repeatedly or buzzing his apartment was ludicrous to me. He’d dumped me, the asshole, and although I still had a hard time wrapping my mind around that, I wasn’t stalker material. I couldn’t believe I’d ever gotten close to it.
Finally I interrupted him, putting a hand on his arm. “I can’t even remember doing those things you’re talking about, but I promise you, it won’t ever happen again. I’ve had a little memory problem….” I let my words trail off, suddenly unsure whether I wanted to admit to anyone other than Laney my loss of memory. Would people think me crazy? Was I crazy?
“What are you talking about?” He actually looked concerned, his gray-brown eyes worried and blinking, and that expression got to me. I found myself telling him the whole story of my day, explaining that I had no recollection of us breaking up or the way I’d been unwilling to let him go.
“Are you joking?” he asked a few times, his eyes skeptical now, as if this might be another one of my crafty ploys to get him back.
“It’s true. I can’t remember my birthday or anything after that until today. But I feel okay.”
“Well, shouldn’t you go to a doctor or something? Get yourself checked out?”
I made a show of holding out my arms, looking down at my legs. “Everything else is intact, so…” I shrugged.
“I don’t know.” He fingered the dark-brown freckle on his right cheekbone. That freckle had always made him self-conscious, because it resembled a speck of dirt, and people were forever telling him he had something on his face. But I used to love that spot. I’d kiss it whenever he walked in my door.
“You do look good.” His eyes trailed over me again.
I wanted to make a snappy retort, something like Yes, I look damn good and you’re not getting any of it, but I kept quiet.
“So how’s Bartley Brothers?” I didn’t want to talk about us or my memory any longer, but wanted to occupy Ben for a while, just to piss off Therese. “How’s Attila?”
“Demoted. He’s pushing paper,” Ben said.
“No!”
Ben nodded. “Lots of people are getting moved around or let go.”
“Yeah, so I heard.”
“Well, obviously. You’d know that since you…”
“Got fired.”
“Right.”
There was an uncomfortable pause.
“So tell me what happened to Attila,” I said.
Ben launched into a story about Attila being investigated for insider information right around the time of the budget cuts. From there, our conversation was easy, catching up on all our co-workers—my ex-co-workers—Ben telling me stories about trades gone awry, and bringing me up-to-date on the market.
We were laughing about another Attila story when Therese sauntered up to us and placed a proprietary hand on his arm.
“Benji,” she said—and I couldn’t help it; I snorted. Benji was a nickname he hated, the name Ben’s brothers used to make fun of him. Both of his brothers were much bigger. They excelled at football and other bone-crunching sports, while Ben had been relegated to running and tennis.
Ben sent me a look as if to say, Shut up, please. I tried to quell the giggles.
“I’m ready to go,” Therese said, shooting me little knives with her eyes. “It’s getting way too uncomfortable in here.”
“How about one more and then we’ll head out?” Ben said.
Therese’s bottom lip dropped a little. I got the impression that she wasn’t used to Ben saying no to her. “I want to go now. We’ve got to be at my mother’s for brunch tomorrow, remember?” She sent me a look of triumph, clearly expecting me to be crushed by this news. Strangely, I wasn’t. In fact, I felt so much better now that Ben and I had had a normal conversation.
“Sure,” Ben said, “I was just updating Kelly on what’s going on at Bartley.”
“Great. Did you tell her that you made partner?”
Ben sent a quick, guilty look in my direction.
My good mood, my ease at talking to Ben, evaporated like steam. “What? When?”
“Last week,” Therese bragged.
I fought hard not to smack her.
“Is that true?” I said to Ben. I was the one who was supposed to make partner first. Me. Ben had started at Bartley two years after me. I was next in line. How had I gotten the ax while he was elected to goddamn partnership status? I felt my neck go red.
Ben nodded sheepishly.
“He deserves it,” Therese said. “He’s worked really hard and—”
“Excuse me,” I said. “Could you shut up for one minute?”
Her eyes narrowed, and she sent a glance at Ben as if to say, Are you going to let her talk to me like that?
“Kell,” he said. “Take it easy. It just happened. I didn’t even know it was coming.”
Something about the way he had said that, the way his words got incrementally softer at the end of the sentence and the way his mouth became tight, told me that he had damn well known it was coming. He probably knew back in May. For a horrified moment, I wondered if he’d known that I was going to be fired, too. I stood there, completely stumped for words, wishing my temper would take over and do something rash that I would later regret—something like head-butting Ben—but nothing came. Finally, Therese tugged on his sleeve.
He drained the rest of his beer. “I’m sorry, Kell. Good to see you.”
I searched my brain for a witty comeback, something that would erase the smirk from Therese’s face, but once again I came up blank. A pregnant quiet enveloped us.
“Ben, let’s go,” Therese said.
He hesitated, still standing before me as if he might say something else.
“Oh, please,” Therese said, before he got the chance. She clamped a hand on his arm and dragged him away.
When they reached the door, Therese disappeared through it, but Ben turned around and for the longest moment held my eyes.
My temper flared after Ben left, obviously the wrong time, but I was immune to a cure, and so I sat at the bar, boring poor Jess and Steve and Laney about the manipulative machinations of Bartley Brothers and the treachery of Ben, all the while trying to douse my anger with cocktails. Laney eventually wrenched the conversation away from me and back to Jess and Steve’s wedding, and they were happy to prattle on about place settings and invitations and the band vs. DJ debate until we got the “last call” shout from the bartender.
After Tarringtons closed, and Laney had convinced