7. Benji

BENJI

From the jukebox in the corner, Darlene Love was belting out her yesteryear Yuletide hit “ Christmas (Baby Please Come Home) ” as Aunt Bea plonked a carton of eggnog and an armful of bottles on the bar. It was mid-afternoon and the usual crowd hadn’t yet shuffled into Bea’s Barnyard Bar yet, giving Connie and I Bea’s undivided attention.

“Okay, my gorgeous guinea pigs, Gage left me his cocktail recipe book before hightailing it to Washington DC, and I know I put it down here somewhere, but I’ll be damned if I can find it. So today you’re getting Aunt Bea’s special sumpin-sumpin eggnog. Any complaints?”

“I guess not,” I said.

Connie lit up. “Hell no.”

“Correct answer,” Bea agreed. She pulled up two sizeable cocktail glasses for Connie and me, then added a third for herself. “Okay, first of all, we pour the store-bought mix of eggnog.”

A question ran through my head, then out of my mouth. “When you say store-bought, which store exactly is that from?”

“ Raven’s General Store , of course. I always shop local.”

“Have you checked the use-by date on that?”

Bea squinted as she turned the carton in her hands, then made an “Oh!” face. “Well, we’ll just have to add enough alcohol to kill a sick horse. Any complaints?”

“Maybe,” I replied worriedly.

“Hell no!” Connie exclaimed.

I shook my head. “I don’t know. Pouring that eggnog into a glass then topping it up with copious amounts of alcohol feels like a bad decision.”

Bea saw the concerned look on my face. “Oh, honey-child, there’s nothing to worry about. Like my Grammy used to say—there’s only three bad decisions that can truly kill a person: choosing an untrustworthy ladder that breaks your neck, choosing an untrustworthy woman who breaks your piggybank, or choosing an untrustworthy man who breaks your heart. The rest is just bad luck or bad timing.”

The thought of Bastian flashed through my head and I realized I was already on my second life. “Pour away!” I said.

“That’s the spirit!” Bea splashed the contents of the carton into the three cocktail glasses. “Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble. Now to add a splash of whiskey because let’s face it, whiskey makes everything better, right?”

“Right,” Connie nodded, agreeing way too quickly.

“Then a dash of brandy and a drizzle of bourbon.”

I tried to fight my anxiety. “I think that was a dash more than a dash and a drizzle more than a drizzle.”

Aunt Bea obviously didn’t hear me and kept mixing. “A tiny plonk of Baileys from Ireland.”

“That wasn’t just a tiny plonk.”

“A little dribble of Drambuie from Scotland, a sprinkle of Amarula from Africa, a spritz of Kahlua from Mexico, and I give you…” From across the bar, Bea slid us each a glass full to the brim… “Aunt Bea’s special sumpin-sumpin Christmas eggnog.”

“Oh my God, it looks amazing!” said a wide-eyed Connie.

I paused nervously. “Isn’t it supposed to have nutmeg? Or cinnamon? Or something on top?”

“You’re absolutely right!” From under the bar, Bea produced three little cocktail umbrellas and popped them into our glasses. “Perfection! Now drink up, my sweets, and happy Christmas!”

We each took a gulp of our boozy, swoozy, out-of-date eggnog and gasped at the alcohol content.

“Oh wow!” I wheezed.

“I think all my chakras just aligned,” Connie spluttered, wiping a tear from her eye.

“Happy birthday baby Jesus!” exclaimed Bea. “Who needs frankincense and myrrh when you’ve got this?”

“I think frankincense and myrrh are used mostly for medicinal purposes,” I said, sounding like the nerd I was.

“Honey-child, do you honestly believe there’s any ailment in the world that Aunt Bea’s special sumpin-sumpin eggnog wouldn’t cure?”

“Does it cure broken hearts?” I pouted.

Connie squeezed my shoulder. “Cuz, given the alcohol content in these glasses, I would say that’s exactly what this drink is made for. At least until the hangover hits.”

“Oh my God, hangovers are so tedious I decided to stop having them,” announced Bea.

“How?”

“Easy. A Bloody Mary for breakfast, a stiff gin for lunch, and eggplant for dinner. And I’m not talking about the kind you make moussaka with.”

“Unfortunately, my little Cuz here hasn’t had any eggplant for quite some time,” said Connie, her voice drenched in mock pity before taking another sip of her drink.

“Do I need another reminder? Okay, so I admit it, my love life sucks.”

“Oh, my little gray raincloud,” said Bea. “Let’s face it, your love life doesn’t just suck. It’s non-existent.”

“Thanks to you know who,” Connie piped up. “But we’re about to teach him a lesson, ain’t that so Cuz.”

