I arrive back at the apartment late that evening, around seven thirty. I guess you could say my little “doctor’s appointment” totally threw off the rest of my day and I got tangled up in tweets. While I was checking out the restaurant space, a pic of Jennifer Lawrence’s morning routine featuring our product went viral. We’re up to 15,482 retweets, 61,059 favorites and 50 incoming tweets per minute. Work piling up combined with my head being somewhere else entirely made for one hell of an exhausting afternoon.
But the good news is this: I’m home, and I smell garlic and butter.
Benji peeps from behind the kitchen wall as he hears me unlock the door. He kisses me and quickly returns to his post at the stove, where he’s rapidly moving around a delightful pan of spaghetti sautéing in olive oil, light cream and speckles of cracked black pepper.
“How was the rest of your day, babe?”
“It was good,” I say, throwing my hair up into a messy topknot (still not as perfect as his) and taking a seat at the already-set table. “Busy.”
Benji plates the spaghetti and grates some fragrant black truffle on the top of the perfectly swirled mountain of noodles. The shavings smell heavenly. What a contrast to my former habit of dousing mushy pasta with a glob of butter and Kraft parmesan.
He joins me at the table as I tuck a piece of paper towel into the collar of my black shift dress and prepare to gorge.
“Bon appetit, babycakes.” He holds up a bottle of San Pellegrino to cheers me.
“Whoa. What the hell happened to your wrist? Did you burn yourself?”
“Oh, this?” Benji remarks, looking toward a piece of white gauze the size of a pack of gum taped to the inside of his left wrist. “Nah, not a burn. Hurt just as bad, though.”
Benji slowly removes the tape and peels off the bandage. His wrist is only facing him at this point as he uses the pointer finger on his right hand to gently brush over the spot.
“You like?” he says, finally turning it toward me.
My jaw plummets to the floor.
“You’re crazy!” I say through a grin I cannot control. I immediately get up from my chair and jump into his lap. “Let me see that!”
I hold his wrist in my hand and examine the fresh tattoo that says Allie in cursive. It beautifully blends with the rest of his gnarly ink; but still this delicate, swirly addition stands out from a mile away.
“What…why…how…?” I’m at a loss for words. He’s branded himself with my name and I’ve never experienced something so romantic in my life.
“I just wanted to show you that I appreciate what you’re doing for me with the restaurant and that I’m in this for the long haul. As long as this little doodad is on my wrist, I’m not going anywhere. I love you.”
Forget the pasta. Forget wondering where he got the money for a tattoo. Forget the fact I’m about to buy a restaurant. I rip his shirt off over his head and slink out of my dress. He picks me up and I wrap my legs around his torso. The good thing about a small studio apartment is that it’s never a far walk to the bed, which is where he throws me down and proceeds to make me feel more delectable than any dish he’s ever created.
* * *
“Allie, it’s Angela. I got the paperwork in by five today as per Craig’s request. Our closing lawyers are going over it all day tomorrow. They said they won’t have the final green light on things until Monday, but it doesn’t seem like there’ll be any problems. Long story short—we won’t need your funds until then, so just hold tight on pulling that money order. Alright, that’s all for now. You kids sleep well and start thinking about what you want this place to be called.”
I don’t often deliberately send people’s calls to voice mail, but I’ve just had the best sex of my life and I am waiting my turn to shower it off as I casually chow on some lukewarm (but still delicious) spaghetti cacao e pepe.
Hours have passed since the conversation Angela and I had on Randolph Street and I’m still replaying it in my head. I don’t know if she’s secretly a motivational speaker, has a background in theater, or was just using some really good distraction methods—but she was so inspirational in that moment. Talking to Angela felt good for my soul. What can I say? I’m a bit of a sucker for damaged goods.
But now, as I lie nestled in the corner of my deflated Ikea love seat while Benji is in the bathroom, things feel a tad different. Without the immediacy of Angela in front of my face and the endorphins from the celebratory sex charging through my body at a thousand miles per hour, my commitment doesn’t feel quite as firm as, say, when Benji was naked on top of me twenty minutes ago.
It’s not that I’m going back on my word to her. It’s just that alone in the quiet, away from these powerful influencers, I’m seeing this situation from another angle: a really expensive due for dating Benji Zane.
I keep remembering what Angela said about investors only existing because they get a return on their deals. The difference between someone like me and Marc Cuban, though, is that he has the ability to make multiple investments; I only have this one chance, and taking it will leave me close to destitute.
But I still want to do it. And I have to accept that this is it: this is the big-ticket item I’ve been waiting for. Maybe I thought I was saving for a down payment on a house, or the first year of my future kid’s college tuition. But no, it’s actually this—part ownership of a restaurant that doesn’t even have a name yet. The only thing wilder would be using the money for bail to get my mother out of jail for stabbing my father. That’s how outlandish teaming up with two strangers and a drug-addict chef—sorry, recovering drug-addict chef—feels.
Bzz, Bzz.
Thankfully a text interrupts what I can only assume was the beginning of a downward spiral.
Hi sweetie. It’s Rita, Mark’s wife. U guys coming to the picnic this wknd?
