Just Friends With Benefits (39 page)

I had three loads of dirty laundry but it was Saturday and I hated wasting my weekends doing laundry. And I knew the laundry room would be packed since everyone did laundry on Saturday and Sunday afternoons. I’d just stress out over whether there would be enough dryers. In college, I sometimes threw my laundry bag in one of the dryers and put in a quarter to reserve the machine while my clothes were in the washer. But the machines in my building didn’t take quarters.

I considered using the time to create a profile on Facebook. Suzanne was really on my case about it, but I couldn’t bring myself to reconnect with people from high school and would probably spend too much time stalking Ryan’s friend list wondering if he was dating any of the pretty girls. I was feeling better about things but it was all about baby steps.

When my phone rang, I jumped off of the couch, psyched to have something to occupy my time. It was Paul. I hadn’t spoken to him since we left the beach.

“Hey, there,” I said. I placed the phone in the crook of my neck so I could examine the ends of my hair at the same time. I needed a haircut.

“Wassup Cohen?”

“Not much. Bored. You?”

“Ditto. Just checking in,” he said. “Thought you’d be interested to know that the
Brady Bunch True Hollywood Story
is on E. And I only know this because Hope told me.”

My neck hurt so I stopped playing with my hair and held the phone to my ear. “Sure. I know you’re a closet Brady fan. Admit it,” I said.

“Nah. Although Marcia was pretty hot in the movie. And those rumors of Cindy being a porn star are pretty intriguing. Her lisp has an entirely different effect on me now,” he said.

“You’re disgusting.”

“Yes I am. Here’s Hope.”

“Nice talking to you,” I said to the air.

“Hey, Steph. How are you?”

“I’m good,” I said.

“Really?”

“I’m getting there.”

“It’ll get easier. I’m making Paul watch The Brady Bunch thing.
The Partridge Family
is next but somehow, I’m not as interested.”

“I agree. Danny Bonaduce’s drug problems are so last century. Are you at Paul’s or is he with you?”

“He’s here,” she said. “We’re going to Jess and Eric’s for dinner tonight.”

“I wish I lived closer!”

“Me too. Okay, Paul is hitting me with the remote control. I gotta go.”

I heard, “Bye, Cohen” in the background and said, “Bye, Paul” in response. “Thanks for the heads up about the Brady Bunch special, Hope. I’ve been trying to figure out what to do with my afternoon and can’t think of anything better than spending it with the Bradys.”

“Glad I could help. Love you,” she said.

“Love you too.”

After we hung up, I turned on the E channel. The special was almost half over but I’d already seen it twice so I wasn’t that upset about it. I grabbed a bottle of water and some pretzels and on my way back from the kitchen, noticed
Here’s The Story—Surviving Marcia Brady
exactly where I left it the day I met Ryan, on my bookshelf between
The Devil Wear’s Prada
and
Confessions of a Shopaholic
. I had forgotten all about it.

I put the water and pretzels on the coffee table and returned to my bookshelf. I removed Marcia’s book and flipped to the back cover. There was a picture of the entire Brady family and it was definitely taken during one of the later seasons because all of the guys, except Bobbie, had perms and Carol had a mullet. I couldn’t help but giggle. Still standing, I turned to the front cover and sucked in my breath. There was a handwritten note and it was from Ryan. I quickly slammed the book closed. My knees a little wobbly, I walked over to my couch, took a deep breath, opened the book again and read Ryan’s note.

Dear Marcia.

Thanks for introducing me to Stephanie. She’s pretty swell and I’m so glad something didn’t suddenly come up before our fourth date. It was a good one. I promise not to play ball in the house.

Ryan
.

I started cracking up. Then
I read it again.

And again.

Our fourth date. That was when we first slept together. He must have written it when I wasn’t looking. He totally cracked me up. I felt my throat tighten and willed myself not to cry. I turned off the E channel and switched to the Yes network. The Yankees were playing the Orioles. My team against Ryan’s. I wondered if he was watching the game, too and thinking the same thing. I hoped his team would win. I sighed and fell asleep with the book in my arms.

I was sick of being cooped up in my apartment, so the next day I grabbed my Marcia Brady book and walked to Cosi for lunch. While on line, I nibbled on a piece of their yummy bread I had taken from the large bowl of samples. I wanted more than one piece but since I was ordering a tomato, basil and mozzarella sandwich, I figured I really didn’t need any extra bread. As the line moved and I was forced to walk farther away from the bread bowl, I changed my mind, reached behind me and took another sample
.

The guy behind the counter, wearing a white apron and black cap with the words Cosi written in stylized white lettering, asked, “What can I get you?”

I swallowed the bread and answered, “The TBM please. And a medium coffee with room. Thanks.” I looked around, wondering if I knew anyone. It amused me how put together some people looked on a Sunday afternoon. I was wearing khaki cargo pants from the Gap, a black tank top and Old Navy flip flops. The humidity was surprisingly low for early July and my hair was down. I took my sandwich and coffee from the barista and headed to a table at the back of the restaurant, my book in the enormous gray pocketbook I had just treated myself to as a consolation prize for losing Ryan.

