The Makedown (18 page)
“Babe, I love you. There’s no rush.”
Ideally, I would have liked more than a day’s warning about meeting Ben’s parents. At least I have my own private bathroom in which to prepare myself. A whole new world with no toilet seat covers or slippers in the shower. As I stand in front of the bathroom mirror applying a respectable amount of makeup with the lights dimmed and the door locked, I decide to cultivate a relationship with God. Meeting Ben’s parents is too significant an event to go without checking in with the unverified man or woman upstairs.
Growing up, I never gave much thought to God. I passed churches, synagogues, and televangelists without batting an eye. I was solely focused on FG. “Dear God, please let today go well. I am still unsure if you exist, but if you do, please don’t be offended that I doubted you. If you don’t, I’m talking to myself in the mirror.”
Vegetarian Glory is the most expensive vegetarian restaurant in Manhattan, Mecca for tofu lovers. Sitting at the four-top table, Ben and I look at each other with blank expressions. I can’t tell if he’s nervous, too, or if in my panicked state, I am simply projecting.
“Babe, stop stressing out.”
“I’m not stressing out at all,” I say, obsessively rubbing my damp palms against the white linen napkin.
“It’s lunch. No reason to sweat it.”
“Sweat? I’m not sweating. Do I look like I’m sweating? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”
“You’re cute when you’re nervous. It makes me want to take care of you.”
“You didn’t answer my question. Do I look sweaty? I don’t want your mom and dad to think I have a glandular problem.”
“They’re here.”
Across the room, I spot Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds heading our way. Milly has her hair done in the same puffy monstrosity as at the anniversary party. It adds at least six inches to her diminutive height. I wipe my hands at a feverish speed, but it turns out my hands are entirely composed of water. They are leaky breast implants, and I am on the verge of being felt up by the most important people in the world. I must avoid skin-to-skin contact at any cost. I will leave the napkin in my hand while greeting them. Or is that more peculiar than having damp hands?
They are fast approaching. I smile maniacally. Ben steps out from the table to hug his parents. I stand behind him, playing the part of the smiling damp troll. Milly offers me a huge grin and starts to put out her hand for a formal handshake. I lunge at her with my arms open, embracing her in a mammoth hug. I wipe my hands on the back of her jacket discreetly during the hug.
“I told you this one had a lot of emotion,” Milly exclaims proudly to Ben.
“I feel as if I know you already and, well, I hug people I know,” I stammer lamely. I cling to her small body, rubbing my hands in a circular drying motion on her back.
“Why don’t you give Arthur a hug now?”
I guess my hug has gone on a little too long.
“Oh, right.”
I give Arthur more of a pat-pat hug in an attempt to appear normal.
“Anna, we loved the quiches. They were delicious, right?” Milly prods her husband affectionately at the table.
“Anna, the quiches were delectable,” Arthur says sincerely.
“Of course, you must hear that a lot. Right?” Milly says with a smile.
All of Milly’s sentences end in ambiguous rhetorical questions. Unsure what to do, answer or ignore her, I decide to go with the nod and am obliged to do so continuously throughout the meal.
“Now Anna, let’s get down to business,” Milly says sternly. “Are you a vegetarian? Or do you celebrate the mass slaughter of our friends by ordering them in restaurants?”
“Jesus, Mom,” Ben offers quietly.
“I am a vegetarian,” I say with a smile.
Milly stares at me. Is vegetarian not enough? Should I add more to my résumé?
“I am also a registered Democrat.”
Milly continues to stare at me.
“And I recycle . . . and I give money to PETA. And I . . . usually wear a cat pin.”
“Arthur, I may cry,” Milly says with a heartfelt look to her husband. “Anna, I knew the second I saw your beautiful display of emotion at our party that you were the right girl for my Benny. Call it mother’s intuition, but I knew.”
“Oh, how sweet. Thank you.”
“After Carcass dumped him, I knew I needed to intervene, help him out with the selection process a little,” Milly says with a wink.
“Her name is Gela, and I think we’ve all heard enough about that . . . whole . . . thing,” Ben says politely but with anger simmering visibly beneath the surface.
“Don’t get fussy, Benny,” Arthur says politely. “It comes with dating a rancher’s daughter. All those nice outfits were paid for with blood money.”