Seeing a text from the wife of Benji’s sponsor pop up on my phone calms me immediately. She’s someone I know I can instantly trust without any strings attached. And even though we haven’t met before and this is her first time reaching out directly, the fact that she’s not asking me for money or to sign a contract is welcomed. I save her number to my contacts before I reply.
Briefly I wonder how she got my number in the first place. I’m sure that Benji gave it to Mark, who then passed it along to Rita, just to open up the lines of communication a bit more. But a part of me wonders if Benji had to put me down as some sort of emergency contact in case he…well, let’s not even go there.
4 sure! C U then, I fire back.
OK, hon. Thx.
Being called “sweetie” and “hon” in subsequent texts makes it feel as if her warmth is exuding through the line. Her dialect reminds me of a school nurse you fake like you need an ice pack just to go visit, or like a really kind flight attendant who gives you extra pretzels. I wonder if her voice is soft and feminine, or smoky and gravelly. I can picture it both ways.
I haven’t met Mark either at this point, although I’ve been home when he’s been parked with his flashers on downstairs in the driveway to pick Benji up for an NA meeting. I’m itching to check the two of them out on social media, but since last names are a no-no in the program (Benji and I get a bit of a pass due to all the press), I can’t just search online for a sneak peek of what they look like. Trust me, I’ve tried.
From what Benji has told me, they have a few decades of sobriety under their belts and know the ins and outs of the program and how to work it at various stages of recovery. I don’t know how much they know about the space on Randolph Street yet, but I’m sure that when we see them at the picnic, we’ll fill them in.
As Benji’s sponsor, Mark apparently has one job: to be a Life Alert button in the flesh. His and Rita’s experience allows them to say the right thing at the right time for people like Benji who are just trying to get back on track. I take comfort in knowing that if Mark and Rita see Benji veering off course, they’re the perfect people to reel him in. Together, they are a much-appreciated safety net.
Benji started going to NA meetings the day after he moved in with me. Surprisingly, the meetings are working. Mark is working. And when I see him reading from his books, or texting me when he’s off to see his group, I feel hopeful. Even more hopeful now that we’re adding Angela and Craig to the total number of people Benji ultimately cares enough about not to let down.
I am so thankful for this newfound motivation. It’s exactly what he needed. Maybe a little will rub off on me and I can build up the courage to smooth things over with Jazzy and Maya and tell my parents about the newest crazy thing I’m up to with Benji so they don’t have to read about it in the paper.
I remember the first time I told my mom about Benji. He was nameless then. “I’m hanging out with this chef I met,” I told her. She was intrigued, but not as interested in discussing him as she was her neighbor’s new dog, a three-legged Chihuahua named Chino who wouldn’t stop barking. As I got to know Benji, and just how rough he was around the edges, I decided to build a dam when it came to the details I’d share with her. She’d ask, “Whatever happened to the chef?” and I’d just say, “We still talk.” Did she know he was cooking for me? That we were sexting? That I was massaging out drug nubs from his back? Nope.
But the dam broke when the news that I was his “girlfriend” did. It’s not that Patty and Bill Simon followed FoodFeed, but people who knew me and my family posted the articles on their social media feeds and soon my parents got the picture. The whole picture. What started off as happy news—Benji Zane tweets relationship with Allie Simon—quickly turned into articles about him no longer working and taking time off to get sober…super heavy stuff. It was as if they had been bound, gagged and held at gunpoint all at once. The only thing I could do was call them immediately and swear up and down that everything was fine. That I was happy and safe. That this was really no big deal and the media was exaggerating. Talk about a tough sell.
Finally I volunteered to prove just how fine everything was by bringing Benji to their house for dinner. They volleyed by requesting his parents join us and we could make it a family affair. I thought about lying and saying his parents worked for the CIA and lived in China, but instead folded and said they were separated, it was a sensitive subject, and don’t bring it up again.
When our dinner date in the suburbs rolled around, we happened upon another logistical problem. He had nothing suitable to wear for such an occasion. With no time or money to hit up Macy’s before our train departed from the city, he borrowed some khakis two sizes too big and a collared shirt from his sous, Sebastian. For the first time in his life, he looked more like a guy who enters data into a PC all day than a guy who thought a neck tattoo was a good idea.
With a bouquet of cheap flowers from the drugstore to complete the “Meet the Parents” starter kit, we soon found ourselves in my parents’ living room, making awkward conversation while waiting for the oven to preheat. The presidential town hall setup made Benji so nervous, he kept having to excuse himself to use the bathroom.
“He’s not doing coke in there, is he?” my mother leaned in and asked.
“Mom! No! That’s so rude,” I whispered adamantly.
“Maybe I should go check on him,” my dad offered in the most dad-ish way possible.
“Oh god. Please don’t,” I begged.
When Benji came back downstairs, my mom was putting the finishing touches on a chicken she was set to roast. She started pumping this olive oil spritzer thing she bought in the As Seen on TV aisle when the cap broke off and all of the olive oil spilled onto the floor. I blamed the tension in the room for her unusually shaky grip.
