Totally and Completely Fine(82)

“Every time I think I’ve figured you out, you surprise me.”

I wondered what else about me surprised him.

“I’ve got layers,” I said. “Like an artichoke.”

“Isn’t it supposed to be like an onion?”

I shrugged. “Who peels an onion like that? You chop it. An artichoke, though, you have to get through a bunch of spikey leaves to reach the delicious center. And then you dip it in butter.” I sighed. “Mmmm, butter.”

“Always salted,” Ben said.

“Always,” I said.

“If I’ve learned anything about cooking it’s that.”

“The golden rule.”

“What about after high school?” Ben popped a cherry tomato into his mouth. “Did you sleep around in college too?”

“Never went,” I said. “Spencer dropped out after his first year, and we got married pretty young. He worked at the hardware store, and I worked at the supermarket.”

“Until the Cozy.”

“Until the Cozy,” I said. “Gabe also paid for Spencer to go back to school, which he’d always wanted to do.”

“What about you?” Ben asked. “Did you ever want to go back to school?”

“I wasn’t a great student,” I said. “I pretty much only graduated because Spencer tutored me in math.”

“Yet you taught yourself how to cook and knit,” Ben said. “You clearly like to learn.”

I’d never thought about it that way.

“Have you ever thought about living outside of Cooper?”

Had we? Thinking back on it, I probably just assumed we’d always stay in Cooper.

“It was never really part of the conversation, especially after we had Lena,” I said. “And Spencer would have never moved too far from his mother.”

Ben tapped his pec, where I knew his Mom tattoo was.

“Mama’s boys,” he said. “I know a little about that.”

I smiled into my glass.

“What about cooking school?” he asked. “How did you learn?”

“My cooking school was the library,” I said. “And lots and lots of mistakes.”

“A self-taught chef.” Ben leaned back. “That’s quite impressive.”

I shrugged. “You’ve never tasted my food,” I said. “For all you know, I’m terrible.”

“I don’t think there’s a single thing you could be terrible at,” Ben said.

His tone was suggestive. His eyes too.

I was about to make a suggestive comment of my own, when the sound of glass breaking startled both of us.

I turned to find that one of the servers had dropped an entire bottle onto the floor, where it shattered, and the smell of sweet white wine filled the restaurant. The waitress was mortified, and almost looked like she was going to start crying.

“Poor girl,” I said, before glancing back at Ben.

He was pale.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

He didn’t respond, just waved Suzanne over. I could see the tension in his jaw, like he was grinding his back teeth together.

“I am so sorry about that,” our waitress said.

“Do you think we could be moved to another table?” Ben asked. “At the other side of the restaurant?”

“Of course,” she said, and gestured to an empty spot along the wall.

We picked up our drinks and moved. The smell of wine was far less intense over here, and I saw Ben relax. A little.

“Are you okay?” I asked again when our food was placed in front of us.

For someone who had been so eager to hear about the quality of the catfish, he hadn’t even picked up his fork. He still looked stricken, the color not yet fully returned to his face.

“Sorry,” he said, blinking.

“You must really hate white wine,” I said.

It was meant to be a joke, but Ben pressed his lips together, wariness in his gaze.

“I really do,” he said.

I waited, wondering if he was going to say more, but he didn’t.

We ate. The meal was quiet, but not awkward. I wanted to know what was going through his head, but I didn’t mind the silence.

It wasn’t until the dessert menu was brought over that Ben spoke.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just…” He shook his head and offered a self-deprecating smile. “Remember how I told you I drank an entire bottle of wine the night before my mother’s funeral?”

I nodded.

“It was white wine,” he said.

“Makes sense that you can’t stand the stuff,” I said. “I ate a bad tuna melt once and it took me years to try one again.”

“It’s not just that,” Ben said. He took a deep breath, let it out. “The reason I had that white wine in the first place was because that’s what my mother drank.”

“Oh,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “She’d averaged about a bottle a day—our pantry was full of the stuff.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I know a little something about what it’s like to love an addict.”

Ben nodded. “I admire Gabe,” he said. “It’s no small feat that he’s been sober for as long as he has. My mother could only handle it for a week or so, and then she’d be back at the liquor store. There wouldn’t be any money to fix the AC or get me a new pair of pants, but there was always enough for another bottle.”