Chapter 11

11

BEN

“Nice day, isn’t it?”

I’m in line at Starbucks the next day and this is my homework assignment: start a conversation with someone I don’t know and try to pretend they’re a friend. The man behind me is older than me, maybe forty-ish? Not intimidating at all, wearing a navy jacket, a neat golf shirt, and khakis. He gazes back at me from behind round glasses. “I guess.”

I smile, nod, and search for something else to say. “The weather, I mean.”

“That’s what I meant, too. Since it’s actually a shitty day.”

“Oh.” Not what I expected to hear. I blink and my head goes blank. Now what do I say? Sorry? Or do I turn around and pretend I didn’t hear that? That would be a failure. So, I say, “Why is it shitty?”

“My mom died this morning.”

Fuck me. I swallow. “Uh…” What do I say? What do I say? “Sorry.”

The guy pushes a finger up under his glasses to rub his eye.

Oh, shit. Is he crying? I stare at him in horror.

“She was only sixty,” he says in a choked voice.

I blow out a breath. “Oh, wow. I’m sorry.” Okay, I already said that. The line moves a bit and I take a step forward. I could turn my back on him. But… “Are you okay?”

“No,” he sobs. “It’s so unfair! She didn’t have to die.”

My chest tightens like a giant rubber band is wrapped around it. “I’m sorry.”

Jesus. Stop saying that.

He’s literally disintegrating in front of me. I glance around and see others watching us. It’s awkward as fuck. I don’t know what to say. “What killed her?”

Nooooooo.

“A vending machine.” He takes off his glasses and wipes his eyes, his face now radish red.

My mouth falls open. I gape at him.

“She put her money in and her Almond Joy wouldn’t come out. She was banging on the machine and then she and her friend tried to shake the machine and it tipped over and fell on them.”

I can’t… I just can’t.

He’s now full out sobbing. It’s my turn at the counter and I step forward and order my Americano. I turn to the man. “What would you like? Let me get it.”

“Oh. Uh.” He sniffles. “A vintage caramel mariachi. And a sausage McMuffin.”

I squint. Um… what? I turn and repeat it to the barista, cringing at how she’s going to react. But she just nods and asks for our names. “Ben and…” I turn to the guy.

He shakes his head and weeps into his hands.

The girl waves at me. “I got it.”

We step aside to wait for our orders. I grab some napkins and hand them to him. “Uh… here…”

“Sorry,” he sobs. “It was just so sudden.”

“Yeah. That is… unexpected.”

He’s crying loud enough to attract attention from others in the place. My worst nightmare. Everyone thinks we’re together and keeps looking at me. I don’t know how to tell them I don’t even know this guy. But this is all my fault for asking him about his shitty day. This is what happens when you talk to people! This is why I don’t do it!

Now I’m pissed at Mabel for making me do this. It’s fucking stupid and I’m trapped with a guy having a breakdown in Starbucks. Now I’ve started this conversation, I have to stick with him and make sure he’s okay.

“Ben!” My name is called and I step over to grab my coffee. I turn back to my new friend. He’s crying into a wad of napkins. “Uh, hey, are you gonna be okay?”

He shakes his head and blows his nose with a loud honk.

I hover beside him, not knowing what to say or do. I desperately want to high-tail it out of here. “Can I… call someone for you?”

He shakes his head again. “I don’t have any other family.”

Shit. “Did you live with your mom?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh. That’s… gonna be hard.” Fuck! I grind my back molars.

“Ben’s friend!”

It doesn’t sink in that that’s my buddy’s order until they’ve called it three times. Then I jump to the counter to get his drink and sandwich. I hand them to him, the cup labeled “Ben’s friend.” “Here you go, man.”

“Thanks. How much do I owe you?” He stuffs the soggy napkins in his jacket pocket.

“Don’t worry about it.” I take a breath. “I… look, I hope…” I never know what to say. Even when it’s something benign like “have a nice day.” What do I say to a man whose mom just died? I search for something and eventually come up with, “I’m sorry about your mom.” Again. “I hope she rests in peace.” Heat slides up into my face at my weak response.

He nods, his mouth turned down at the corners, but says, “Thanks. I appreciate that.”

What would I say if he was a teammate having a bad day? “You got this.” I sound confident. “You’re gonna be okay. It’s tough right now, yeah. But I have faith in you.” I give him a clap on the shoulder then leave the coffee shop. Outside, I hike down the sidewalk as if I’m being chased by all the people in that shop who witnessed my shame. I’m sweating and my skin is tingling under my arms and at the back of my neck.

Shit, shit, shit. All I had to do was make a little conversation with a stranger and I ended up causing him to completely melt down.