“Are we?” I asked flatly before slurping down some more sumpin-sumpin. “After today we might as well face it, Connie. Our cunning plan seems as dead as my love life. It would appear that not only am I a complete failure at keeping a real boyfriend, I can’t even find myself a fake boyfriend!”

“Woah, woah, woah,” said Bea, holding up both bejeweled hands. “Did I just hear the words ‘fake boyfriend?’”

Connie and I nodded, straws pursed between our lips.

“Good Lord above, my mischievous children. How could you possibly concoct such a sinister scheme… and not consult your Aunty Bea?! Tell me all the juicy details immediately. What’s the backstory for this romantic ruse? Is he a billionaire playboy? A rodeo cowboy? A prince from one of those tiny European kingdoms where they still put people in those wooden stocks and throw squishy tomatoes at them? Does anyone else find that strangely erotic? No? I’ll keep asking questions then. Does this fake boyfriend have a hairy chest or does he wax? Does he have commitment issues or is he about to get down on one knee and pop the question? Because God knows Mulligan’s Mill could use a big fat gay wedding, let me tell ya. But most importantly, what gullible goof has agreed to play this leading man?”

“That’s the problem. Nobody,” I said. “I can’t think of anyone who could sway Bastian into believing that I was in a real relationship.”

“Why not?”

“Because he knows just about everyone in town. And he knows I wouldn’t fall for them, not like I fell for him.”

“Well, who lives in town that he doesn’t know?” Bea asked. “He left three years ago, right?”

I nodded.

“Then all you need to do is find a guy who’s moved here since he left. He can’t possibly judge someone he doesn’t know.”

I threw my hands up. “That’s the problem. Mulligan’s Mill isn’t exactly the fastest growing economy in the country. There’s just not that many people who move here… except…” I eyed Bea with one eyebrow hitched, remembering the time she first arrived in Mulligan’s Mill a year or so ago, knocking on the door to the BnB with nothing but a tattered suitcase in one hand, her makeup running and her shivering shoulders wrapped in a shabby faux fur shawl. I took her in, warmed her up in front of the fire, and ever since then we’d been more than just friends… we were family.

As this movie reel played in my head, Bea eyed me back across the bar, her eyes narrow with suspicion. “Except who?”

I grinned. “Except you.”

Bea spluttered into her sumpin-sumpin with so much force an eggnog bubble bulged out of one nostril. Swiftly she popped it and indignantly wiped it away. “Oh, this was fun for a while but… NO! No, no, no, no, no! This diva is nobody’s fake boyfriend, are we clear?”

“Oh, come on, Bea,” I said. “You’re the perfect person to do this. You arrived in Mulligan’s Mill long after he left so he has no idea who you are, not to mention you’ve been listening to me groan and gripe about Bastian since the day you came to town, which means you won’t fall for his charms, and to top it all off, you know me well enough to bluff your way through any questions from my family.”

“Wait. What? Questions from your family? You’re expecting someone to perform this facade in front of your entire family?”

“That’s the whole point,” Connie said. “To show Bastian, and everyone else, what a dick he was to leave my baby Cuz in the first place. Humble pie might not be on the menu, but that’s what we’re serving Bastian. He needs to know just how sexy this man is.”

My cousin winked at me and gave me a quick nipple gripple.

I flinched on my bar stool. “Ouch.”

Bea squirmed uncomfortably opposite us. “If I needed any convincing not to get involved in this madcap scheme of yours, the kissing-cousins vibe between the two of you probably would have done the trick. But the fact is, I don’t need any convincing at all. Benji, I am not your billionaire playboy or rodeo cowboy or faraway prince. Why? Because I’m a princess! Is the tiara not a big enough giveaway for you?”

“I know, I know. You’re magnificent. You’re amazing. You’re you .”

“You left out divine.” Bea slurped her drink. “And glamorous. And sickeningly gorgeous.”

“Those things too. But do you think you could pretend to be my fake boyfriend for just one lunch?”

“Two lunches,” Connie interjected. “Bastian’s going to be at the house for Christmas Eve lunch and Christmas Day lunch.”

Bea shook her head vehemently. “Benji, my sweet delicate deluded child. I am many things to you. I’m your friend. I’m your ice-cream confidant. I’m your gay Mama when you need me to be. But one thing I will never be, is your fake—”

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

I pulled it out, and everything inside me sank with dread when I saw his name on the screen. “Oh fuck. It’s Bastian.”

“Hang up.” Aunt Bea said firmly. “Ignore it. Send it to voicemail. Throw your phone across the room if you have to. But do not answer that call. We haven’t finished discussing—”

Before Bea could end her sentence, Connie reached over and with a “Boop!” she tapped her finger to the phone and answered the call.

