At twenty-seven, YouTube sensation Ben Leonards is married to his work. If he's not whipping up lasagna with a side of science experiments, he's running statistical analysis of bitcoin during explosive behavior periods.
When a friend asks him to org...
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I can put the stand on the floor, but that would be weird. Why did I even buy this thing? And how can eclairs make someone...stop talking. And it was not a good kind of silence when you love what you see. Ben's face went blank, and the smile he greeted me with at the door disappeared. The colorful tiny eclairs are the puppies of dessert and I was expecting an "Ah" and would've settled for "Cute," but not this.
The phone in his pocket beeps. Ben stands up, walks around the island, takes the cooked pizzas out, and puts new ones in. My fingers holding on to the metal frame are hurting. The floor it is then. I move to put the heavy thing down when the doorbell rings. Ben grabs his phone and does not head towards the door. Maybe he has a camera on the phone, and he can see who's there? A delivery man? I start lowering the metal frame to the floor. The doorbell rings again. Ben ignores it like he's been ignoring me for the past several minutes. Maybe he's too deep in his head and didn't hear it? I better go check.
"I'll get it," I shout, hoping my voice cuts through whatever is running through his head.
"Great." I startle at his response, but he does not look at me. Instead, he turns away and exits the kitchen through the door that I suspect leads to the garage.
I huff. I reposition the metal frame in my fingers, so it pinches a little less as I walk to the entryway and tug the door open, trying not to drop the plates that are still under my armpit.
"I didn't know what else to get for the ba—" Linda looks up from her phone, and a white cardboard box in her hand freezes in front of my face.
Linda wasn't on the guestlist. She's not Angie's friend. She's...What is she doing here?
"I thought you are Ben. I'm Linda, Ben's girlfriend, and you are?" She does not recognize me.
"Am."
I look at her smiling face, and she's as pretty as she was five years ago. The crisp white dress she's wearing gives her an air of sophistication and accentuates her small waist. Her green eyes are friendly and expectant. I take a couple of steps back to let her through, and the metal frame chooses this time to slip out of my hand and fall on the tile floor with a loud clang.
I pick it up and close the door Linda left open.
"Are you with catering? Can you do something with these cupcakes?" Linda offers me the box.
Is she for real? Because I'm wearing a white top and a black skirt? Because I opened the door? Why can't I be one of the guests? But I take the box with the arm that continues to squeeze the three plates for the tiers.
"Where's Ben?" She picks up one of the party favors and peeks into the bag. " Where's Mr. Leonards?" She asks when I don't reply.
"The garage, I think."
"Oh." Linda puts the party favor bag back and sits down on the couch facing the yard, her legs—an artful display of tan skin and robin-egg sandals. She types away on her phone, dismissing me with her silence.
