How to Meet Cute Boys (17 page)

“I don’t want you to ever be cold, B,” he said, patting the spot on the bed next to him and putting his arm around me.

So Gwyneth was having a bad hair day, prancing around saying “Anon this” and “Anon that.” Meanwhile that actor—the one with
the dark hair—was putting lots of emotion into his eyes while he watched her trounce around on stage. Oh, it was all very
romantic. On the television. But in Max’s room, not so much. You know that black-hole-of-deadly-silence thing guys do sometimes?
The one where you keep looking at him, wanting him to say something, but he keeps staring straight ahead at the TV? And you
know that he knows that you’re looking at him, but to ask him why he’s being so quiet would make you sound like a fifties
housewife so you don’t? It was
that
black hole of deadly silence. Before we’d started the film, I’d tried to get him to talk. Told him an edited version of my
sister’s engagement party—all while trying to gauge whether he was wondering why I hadn’t invited him—but he didn’t take the
bait. Just said, “Sounds like it was a fun time.” (Insert black hole of deadly silence here.)

“Max?” I propped myself up on one elbow. “Is there something wrong?” (Code for, “Did that mix tape freak you out?”)

He pulled his eyes away from the TV. “I’m watching the movie,” he said. (Translation: “I don’t want to talk about it.”)

He settled back and gently pulled me back down onto the bed with him. He didn’t, however, try to put his arm around me again.

I just noticed it. That’s all I’m saying.

I sat back up.

“It just seems like something might be wrong …” I took the remote from his nightstand to pause the film, but it had a million
buttons since he now had his TV, VCR, DVD, and stereo all working off one superremote. I pressed a button and the movie turned
off, the cable turned on, and Howard Stern appeared, interviewing some porn star who was perched on a stool, topless.

“Oh, leave it, this is Butt Billionaire!” Max said, craning his neck around me and staring at the almost-naked girl. “If the
guy gets all the questions right, he gets to go into a room alone with her and do her up the …”

At this moment a guy in a T-shirt that said
CHUCK THE LOSER—GET WITH THE BRUISER
! failed to answer the question, “Name the president who was impeached for Watergate?”

“This is disgusting,” I said. “That guy’s so stupid he could never get laid in real life so he has to go on this show.”

“That’s the whole point.” Max was cracking up. He yelled at the TV, “Nixon, you moron!”

“Max, I want to talk to you …”

I looked at the remote and at least the power button, which was red, was obvious, so I turned off the television.

Something flashed behind his eyes. Annoyance?

He said, “We have to
talk?
”

“I don’t want to
talk
talk,” I said. “I just want to know what’s going on.”

“We’re having a perfectly nice evening, watching the movie.”

“But we never actually watch the movie …”

He ignored this.

I tried switching tacks. “Don’t you want me to take my clothes off and dance around naked or something?” I said.

“Yes.”

So he got the joke. But he wasn’t smiling.

“Well, tell me what’s up. Then I’ll start dancing. What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking …” He paused, then muttered under his voice, “That things were going so well.” And he lay back on the bed.

I assured him that things were going well. I just …

“You just what?” He stared at the ceiling. He wasn’t even looking at me.

“I just want to talk to you about …” Suddenly I wasn’t sure what I really wanted to talk to him about.

He was looking back at me now. And his face resembled the face of a patient person, a real honest to God decent human being.
But his eyes—the eyes that usually had smiles in them—they seemed closed off. Guarded. His mouth was set in a purposely expressionless
way. His expression was impossible to read.

“Look, if you don’t want to talk …”

“What, exactly, are we talking about?”

Now he seemed
really
pissed. Which somehow seemed a little unfair.

“Maybe I should just go,” I said.

Flustered, I got up and started looking for my shoes.
I don’t have to take this,
I told myself.
I can walk out the door right now and we’ll see how he feels then
.

“You’re going,” Max said.

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement.

“Looks that way.” I tried to match his measured tone, but my words had a slap to them. I put on one shoe, then the other.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see he was staring at the ceiling again. I started looking for my keys, and for a moment
I panicked because I couldn’t find them. The whole fucking room had been rearranged, which meant I hadn’t put them on the
dresser like usual. He said nothing, and ignored the comedy as I tripped over the end of the rug and banged my elbow—loudly—on
one of the cymbals on his drum set. Finally I found my keys on his desk, which used to be by the window, but was now by the
door, where the dresser used to be. For some unknown reason, I was compelled to voice this out loud.

“The
dresser
is no longer in the same place,” I said.

No reply.

“Just in case you were wondering,” I said.

Now I was ready to leave. I was standing in the middle of the room rubbing my elbow and I felt like an idiot. Max didn’t even
sit up.

“Ben,” he said to the ceiling, “if you walk out that door, I am not going to follow.”

I didn’t know what that meant. That following me was beneath him? Or maybe that I was acting like such a maniac there was
no point, because who wants to go out into the night chasing some crazy woman, running down the street elbows akimbo and babbling
about the placement of furniture?

I said, “So you want me to stay?”

“I never told you to
leave
.” He rubbed his eyes. “Look. I’m tired. I’ve had a long day. I want to watch the movie. With you. And then I want to go to
sleep.” He finally added, “With you. But if you walk out that door, I. Am. Not. Going. To. Follow.”