I turn into a parking lot and jump into my vehicle. I slam the door shut and sit there panting like I just did a bag skate. I barely walked a block but I guess it’s more from agitation than cardiovascular effort. I bang my head back against the headrest and close my eyes.

Is every attempt I make to hold a conversation with someone going to be a disaster like this? I want to blame Mabel, but that’s unreasonable. I asked her to help me. And I’m the one who pooched it.

Okay, okay. It can only get better, right? And I’m determined to do this. I need to treat this like I do when I fuck shit up on the ice. You can’t let that mess with your head, you have to let it go and move on. I can do that.

I get home and walk in on more drama.

“Why don’t you talk to him?” Smitty asks Mabel. They’re sitting in the living room, Mabel with her laptop in front of her.

“I don’t want to talk to him.”

I close the door and they both look up at me.

“Hey,” Mabel says.

Talk to who?

“He’s worried about you,” Smitty says to her, ignoring me.

“If he calls again, tell him I’m fine. That’s all he needs to know.”

“You two could have gone for counseling,” Smitty says. “Tried to work things out.”

Ah. They’re talking about her ex.

She purses her lips. “I don’t think so.”

Marek’s forehead creases. “Did he cheat on you?”

Her mouth drops open. “No!” Then she snaps it closed. “At least, I don’t think so.”

“Okay, good.”

I hate the way Mabel’s face is tight with discomfort. I know Marek’s trying to help, but I also know she’s not ready to talk about whatever happened. Weirdly, I want to go over to her and hold her.

“I had my reasons for leaving,” she says quietly. “Can we leave it at that for now?”

Marek frowns. “I just want you to be happy,” he finally says.

“I’m happier now than I was with Julian.”

It’s none of my business, but I find I really hate this Julian asshole. I turn to go down the hall to my room.

“Did you do your homework?” Mabel calls to me.

I stop, tensing. Slowly, I face her. “Oh, yeah. I did. And it was an epic clusterfuck.”

She gives me a wide-eyed look. “How could it be a disaster? All you had to do is talk to someone.”

I heave a sigh. “You’re dealing with me, remember? The king of awkward?”

She lets out a little laugh. “Oh, come on.”

“What did you do?” Smitty asks, not clued in about the assignment.

“I don’t even want to talk about it. Maybe later after a six pack of beer.” I’m only partly kidding.

I see the dismay on Mabel’s face.

In my room, I’m now distracted from my conversational fiasco by the discussion I walked in on. Mabel says Julian didn’t hurt her physically, but obviously something bad happened between them. That makes me want to put a fist through a wall. I replay our conversation the other day when she talked about cutting the connection and finding herself.

A soft knock on the door has my head turning. “Yeah?”

“Can we talk?” It’s Mabel.

“Sure.” I stride to the door and open it.

In front of me stands a cute white llama.

I can’t help it – I crack up, falling against the door frame.

Mabel lifts the llama head off and grins at me. “It worked.”

“You’re a nut.”

“I know.” She sighs, and her eyes flicker, but her smile beams again. “Come on. Tell me what happened. We’ll work on it.”

I nod with glum acceptance. “Okay.”

We go out and sit at the dining table and I relate what happened at Starbucks.

Mabel listens without judgment. Then she says, “So what was bad about that?”

I gape at her. “I made a man cry in Starbucks.”

Her forehead creases. “You didn’t make him cry. He cried because his mom died.”

I shake my head. “Because I asked him about his shitty day.”

She sits back in her chair, regarding me thoughtfully. “I don’t see it. Yes, he got upset. He didn’t have to say anything. And when he got upset, you ordered his coffee for him, stayed with him until he got control, and tried to encourage him.”

I open my mouth to protest. Then close it. Then open it again. “Well. When you put it that way…”

“See?”

“I felt like an idiot. Everyone in Starbucks was staring at us.”

She tilts her head and leans forward. “Is it possible they were more concerned about the other guy?”

I picture a light bulb over my head illuminating. I was worried about myself, about feeling stupid. I should have been concerned about the other guy. “Probably. Yeah.”

“You need to get out of your own head,” she says. “I know that’s easier said than done, but instead of worrying about how people are judging you, think of the person you’re talking to. And actually, I think you did. You wanted to make him feel better. You felt badly for upsetting him. You have a lot of empathy.” She smiles encouragingly.

“I think I get it,” I say slowly.

“It’s not bad,” she insists. “It’s something to work on. Instead of turning inward when you talk to someone, pay attention to the person you’re talking to.”

This makes sense in an uncomfortable way.

She beams at me. “I’m so proud of you.”

I stare at her. What just happened?