Aunt Bea and I both gasped while Connie just gave a wicked giggle and whispered, “Buddha made me do it. He hates Christmas.”

From the phone in my hand, we all heard his voice. “Benji? Are you there? Hello?”

While Connie made frantic hand gestures for me to talk, Bea made frantic hand gestures for me to hang up. I didn’t know what to do, I panicked, and suddenly I heard myself say—“Hey… you.”

There was a brief pause. “Hi. Um… how are you?”

I paused too. “Um. Fine. How are you?”

This wasn’t awkward at all.

“I’m okay. I’m at your parents’ house. I’m sitting in your old room, actually.”

“That’s… nice.”

“Where are you? I can hear music in the background.”

Darlene Love’s song had finished and The Jackson 5’s “ Santa Claus is Coming to Town ” was on the jukebox.

“Um, yeah. I’m at a bar.”

“Oh, that’s cool.”

Maybe it was the sumpin-sumpin kicking in, maybe it was Connie and Bea who were both flapping their hands trying to communicate something completely indecipherable, or maybe I was simply ready to stop playing the victim and take control of the situation, but before I could stop myself I said, “Yeah, I’m at a bar. With my new boyfriend, if you must know.”

There was another moment of silence over the phone before Bastian said, quite unconvincingly, “Oh. That’s… great. You’ve got a new boyfriend? That’s really… that’s great news. Do I know him? What’s his name?”

Beside me, Connie was cheering in silence.

Across the bar, Bea was making a cut-throat gesture, running her thumb across her neck while her bugging eyes screamed at me, “Don’t you dare!”

“His name’s Aunt B—” Suddenly I realized my fake boyfriend would need a new name. “I mean… Abe. His name’s Abe. You know, like the president. You know Abe Lincoln?”

“Not personally.”

Okay, that was a stupid question, but I didn’t need a sarcastic answer. It egged me on, with the help of another glug of eggnog. “Well, you don’t know this Abe personally either. You’ve never met him before. He moved to town after you destroyed our dreams and turned your back on everything we had. Remember that?”

Bastian’s voice became demure. “Benji, I’m—”

“Don’t bother telling me your sorry because I don’t care anymore. My honest Abe would never screw me over. Not to mention he’s smart and funny and just fucking fabulous. Hell, his personality practically glitters.”

“He sounds… wonderful. Maybe I could meet him while I’m in town?” It came out like a question. “If it’s okay with you. I mean, I’d love to meet the person who makes you happy. I’d love to see you happy again, Benji.”

There was a softness, a sincerity in his voice that almost made me want him back all over again. But I came to my senses quickly, my need to turn the tables greater than my desire to relight any flame Bastian and I had once shared. No, he’d snuffed that fire out long ago. “Oh, you’ll get to meet him all right.”

Bea made a grab for the phone, but I leaned back on my barstool just out of reach.

“He’s coming to Christmas Eve lunch.”

“He is?” Bastian asked.

Bea kicked off her heels and climbed onto the bar.

“And Christmas Day lunch.”

“Oh, great!”

I teetered on the stool as Bea lunged at me.

“And what about dinner tonight?” Bastian asked. “I’m having dinner with your parents. I’d love to meet him then.”

Bea grabbed my reindeer sweater, her long sparkling nails like talons as she toppled me off the stool, the two of us crashing to the floor. “Sure, that sounds great,” I wheezed.

That’s when Bea seized the phone, and in the deepest, manliest voice I’d ever heard she said, “Sounds great, but I can’t.”

I froze.

Sitting on her stool above us, Connie’s jaw dropped and her eyes lit up excitedly at the thought of Bea taking on the role we so desperately wanted her to perform.

Bastian went silent again for a moment, then from the phone clutched in Bea’s claw I heard him ask, “Abe? Is that you?”

“This is she. I mean, he. Who’s asking?”

“Ah, my name’s Bastian. I’m Benji’s… we used to be… we have history.”

“Well, he’s got a future with me now.”

“I know, that sounds amazing. You sound amazing. If you’re free for dinner tonight I’d—”

“I can’t,” Bea cut him off gruffly. “I’m working. No chance in hell it’s gonna happen.”

“Oh. Um. That’s totally understandable, it was short notice.”

I snatched back the phone. “But he’s still coming on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. And I’ll be there tonight. I’d love to tell you all about my darling Abe.”

“Awesome,” Bastian said. “I’m looking forward to it. Maybe you can show me some photos of him.”

“Photos?” My drunken confidence wavered. “Photos of Abe? Sure. I’ve got tons.”

“Great. I’ll see you tonight.”

Bea tried to grab the phone back, but before she could snatch it off me once more, I held it high and shouted, “See you then,” before hanging up the call.