“Cow blood,” Milly chimes in emphatically.
“Enough about Gela. It’s making Anna uncomfortable.”
“Me? No, I’m fine talking about Carcass or . . . um . . . Gela.”
“No, he’s right. No more . . . Gela. Thank heavens Ben listened to me. I knew he needed someone with compassion. So when I saw all those tears, I just knew you would be right for him. Not like all the impossibly gorgeous and superficial women he normally chooses. I knew he needed a nice, regular girl. And clearly, I was right, wasn’t I?” Milly says, beaming with pride.
“Oh,” I say, unsure what to make of her comments. I knew she pushed him to have drinks with me, but hearing her explain it feels downright dreadful.
“Anna, if you ever have a son, you must make sure he gives all the girls a chance. It’s the only way they find the right ones. Trust me on that,” she says, studying the menu.
While my mediocrity makes Milly happy, it certainly doesn’t have the same effect on me. My stomach turns painfully as I listen attentively as Milly reveals all the charming habits Ben had as a child. Finally, the afternoon draws to a close.
Milly stands next to me at the coat check, inspecting my profile. I am uneasy but do my best to hide it.
“I like you, Anna, you know?”
“Thanks, Milly. I like you, too,” I say with fake cheerleader enthusiasm.
“You’re not like the other girls Ben brings home. You’ve got substance.”
Is
substance
a euphemism for fat?
“Oh, thank you,” I say with a strained smile.
In the back of a yellow cab, Ben holds my hand. I stare out the window, mulling over lunch. For the first time since I met Ben, I wish he wasn’t with me. I wish he were anywhere but here. The confusion would be easier to digest away from him.
“They really liked you.”
“Good,” I barely mange to respond.
I am the crying average girl his mother instructed him to date after the beautiful Gela dumped him.
“I’m sorry about all the Gela talk.”
“Don’t be silly. It was fine. I just didn’t realize she dumped you right before we met.”
“She didn’t dump me,” Ben says defensively. “It was mutual.”
“That’s not what your mom said,” I offer warily.
“Fine. She dumped me. Happy?”
“Yes, I am very happy that your gorgeous girlfriend dumped you so cruelly that your mom intervened and made you give us regulars a try.”
“Anna, it wasn’t like that.”
“Oh really? I have two words for you: Leslie Haggens.”
“How in the hell do you know Leslie?”
“I overheard you at the bar, telling your Mom you would never date someone like her. Then two hours later, you asked me out . . . to make your mom happy.”
“But Anna, if you already knew all this, why are you so mad?”
“I don’t know. I guess I just don’t like thinking that you had to be pushed into going out with me.”
“Mom didn’t push, she merely suggested. And maybe I wouldn’t have asked if she hadn’t, but thank God she did. I love you.”
“Am I just a consolation prize? A rebound helping you get over Gela so you can move on to your next model?”
“I don’t want a model, I want you.”
“Gee, thanks, Ben.”
“I didn’t mean it like that. Mom pointed you out to me because she wanted me to be with someone a bit more grounded and compassionate. But I fell in love with you on my own. All of you— your big brown eyes with long black eyelashes, the way you light up when you laugh, the way you spoke about being inspired by my parents made me see something completely different in them. And isn’t that what my father was talking about? Being with someone who opens up the way you see life, who you never want to be separated from. I’ve never had this with anyone. You’ve got to see that. You are the first woman I’ve ever lived with.”
“It’s temporary; that doesn’t count.”
“Not anymore. I want you with me . . . always.”
The reality of our differences weighs heavily on me now that my heart is invested. But I can’t let him stop loving me over a stupid fight.
“I’m sorry. I love you.” I smile bravely and stroke his back the way I know he loves.
There is no man on earth I could love the way I love Ben. I want to believe that there is no other woman he could love the way he loves me, but I’m not sure.
T
he world is a scary place when you’re dating a handsome man. Women constantly take in his physical appeal. Sexual excitement sparks in their eyes, then travels down to their lips, which crack into seductive smiles. Then they glance at me and stifle a laugh. The suppressed laugh conveys their disbelief that I am Ben’s girlfriend. I am not a troll or a repulsive-looking woman, but I am far from the model or pageant winner one expects to find on Ben’s arm. He doesn’t help the situation with his need to smile at every person who smiles at him. He laps up attention like a neglected dog. He is not secretly insecure and seeking validation wherever possible; he merely takes pleasure in being the man in the spotlight.
