Can't Turn Back Now, I'm Haunted (A Ben Willbond Rom Com)

Chapter Eleven | One-Tenth of My Honor

"Maggie, can I ask you a question?"

Ben didn't look up, his eyes glued to the laptop sitting on his knees.

"What?" I asked, my eyes wide and my heart hammering. "What, does something not make sense?"

"It's not that," he said patiently, keeping his gaze fixed on the screen but raising one eyebrow. "It's just that I'm wondering if there's any particular reason you keep walking into the kitchen, huffing, and then walking back to stand directly over me?"

"I am not!" I scoffed — but, of course, I was. He was reading my screenplay — the screenplay I pored over whenever I got time alone, the story that I'd grown so immensely attached to over the past six months, with characters that felt like my very best friends at this point and jokes that had never seen the light of day — except once, when Jason had speed-read them in his trailer on a lunch break during the filming of Taylor Made and promptly told me he thought I should scrap the bisexual female best friend character and put in a "sassy gay guy best friend because they're funnier".

Needless to say, I was a basket case.

I paced back and forth, chewing my thumbnail. Finally, after what felt like hours, he put the laptop on the coffee table, took his glasses off of his nose, leaned on his knees, and looked up at me with a slow smile.

"Well?" I asked, simultaneously dreading the answer and needing it more than anything. "You hate it. Do you hate it?"

He laughed and shook his head.

"It's really, really good, Maggie."

"But not funny," I said immediately, my inner anxieties racing out faster than my graciousness or good manners could. "You didn't laugh. Is it not funny?"

"It's very funny," he chuckled.

"So why didn't you laugh??"

"Because," he said with an incredulous grin. "I am not used to consuming comedy while being watched by a spinning Tasmanian Devil, now will you please sit down and relax?"

He stood and walked into the kitchen, taking a bottle of white wine from the fridge and pouring both of us a glass.

"Never tell a woman to relax, Benjamin," I said in mock-dangerous tones — but I took his advice and fell down onto the sofa with a mighty sigh. "So... you liked it?"

He walked back to the couch and handed me a glass before sitting down.

"I loved it," he beamed. "Genuinely. I knew it was gonna be good. I mean I could tell on set — you're smart, you're funny, you understand story, you have brilliant ideas — but it's better than good. It's genuinely something that could go."

I broke into a relieved smile as I could feel muscles release in my body that I hadn't even realized I was holding. Better than good. I barely dared enjoy the compliment, just in case I'd heard him wrong. Ben was somebody whose opinion genuinely mattered to me — not just because of his experience and skills, but also, I realized, because I had begun to seriously value what he thought of me personally.

"Thank you," I said, taking a grateful sip of wine. "Ok, now I'm a little embarrassed about being so weird about it — but I haven't shown it to anyone other than Jason!"

"I get it, I get it!" He put his hand reassuringly on my ankle. "I get nervous showing people my scripts and I've been doing this for decades."

We shared a smile.

"Now," he said cautiously. "...Would you be open to one or two notes?"

"Oh my god, you hate it." I threw my hands up and made to get up off of the couch, but he gently wrestled me back down as both of us laughed.