Benny and I had to have a chat. One where I communicated some important things, he listened, and I got my way for a change.
This I’d decided in the shower.
This, I decided right then, was happening now.
I walked down the hall, turned into the kitchen, took two steps in, stopped, and planted my hands on my hips.
And there I saw that Ben was on a mission. I knew this because he had a donut clamped in his teeth, a travel mug in his hand, he was shoving his phone in his back pocket, and his car keys were sitting on the counter in front of where he was standing. His hair was wet because he’d showered in the hall bathroom. I’d heard him when I was getting ready.
“Ben,” I called.
He looked my way and finished with his phone, lifted his hand to the donut, took a bite, and said through a full mouth, “Yeah?”
“We gotta talk,” I told him.
He chewed and swallowed. “Yeah,” he agreed readily. “Ma’s got somethin’ on with Father Frances this morning, so while you were upstairs, I talked with Mrs. Zambino. She’s takin’ you to the alley today. League play. She says she and her girls’ll keep you company. I gotta get to the restaurant and do some shit. I’ll meet you back here.”
I knew my eyes were squinty when I declared, “I’m not goin’ to the bowling alley with old lady Zambino and her cronies.”
“Yeah, you are,” Ben replied before he took another bite of donut.
I shook my head so I wouldn’t get distracted from my mission, and stated, “Benny, we need to talk about what I wanna talk about.”
“Can’t. She’ll be here in five minutes and I gotta go. One of our suppliers is gonna be at the restaurant in twenty. I made the order. His shit is good, but he’s known to jack his clients around, so I gotta inspect it when it gets there so he doesn’t jack us around.”
Although normally I would find it fascinating, the inner workings of a popular pizzeria and how a supplier might “jack you around,” right then, I couldn’t get distracted by that either.
“I want my phone,” I announced, and Benny focused on me.
“Babe—” he started quietly.
“No,” I cut him off. “We have plans tonight. I made you that promise, I’m keeping that promise. I won’t take off. But I’m out of the hospital and I have a life. Friends who are probably wondering about me. A job I quit, where my notice period ended up as sick leave, but I have strings to tie up there, clients to contact. I also have a new job. They know I experienced a traumatic event, but now they probably think I’ve fallen off the face of the earth. I gotta check in, and to do it, I need my phone. I’d rather make my calls here. But, so as not to court the wrath of old lady Zambino, who probably now is excited about her opportunity to show off her skills at the lanes, I’ll make my calls from the bowling alley.”
Benny looked decidedly unhappy when I started talking about my new job.
But he shocked the shit out of me when he said, “It’s in the truck. I’ll go get it.”
“Really?” I asked, my voice breathy due to the fact I was shocked as shit he gave in and did it so easily.
He stopped looking unhappy and looked something else entirely when he said gently, “Yeah, honey.” He put the donut in his teeth again, nabbed his keys, pushed them in his pocket, came to me, then took the donut out of his mouth before he wrapped his fingers around my hip and bent to me, going deep where he touched his mouth to my neck. He lifted to look in my eyes and whispered, “Be back.”
“Okay,” I whispered too.
He shoved the last of the donut in his mouth, disappeared out the door, and I stood there thinking how easy that was.
Maybe I should have asked for my phone the day before.
Or the day before that.
I was still thinking on this when Ben came back in with my purse. He didn’t bring it to me. He took it to the table, dumped it there, then he came to me.
He got close, and for some reason, I didn’t brace. I didn’t pull away. I didn’t move a muscle.
This meant that when he lifted a hand to curl it around the side of my neck and dipped his head, I was an open target.
It also meant that when the lip touch I was expecting became something else—his mouth opened, mine opened with it, and he was able to sweep his tongue inside—I was able to taste the miraculous flavor of donut and Benny.
My stomach dipped again.
Almost before it began, his lips and tongue were gone. Then his fingers were digging in my neck, his were eyes looking into mine, and he whispered, “Later, baby.”
“Later,” I whispered too.
His eyes smiled. His fingers squeezed. Then he let me go and moved out the door.
I stood in his kitchen, staring at the door, knowing that could be my life.
Ben, off to the restaurant to make sure some supplier didn’t jack him around after giving my neck a squeeze, me a sweep of his tongue that left the taste of him in my mouth, and I’d watch him go out the door after a “Later, baby,” which meant I’d get him back.
And I stood in Benny’s kitchen, staring at the door, knowing I wanted that life. Knowing I wanted it so bad, it was an ache. Knowing I’d wanted it since I was a little girl. Knowing I wanted it even more thinking I could have it with Benny.
But the pain came when I remembered I’d never have it.
On that thought, I heard the front door open and Mrs. Zambino shouting, “Francesca Concetti! Shake a leg! We gotta pick up Phyllis and I don’t wanna be late!”
I took in a deep breath.
Then I went to my purse, made sure my charger was in there because, Lord knew, after days with no charging I’d be screwed, and I did this shouting, “Coming, Mrs. Zambino!”
***
I sat in my chair at the alley and watched Mrs. Zambino make her approach and let her ball fly. The ball spun down the lane quickly, listing to one side, then crack! She hit the pin so hard, it slammed across the lane and she got the split.
I jumped out of my chair, arms up, mind ignoring the not-insignificant ping of pain that hit my wound, and shouted, “Go Zambino!”
As she and all her posse did when someone got a strike or spare, which was frequently, she turned and instantly started shaking her ass, hands lifted in front of her in jazz hands position, forearms swaying, mouth chanting, “Wowee, wowee, wowee.”
Her posse were all doing the same dance and chant as she moved through them, giving double high fives.
She came to me and her look of joy turned severe.
“Francesca, sit down,” she snapped.
“You rock,” I told her.
“I know,” she replied. “Now sit down. I do not need the entire Bianchi family blaming me for you having a setback due to my stellar performance at the bowling alley.”
I sat but kept my head tipped back and did it grinning at her.
She dropped gracefully into the seat next to me as I declared, “I’m taking up bowling as soon as I’m fully recovered so I can be you when I grow up.”
Her eyes did a scan of my head before she decreed, “You’ll need to learn to tame your hair and use blush as an accent rather than a war stripe if you wish that to become so.”
“I’m sorry, I’m still riding the high of your split,” I told her. “Even you being mean and cranky is not going to pollute that high.”
Her mouth twisted in an effort not to allow me to see her smile.
“I saw that!” I declared, lifting a hand and pointing a finger at her mouth.
She shooed my hand away and stood up, moving toward the seating area at the back of the alley, calling, “Give me my Pepsi-Cola, Loretta.”
As any bowling minion would do, Loretta handed over the queen’s drink.