Ben joins me in bed to watch the
E! True Hollywood Story
on
Full House
. His interest in the trashy program exponentially increases with the Olsen twins’ screen time.
“I’m not sure why the whole twin thing is so enticing, since sisters don’t do threesomes . . . but it is,” he confides.
“Yeah, sisters usually aren’t so into each other sexually,” I respond, wondering if all handsome men are this loathsome when it comes to women. Swallowing protests— and my integrity— I remain silent, not wanting to rock the boat. I think of my parents and their dysfunctional marriage. While there is nothing I logically want to emulate, I can’t help but remember that Father’s silence bought them decades of marriage. So if I can keep my mouth shut, maybe I will get decades of Ben.
As the Tanner family drama unfolds, Ben begins to rub my arm. His hand creeps closer and closer to my breasts with each brush. Houston, we have contact. Ben massages my left breast, keeping his eyes trained on the
Full House
spectacle of underage sirens. If he thinks he can use my body to fantasize about tabloid twins, he is sadly mistaken. Animal Planet, here we come.
“Babe, why’d you change it?” Ben moans.
“What? I thought you loved animals?”
“I do, but we were watching twins . . .”
“Listen, McPervy, now we’re watching San Francisco’s K-9 unit!”
So much for not rocking the boat.
“McPervy? Where is all this hostility coming from?”
“Hostility? I am
not
hostile! I am simply exercising my right to change the channel.”
“Well, you better be careful, or I will exercise my right to a new girlfriend.”
He’s kidding, right? I am not laughing. Tears. All down my face. Tears. Why am I crying over a joke?
“Babe, c’mon, I was kidding. I love you.”
I cannot think of an explanation suitable for the situation. Instead of even attempting to rationalize my behavior, I bury my splotchy face in his arms. Insecurities echo through my mind as I reflect on my growing fear of losing Ben. Sure, I am safe from the Olsen twins luring Ben away, but what about the masses of sexy women in Manhattan? They all seem to salivate at the thought of relaying an important message to Ben— that he can do better. It doesn’t help that Ben’s general demeanor is funny and charming. I want him to turn off the charm and stop flaunting himself all over town. His friendliness is an invitation for women to engage with him.
A few days later, Ben and I partake in some quick precaffeine sex before hitting our local Spring Street Starbucks. A woman with a pixie haircut and green doelike eyes approaches, focusing harder on Ben with each passing step. She presents a coy smile, which Ben happily reciprocates. Bitch. And I mean that about both of them. By the time we reach Starbucks, I am literally relieved to get him off the street.
“I’m going to wash my hands. Get me a triple-shot venti latte with skim milk.”
“You got it, babe.”
Five minutes is barely enough time for me to wash and dry my hands, let alone make a new friend. But not for Ben. I return to find him chatting with Coffee Slut #1 behind the counter. She appears to be around twenty-two, with porcelain skin, a size-four body, and golden locks to her shoulders. Even with a green apron and visor, she looks good. Her smile says, “I’m fun. Screw me.” As I approach, I hear her say, “Thanks, I will definitely e-mail you.” My heart pounds. I am on the verge of total organ failure. How can I live a normal life when the man of my dreams isn’t safe in Starbucks? Two feet from Ben, I breathe heavily to garner his attention. Ben winks at me, then continues talking to Coffee Slut #1. My boyfriend is leaving me for the girl with coffee grinds under her nails. My breathing intensifies. I must end their conversation. Now. I will feign fainting. It is a cheap move, but I am desperate. I close my eyes and collapse onto the floor without breaking any vital bones.
“Anna! Anna!”
I “awake” to Ben hovering over me saying my name with such concern that I feel guilty.
“Anna? Anna, are you okay?”
I am speechless with guilt.
Coffee Slut #1 approaches with a cup of water; as she hands it to me, she says the words that send the last rational thought out of my head.
“Is your sister okay?”
Of course. She assumes I am his sister. Ben was openly flirting with her in front of me. The rage of my youth returns with a thud, fully condensed and focused on Coffee Slut #1.