“Well, there goes my glaze,” my mom said as she bent down with a rag. “Everyone watch your step over here, it’s slippery on the tile.”
“I guess I’ll just order some pizza,” my dad suggested. “What toppings does everyone like?”
“Wait a sec,” Benji said. “I can still roast this without olive oil. Got any butter?”
My mom retrieved a stick from the fridge while Benji rolled up his sleeves and washed his hands. It was like he was scrubbing the nerves right down the sink. He then intuitively opened a drawer with a knife in it and started cutting the butter into pats. He lifted the skin of the chicken up slightly, sliding the slivers of butter between that and the outer layer of the chicken. After stuffing them in there, he cut the twine from the legs and retied the chicken tighter with an impressive yet humble “Let me show you how it’s done” flourish. As he pulled on the knot, his muscles surged a bit through his sleeves and the spell was cast. I looked over at my mother, who was salivating. It had nothing to do with the chicken, mind you.
Finally, he heavily seasoned the whole thing in salt and pepper, loosely chopped some onions, carrots and broccoli, dumped them into the roasting pan with some chicken stock and slid it all in the oven. The whole thing took him about six minutes.
“Okay, now give that about forty-five minutes.”
“Wow, Benji. Thanks. Can I offer you a—”
I prayed harder than I had ever prayed in that moment that my dad wouldn’t slip.
“—Coca-Cola?”
* * *
Having Benji in their house that day was like having a doctor on an airplane with a woman in cardiac arrest. He managed to save the dinner and land our first meeting with my parents smoothly, even after so much initial turbulence. A few bites into the moistest, most delicious chicken of their lives, telling them that we were also now living together in my apartment was surprisingly palatable.
That said, I have enough respect for my parents not to let them find out about Randolph Street in the press before they hear it from me. But dealing with their imminent freak-out will have to wait.
What can’t wait? Chugging a 1.5-ounce bottle of merlot that I remember is hidden in the back of my underwear drawer before Benji gets out of the shower.
I miss the days of being able to drink liberally. Whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. I don’t have a problem with alcohol—not by a long shot. But a tequila flight every now and then with my tacos would be nice.
Benji emerges from the bathroom in black basketball shorts and a white Hanes V-neck. He’s toweling off his knotty hair. I can tell he used my shampoo.
“Here,” he says.
“Here, what?” He didn’t hand me anything.
“That’s what I want to call it—the restaurant. Here.”
“Shouldn’t you call it There because you’ll be living there trying to get the place opened in forty-five days?” I ask, only half joking.
“No, not at all. And don’t doubt me on how to open a restaurant. I know my shit.”
“Okay, okay,” I say, a conciliatory smile on my lips. That mini serving of wine might be hitting me harder than I thought. I need to dial down the sass or I’ll blow my cover.
“So why ‘Here’? How’d you decide on that?”
“I was thinking about it and I’ve been to almost all fifty states in the last five years of my life. I tossed fish in Seattle, I fried just about anything you can fry in Louisiana, I staged in New York City. I wanted to learn everything I could about every kind of food, and I did. But the constant running from place to place was just a front for what I was really trying to do…keep away from my family and get high enough to forget about them as much as I could. But for the first time in a while, I don’t feel that urge—to run. To get high. Cocaine’s a beautiful drug, don’t get me wrong. But I’ve got an even more beautiful life now with you.”
He pauses his soliloquy to press a kiss on my forehead.
“My whole life, I’ve wanted my own restaurant. I’ve wanted to cook my own food, hire my own people, do my own thing. And now look. It’s finally happening. Is it going to be crazy? Yes. Chaotic? Yes. But will having this place and knowing that it’s ours give me more peace than I’ve ever felt? Fuck, yeah. And I want everyone who walks through the door to feel that way, too. Even if it’s just for the two or three hours they’re sitting down eating, I want everyone to feel like they’ve finally spotted that little red dot on the map that shows you where you are. Because I’ve seen it. And now I know: my place is here. My girlfriend is here. My work is here. Everything that makes me feel happy and complete, everything that I truly want forever and ever, well, it’s all here. So, yeah. Here.”
It might be the wine kicking in, but Benji’s little speech moves me to the point of tears. There’s something to be said about this sexy nomad of a guy finally hunkering down after years of bouncing around from city to city, thinking drugs would be the only stable thing in his life. He has struggled for so long to find out who he is in relation to the rest of the world and now it’s coming into focus. Perspective is some powerful shit and I’m grateful he’s sober enough now to see the big picture. It doesn’t make handing over my life savings any easier, but I’m reminded of my own place on the map. I am the muse to this sensitive artist.
Before today, I would have told Benji to pick another name. I would have told him “Here” was stupid. That for $30,000, he could and should do better. I would have insisted he push for something sexier—some French woman’s name written in a cursive font that no one can read. But I can’t discount what Here means to him, nor can I shake how it plays into Angela’s past. Something tells me that her involvement in all this merits something more meaningful than an illegible, arbitrary name. Angela deserves a full-circle story. And while Here is clearly just the start to Benji’s, it’s the perfect ending for hers.
“I like it,” I tell him, and I mean it.