Bea gasped at me. “Photos? Photos! You want to show him photos? Oh Benjamin Larson, you naughty nymph. What have you got us into?”

I shrugged and gave an eggnog-induced giggle. “Should we have another drink? I feel like we need another drink.”

“Why do you have these in your closet?” Connie pulled two thick-layered flannel shirts out of the freestanding closet in Bea’s boudoir, her private loft located above the bar.

Ten minutes earlier, Aunt Bea had called River Raven and asked him to cover for her while she tended to a most urgent matter. River had done his fair share of bartending on his travels across the country, and while Mike’s Mechanic Shop was closed for the holiday season and Gage was away in Washington DC, River had been stepping in to cover the odd shift.

The moment he arrived, Bea grabbed me by one hand and Connie by the other and dragged us up the stairs to her boudoir. “Come, my wicked little Elves. You just went straight to the top of this year’s naughty list.”

Inside her boudoir, Bea plonked Connie and I down on her bed and waved a finger at us. “What kind of mess have you two got us into? Me, a fake boyfriend? We’ll never get away with it.”

“But you loved the idea of a fake boyfriend when it was all about billionaire playboys and rodeo cowboys and princes with squishy tomatoes being thrown at them,” Connie said.

“That was before that fake boyfriend was me! ”

“But Bea, I need you,” I pleaded. “I need you to be the man Bastian wasn’t. I need you to be the perfect boyfriend. I need to prove to him that I don’t need him anymore.”

Bea took my hand. “Precious child, is that something you need to prove to him… or to yourself?”

I blinked as his question sank in. “Both, I guess.”

“And what happens if our little performance tanks? What happens if the critics tear us to shreds and the audience laughs us off the stage? What do we do if Bastian sees right through our fake romance? What do we do if your family figures out it’s me?”

“They won’t. Nobody will. Everyone is so used to your glitter and glamor, that if we dress you up as a man, nobody will even recognize you. It’ll be like a disguise.”

This time it was Bea who pondered my words. “A disguise, you say. I suppose you’re right. Ironically, when I first started dressing up in drag, I used to think the sequins and makeup were a facade, a mask to hide who I was. Then one day I realized, all along the real disguise was being worn by that scared little kid growing up in boys’ clothing. It wasn’t until I put on my first Halston halter neck and Tiffany earrings that I finally dropped the disguise… and started being me.”

“You have Tiffany earrings?” Connie asked, somewhat impressed.

“Lord, no. Everything I wear is a knock-off from Breakfast at Stiffany’s . But I’m yet to meet a man who can tell the difference. Although I suppose I’ll have to hang up the earrings and stilettos if you’re begging me to go all butch for you.”

Connie and I drew a breath of hope. “So, you’ll do it?” we asked in unison.

Bea huffed. Then pressed a finger to her puckered lips as though pondering her options. Then turned her head toward the nearest lamp as though looking for her spotlight. “Very well. I shall agree to play the hero in this shady fairytale of yours. I’ll even pose for a few photos as ‘Abe’ to try and make this scam as convincing as possible. But be warned, if any of this gets leaked, the pair of you will rue the day you ever concocted this preposterous plot. Are we clear?”

“Clear as a Christmas bell,” I grinned with glee. “Now it’s time to dress you down and nix the glitz.”

Bea crossed herself. “Lord forgive us for what we’re about to do.”

Connie, meanwhile, had already opened the door to Bea’s closet and was pushing aside one sequined gown after another. That was when she found the two flannel shirts. She spun about, holding them up. “Why do you have these in your closet? Is there something you’re not telling us? Do you lead a secret life as a lumberjack?”

“Heavens, no!” Bea straightened herself and confessed in a rather guarded tone, “If you must know, those belong to my gentleman caller.”

“You have a gentleman caller?” I asked. “How do I not know about this?”

“Because we try to keep our relationship as discreet as possible, although in a town like Mulligan’s Mill, secrecy is a scarce commodity. I am, however, determined to keep my part-time lover an enigma for as long as possible, so don’t even bother asking me his identity. I’d advise you not to begin a guessing game either, because I refuse to play along. Besides, we have far too much work to do transforming me into ‘Abe’. Speaking of which, my mystery Romeo also keeps a pair of jeans in that bottom drawer over there. He’s not quite as tall as me when I’m all glammed up, but without these six-inch heels, he and I are about the same height. If you want me to dress like an Abe, we pretty much have the costume all stitched up.”

“Oh Bea,” I sighed happily. “Have I ever told you how much I love you?”

“Oh honey-pie, making up for this is gonna take more than just your love. You’re gonna have to bump up Clarry’s delivery service to twice a week. At least.”

“Deal.”