“Also, vending machines are twice as likely to kill you as a shark.” She nods wisely.

I stare at her for a beat, then burst out laughing. “Jesus, Mabel.”

“It’s true!” She laughs, too.

“Okay. I believe you.”

She grins. “Also, don’t think I’ve never said anything dumb. Being impulsive means I say whatever I think and that’s not always a good thing. I could use some of your restraint and keep my mouth shut sometimes.”

She does say some wacky shit.

“So, what we’ll work on next is preparing for your meeting at Keeping Kids Safe.”

“Okay.”

“It seems like it would be a good idea to think about what you want to say ahead of time.”

I nod. “Yeah. I’m not good at thinking on the spot.”

“So, let’s have a look at their website.” She slides her laptop over and turns it.

I shift my chair closer to hers so I can see the screen also.

Close enough to smell her unique scent. I’ve noticed it before, soft, warm, like summer flowers. She smells really good. I want to lean in and take a deep breath.

That would be creepy.

I want to do a lot more than sniff her. Her scent arouses me and makes me remember what she looks like in a sheer bra and panties. Makes me imagine taking her underwear off. Makes me wonder what her sleek ass cheeks would feel like in my hands.

I watch her fingers on her keyboard and track pad as she brings up the Keeping Kids Safe website. Her fingers are slender, her nails short with a pale pink glossy shine. She wears thin gold rings stacked on her ring and middle fingers of her right hand, and on her left hand a thicker gold twist on her index finger. Even her fingers are sexy.

Jesus. What is wrong with me?

I am becoming obsessed with thoughts of her, even when she’s not close enough for her scent to fire up my fantasies. I know I shouldn’t be thinking about her like this, but it’s impossible to resist her bright star quality, her soft mouth, her sweet charisma. She’s fucking beautiful.

Now I’m sitting here with a stiffy when I’m supposed to be focused on business.

“Why do you want to work with them?” she asks me about Keeping Kids Safe.

I flail around for an answer, trying to get my mind out of her panties and onto the task at hand. “Because management says I have to.”

She laughs. “Okay, you’re going to have to come up with something better than that.”

“Yeah, I know. I was kidding. Sort of. I like that they give kids who need it a voice. It seems like kids who are abused are afraid to speak up about it. And sometimes they aren’t heard when they do.” I read a terrible story about a girl whose father sexually assaulted her and when she tried to tell her mom, the mom didn’t believe her.

Mabel nods, her eyes downcast. Then she clears her throat. “Right. That’s good.”

“So maybe I can be a voice for them, too,” I say. “Maybe I have some influence. Maybe kids will listen to me. And adults, too.”

She nods again, then says, her voice low, “That’s perfect.”

She gives me a little pop quiz on the non-profit’s history and mission, then moves on.

“Small talk,” she says. “Let’s come up with some harmless things you can talk about before you get to the business stuff. If they ask about you, do you have a canned bio you give people?”

“Um… maybe?” I never thought of it that way, but yeah, I’ve been asked about myself in lots of interviews for various purposes. We polish that up a bit – where I grew up, where I played hockey, how I got into the NHL.

“What about family? If someone asks about your family.”

“I have two younger siblings,” I tell her. “My brother Owen and my sister Kerrigan.”

“How old are they?”

“Owen’s twenty, Kerrigan’s eighteen.”

“You’re quite a bit older than them.”

“Yeah.”

“And your parents? Did they support your hockey?”

“Yeah. My dad passed away when I was nineteen. He got to see me get drafted.”

“I’m sorry,” she says slowly. “You mentioned that he had passed away. I didn’t know that.”

I nod. “Thanks. It was a tough time.” I still miss him. “My mom’s supportive, too. Owen and Kerry both play hockey. Owen’s in college at Quinnipiac and Kerry’s a freshman at Princeton.”

“Wow. Elite hockey family.”

“It won’t be a professional thing for them. Well. You never know, I guess. But they’re pretty good. They’re actually coming to visit me on Friday.”

“Oh, cool. Okay. What are some questions you could ask other people to make conversation?”

“Oh, Jesus.” I shove a hand into my hair. “Uh…”

“You could ask how long they’ve been working there. At Keeping Kids Safe.”

“Yeah! That’s good.”

“And how they got into that kind of work.”

I nod.

“If they’re from New York originally. If not, when did they move here and why.”

“Those are good.” I don’t know why I don’t think of stuff like that.

“And as they answer you might have other questions, like where they went to college, or their family. When you end the meeting, you can ask about weekend plans, or their evening.”

We talk about other small talk ideas and I try to file away all these things in my brain.

“Remember.” She meets my eyes, smiling. “It’s not about you.”