And that’s when it occurred to me that this statement was essentially a dare. A game of chicken. Not a particularly nice thing
for Max to do. But I have a personal philosophy: Never play a game of chicken unless you know you’re going to win. This wasn’t
going the way I wanted tonight to go at all. I remembered what Nina said—that I wanted to know if Max loved me. I looked at
the stereo, but the cassette holder was empty. I thought,
He probably hasn’t even listened to it
.

I sat back down on the bed. The room was silent. His roommates, Fred and Barney, were out at some party as usual. Thank God,
since I would have been mortified if they heard us fighting. Not that I’d ever actually met them. Finally, Max said, “Should
we watch the rest?”

I said okay.

He turned the TV back on, and I lay down and adjusted my pillow so I wouldn’t be in his way. I looked at him. “Sorry,” I said.
“I don’t know. I guess I’m just a little stressed today maybe?”

“It’s all right,” he said. “Just watch.”

He was asleep before they even got to the part where the guy finds out that Gwyneth Paltrow’s a she. I watched the rest by
myself even though I’d already seen it, then tossed and turned all night. Max slept with his back turned to me, which he never
does. By the time I woke up, he’d already left for work. The first thing I did when I opened my eyes was look next to the
alarm clock to see if Max had left me anything. But there was no candy. And no juice.

I didn’t think it was possible to actually die of embarrassment. But there I lay, reading the proof pages for
Filly
’s next issue and wondering if a girl could actually choke to death on her own tongue.
And if I don’t choke to death on my own tongue,
I thought,
then I’ll kill Kiki with a sharp screwdriver
. Or maybe I’d do us both in with a blowtorch—then the Mother,
Filly
’s new advice columnist, could write all about it in the next issue.
A certain someone she knows,
my ass. That the Mother should start writing a column for the magazine was all Kiki’s idea. And I think if I hadn’t been
so drunk when she thought it up at the bridal shower—and so generally distressed about Max’s and my first fight—I would have
put a stop to it right away. But now, with the first “Ask Ben’s Mom” column already written, it was probably too late.

ASK BEN’S MOM

After listening to the endless tribulations of my daughter (not to mention those of her friends), I can’t help but wish my
eldest, Benjamina Franklin, would listen to me. Nobody knows better than a mom how to deal with romance, sex, finances … Of
course, many gals (like a certain someone I know) are too stubborn to ask their own mothers what to do. Starting now, you
can ask me.

Dear Ben’s Mom,

What’s wrong with women today? I’m so
sick
of reading in magazines about men, men,
men
. I can’t watch another episode of
Sex and the City
because all they care about is men, men, men. And I may never go out to dinner with my friends again because all they talk
about is friggin’ men, men,
MEN!
Did women’s lib just
not happen?

From,

Seriously Fed Up

P.S. I’ve read your daughter’s articles in
Filly
. Do you blame yourself?

Dear Fed Up,

I understand your frustration. A certain someone I know cares more about the boy in her life (and I do mean boy) than she
does about eating right, about furthering her career—he even comes before doing the laundry! Set a new example. Make clean
underwear
your
priority. Exact revenge on the men who treat you badly, reward the ones who treat you well. Set your sights on career and
self. Beat up muggers. You could start your own women’s movement.

Love,

Mom

P.S. No, she’s accountable for her own actions, however deranged they may be.

Dear Ben’s Mom,

How do I get a red wine stain out of my favorite white shirt?

Thanks,

Total Klutz

Dear Klutz,

1. If the stain is fresh, cover the area with baking soda or salt, Brush it off. 2. Blot with mineral water. 3. Rinse the
spot with rubbing alcohol. If the stain is as old as I am, just do steps 2 and 3.

Love,

Mom

Dear Ben’s Mom,

How do I tell the guy I’m with he doesn’t know my G-spot from my elbow?

XO,

Itching for Action

Dear Action,

It’s time you learned an important trick that I’ve employed with my last two husbands: Don’t tell him,
show
him. Literally. He’ll enjoy a peek between the sheets, and you can do something you’re good at.

Love,

Mom

Let’s go back to a little over a week ago. In the days following Max’s and my argument, I wasn’t feeling particularly good
about myself (no surprise there), and he wasn’t much help. It was your basic relationship purgatory. We weren’t talking about
what had happened—Max seemed like he wanted the discomfort we suddenly felt with one another to just blow over. I guess I
figured things would go back to normal. But they didn’t.

Oh, he called. And I returned those calls. We’d chat for a while and I’d wait for Max to ask me out. He wouldn’t. Finally,
sick of waiting, I asked him if we were on for our usual Saturday night. (I cringed when I heard the word
usual
come out of my mouth.) He said he had to go to Las Vegas on Friday for some streetwear convention, he’d be gone for a week,
and he didn’t have a second before then. Those were the words he used: “Sorry, sweetie, but I don’t have a
second
.” This was the first I’d heard of his trip.
Why didn’t he tell me sooner?
I wondered. I told myself Max was probably just stressed and that’s why he hadn’t mentioned it before, but anxiety seized
my heart like ice. Had I blown it the last time I saw him by acting so needy? If so, couldn’t he give me a get-out-of-jail-free
card just this once? I couldn’t ask. As anyone who’s ever dated a guy will tell you, the definition of
insanity
is trying to talk to a boy about the same thing twice and expecting a different result.