I was comfortable being alone but self-conscious at the same time. I loved people watching, but hated the idea of others watching me, especially when I ate. Eating a sandwich was especially challenging because I tended to get excess mustard or mayonnaise all over my face without my knowledge. There were no condiments on my sandwich that day and, after a few bites, my self-consciousness eased and I got lost in the book.

I finished the prologue and was about to start reading the first chapter when I realized my pocketbook was lyying on the floor. My mother would kill me if she knew I’d carelessly left my new $200 bag sitting on the dirty floor of a public eatery, so I got up, picked the bag off of the floor and took the opportunity to throw my empty coffee cup in the garbage. When I returned to my seat, I placed the strap of my pocketbook on the back of the chair and was about to sit down when I heard a large crash right behind me. I jumped up in shock and turned around. My chair had toppled over from the weight of the bag and by the grace of God, it didn’t happen when I was sitting down.

Since I was so accustomed to making an ass out of myself in public by wiping out or colliding with another person, I was relatively unfazed. But to minimize any embarrassment others in the restaurant might feel for me, I shrugged my shoulders, laughed and said, “Oops.” Then I returned the chair to the upright position and casually looked around. A few people were looking at me but I hadn’t caused that big of a scene. Relieved, I went to sit back down and out of the corner of my eye, saw another Ryan look-alike at a table toward the front of the restaurant, facing my direction. I was getting really sick of seeing him everywhere I went and so I muttered, “Get a grip, Stephanie. It’s not Ryan. It’s your imagination.” and sat down.

As I tried to concentrate on the book, I couldn’t help but wonder if fake Ryan was still looking at me. The words on the page eluded me and after reading the same ones over and over again with the reading comprehension skills of a preschooler, I folded the page I was on, closed the book and turned my gaze towards the front of the restaurant.

Fake Ryan was still looking right at me and if I was not mistaken, he had a half smile, half smirk on his face. I squinted my eyes to see him better. I continued to stare at him and him at me until it suddenly got very hot in the room and I realized that fake Ryan wasn’t fake at all. I was looking directly at the real Ryan—my Ryan.

I was standing in front of his table with no recollection of walking there from mine. I felt a bit dizzy and rested my hand on the table for support. Also on the table was a black plastic plate with the remnants of whatever sandwich, probably turkey, Ryan had eaten and a water bottle. My face felt warm and I knew if my mom placed her lips against my forehead, she’d let me stay home from school. I swallowed hard and said, “Hi.”

Ryan nodded his head and said, “Hi, Stephanie.”

I didn’t know where to start “Small world, huh?” I said. That’s as good a place as any.

Ryan answered flatly, “Yup.”

He was so damn cute it was painful to look at him, even more painful since his eyes didn’t light up when he saw me like they used to. “How’ve you been?” I asked.

“I’ve been okay,” he said.

He was just looking at me, expressionless. It was so awkward and I sort of wanted to run away, but I also wanted to keep talking to him forever. “I’m glad you’ve been okay, Ryan. Not that you asked and, I guess I shouldn’t expect you to, but I’m not okay,” I said.

Sounding bored, Ryan asked, “No? Why’s that?”

I shrugged as if I didn’t know the answer.

Ryan raised his eyebrows like he was waiting for me to either speak or walk away.

“Ryan, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m bothering because you have every right to hate me but I want you to know. I need you to know.”

“Know what?”

“The truth,” I said.

“Which is?”

Feeling my legs spasm, I intensified my grip on the table and confided, “That breaking up with you was the dumbest thing I’ve ever done.”

When Ryan continued to look at me with a blank expression, I kept going. I felt the words leave my mouth but couldn’t hear them, like I did back in school whenever I had to give an oral presentation to the class. “You’re probably wondering why I broke up with you if I didn’t want to and seriously, I wish I had an answer that would make sense to you and if you had a few hours, I could try. But the bottom line is you’re the only guy I want to be with. I miss you so much. And before you yell at me, if you care enough to bother, let me tell you that I’ve been kicking my own ass constantly.” I stopped, took a deep breath and tried to gauge what Ryan was thinking but he was still sporting that damn poker face.

I was getting tired of standing, but didn’t dare ask him if I could sit down. “I don’t blame you for breaking up with me...”

Ryan raised his hand in the air “Correction. You broke up with me. I just wouldn’t let you retract the decision.”

I felt my face turn a more purple shade of red. “I stand corrected,” I said.

“Keep going.”

“Where was I? Um, oh yeah. I don’t blame you for breaking up, I mean not taking me back. Why would you want to? But even if I never see you again, I want you to know how truly remorseful I am that I hurt you, although maybe you didn’t really care that much. But, assuming you did care, I want you to know it kills me that I might have made you feel second best when basically I can’t believe how lucky I was to have met you. You’re perfect for me. And I fucked it up. I know that. Trust me, I know that. But if it makes you feel any better, I’m miserable, Ryan. I’m miserable and I’m a mess and I seriously think you’ve ruined me for other guys forever. No one will ever be as great as you. Two months we were together, Ryan. But it was the most fun two months I’ve ever spent with a guy in my life and I think I love you.” I couldn’t look at him when I said that last part but after I finished speaking, I stopped looking at the dirty floor and faced him. He was still just looking at me with a fixed expression and I knew I couldn’t hold back the tears for much longer. “Okay, that’s all I wanted to say. Thanks for listening. I’ll leave you now. Oh, and happy almost-birthday.”