Her smile and gentle tone take any offense out of the words. In fact, her smile is so captivating I have a hard time looking away.

“Right.” I never want it to be about me. So why is it about me and my comfort level in my head? Something to think about.

I arrive at Keeping Kids Safe in Jersey City a little early. It’s not really that far from the condo, about a twenty-five-minute drive. I park on the street and study the narrow, three-story row house that is apparently their office. This street is somewhat run-down, but the Keeping Kids Safe building is neat and tidy, painted a dark blue with a bright white door with a bare tree in front.

I pull out my phone and quickly review the notes I made with Mabel. I know more about this organization now, including its history and structure and mission statement: to restore the health and wellbeing of those affected by child abuse through a coordinated community response.

I like it.

Child abuse is not something I want to think about. In fact, it makes me a little sick, but at least I’m doing something to help.

I open the door and walk in. Two women look up and smile at me.

“Hi!” the older one greets me, her smile bright white against dark brown skin. Her box braids are twisted into a bun on top of her head. She straightens and moves toward me with her hand extended. “You’re Ben Antonov. I’m Sue Milner. It’s so nice to meet you!”

I shake her hand, smiling back. “Nice to meet you, too.”

“This is Maya Pérez, our Manager of Communications. She’s joining us today and will be working with the communications team at the Storm on messaging and social media.”

“Great.” I shake Maya’s hand, too. “Nice to meet you.”

“Come on into my office. Can I get you a coffee? Water?”

“No thanks, I’m good.”

She leads me to the back of the obviously remodeled house to what was at one time a bedroom. The office furniture isn’t modern and high-end like at the Storm offices; her desk an old wooden one, the chairs well worn. I take this as a good sign that the money they raise goes more to helping kids than decorating their office.

“How is your day going?” I ask her, proud of myself for remembering Mabel’s tip.

We make small talk and for once I’m prepared. I feel a little like I’m in a job interview, but I’ve already thought about these things and manage to put words together. “All kids need a voice. I have a lot to learn about your organization and what some of these kids are going through, but I hope that my voice can be one that resonates for them. I think what you’re doing here is very important and I’m eager to help how I can.”

Sue and Maya talk about a plan for announcing that I’ll be an ambassador for the organization, someone to raise awareness about the prevalence of child abuse in New Jersey and draw attention to their initiatives. They tell me about the new Keeping Kids Safe Center they’ll be moving to this summer and how they’d like me to be part of that. “With huge thanks to the New Jersey Storm organization for their financial support,” she adds.

When Sue talks about the kids and helping them, I’m struck by her passion. “When children experience abuse, they become involved in a lot of different systems – the justice system, child protection services, possibly the healthcare system, and prosecutions. Those can all be very difficult for kids to deal with. And those systems are important. But systems don’t heal kids or families. When a child has been hurt, our first priority should be restoring what has been taken from them so they can thrive.”

Her dedication is infectious, and I find myself motivated and eager to get involved.

“Let’s take a tour of the offices and I’ll introduce you around,” Sue says.

The first employee I meet is Rocky. He’s blond and handsome and has four legs. I crouch down to greet him and rub his head.

“Rocky’s our helping hound,” Sue says. “He helps comfort children and families who come here. It’s really good for their stress levels to pet a dog. Sometimes he joins in meetings or stays with kids during interviews.”

“I love that.” I rub his ears. “You must be a good boy, Rocky.”

“He’s the best boy. He also comforts us .” Sue smiles wryly. “I’m sure you can imagine that it’s stressful for us, at times, too.”

“Oh, yeah.” I grin at Rocky, who smiles a big golden lab smile back at me.

They show me around their offices and introduce me to a lot of people whose names I won’t remember – a couple of other managers, and a few case navigators and forensic interviewers.

“Most of our case workers and interviewers are out,” Sue explains. “They often meet with kids where they are: at home, school, sometimes hospital.”

Ugh. I don’t like that. And I can’t imagine interviewing kids who’ve been hurt.

“But you’ll probably get to know some of them as you work more with us. And you’ll meet some of our team who aren’t here every day, like Dr. Saleem, who is an instructor at Princeton.”

“My sister goes to Princeton,” I say with a smile and not a little pride.

“Oh, wow, good for her.” Sue smiles. “Well, should we schedule another meeting and talk more about your role?”

“Yeah.” I nod emphatically. “I’d like that.”

When I leave their offices and climb into my vehicle, I sit there for a minute. Okay, that went better than I expected. Thanks to Mabel, I was prepared with the ideas that we brainstormed together, ready for Sue’s questions, and I even managed a little casual conversation. And I’m surprisingly enthusiastic about my next meeting.