Fic: Unity (3b/?)
Title: Unity (3b/?)
Pairing: Ben/Leslie
Word Count: 3400 (this part)
Rating: PG (this part)
Setting: Somewhere around “Meet ‘n’ Greet.”
Summary: Loosely, this is series of moments that make up Leslie’s ideas for the unity quilt. Somewhere along the way it’s morphed into a lot more.
A/n: So tonight I learned the very important lesson that I am more than capable of revising my writing in a car with a soundtrack of the 60s greatest hits. In other words, I am forever grateful that I don’t get carsick. Thank you so much to everyone who left feedback on the last chapter. I greatly appreciate the fact that you guys are sticking with this story despite the drastic turn it’s taken from the original premise.
Part One Part Two Part Three(a)
The day after her cousin’s wedding, Leslie wakes up with an emotional hangover. It’s the kind of exhaustion she can feel down to her bones, that leftover weariness that comes from crying out her emotions and still not feeling any better. It’s a rare morning that she’d rather roll over and go back to sleep than face the world, and it takes effort to remind herself that hiding doesn’t solve any of her problems.
Still, when Ann mistakes her distress for an actual hangover, wordlessly offering her a couple of aspirin and some water, she takes it. Considering she’s going to her mom’s for dinner later, it feels somewhat like a preemptive strike.
“You left your phone in the bathroom,” says Ann, tossing the offending object onto the bedspread. Somehow she manages a look that’s simultaneously sympathetic and suspicious, but there’s only concern in her voice when she adds, “I think maybe you should delete that picture.”
Leslie nods, hoping the queasy feeling in her stomach isn’t written on her face or, if it is, that Ann takes it as a sign of an actual hangover. Excuses, explanations, and halfhearted agreement all war on the tip of her tongue, but she finds herself unable to commit to any of them. Rare as silence is between them, though, particularly on Leslie’s side of the conversation, Ann seems unperturbed by the lack of response. Whether she’s consciously choosing not to push the matter or taking Leslie at face value, it doesn’t particularly matter; when she downs some aspirin and heads back to the bathroom without admonishment, Leslie’s overwhelmingly grateful.
She doesn’t look at the picture again. But she also doesn’t delete it.
*****
The drive back to Pawnee makes a significant dent in wearing away her initial bad mood. It helps that she isn’t one to cling to unpleasant feelings. Even if they linger beneath the surface, never quite dissipating, she latches onto the better moments in her day with her usual gusto. The continental breakfast is subpar-there’s no whipped cream in sight-but Ann volunteers to drive back and they spend most of the trip singing along to the radio. The songs are punctuated by Leslie’s insistence they play the license plate game, even if the most exotic one they see is Missouri; Ann even listens to her detailed list of the best state plates and agrees that it’s hard to top Hawaii’s. Leslie thinks she might be humoring her a little (her ready agreement about Hawaii is stifled by the fact that she can’t pinpoint the moment she saw a Hawaii plate, which Leslie finds suspicious-who doesn’t remember their first Hawaii license plate sighting?), but she appreciates the intent behind it.
She spends the afternoon getting caught up on work, and by the time she heads over to her mom’s house, her mood is considerably amplified. That uptick only continues when her mother answers the door, shoes off and a glass of wine in hand, all good signs that despite planning in advance, she hasn’t accidentally caught her mom in the middle of something important. Dinners with her mom are infinitely better when Leslie isn’t left with the sinking feelings she’s keeping her from something.
“I brought wedding cake,” she says, in lieu of a greeting. She holds up the slightly smushed pieces of cake she absconded with, more than proud that they survived the journey back to Pawnee. Her mother’s sweet tooth might not be as prolific as Leslie’s, but it’s nothing to be trifled with either.
“Oh right.” Her mom heads into the living room and pours Leslie a glass of wine without asking. “I forgot that was this weekend. How was the wedding of the year?”
Ignoring the sarcasm, Leslie settles next to her mother on the couch, temporarily abandoning the cake on the coffee table. While her mom still talks to her aunt on a semi-regular basis, Leslie is well-aware that lately the conversation has been dominated by discussions of wedding dresses and the price of flowers and continued prayers for good weather. Leslie’s fairly certain that it was more than just a few decades worth of ill feelings that kept her mother from attending.
Still, it’s on the tip of Leslie’s tongue to reiterate what her mother already knows: color schemes and first dances and a myriad of other lovely if standard wedding fare. The words have barely formed in her mouth, though, when she finds herself unable to voice them. Somehow, it’s too far from the truth of what yesterday was. Leslie has no desire to rehash anything that left her crying on Ann’s shoulder last night (there’s a reason that telling her mom things ended with Ben was easier than telling her they were together), but she can’t lie outright either.
Instead, she finds herself putting it in the simplest possible terms of understanding. “Aunt Marilyn was at the wedding.”
Succinctness is more than adequate here, as is the slightly disgusted look her mother gives in response. Whatever falling out came from her father’s death, the courtesy was extended to Marilyn long before that. To say the least, her aunt’s particular brand of distaste certainly isn’t limited to Leslie. There is a brief moment where Leslie prepares to sit back and let her mother get in her digs, to infer the backdrop of melancholia that lingered over the wedding for Leslie, but almost instantly, she questions her intention in bringing up Marilyn at all.
It’s that picture.
Whatever legacy of misery Marilyn leaves behind, whatever opinion her mother is more than entitled to have, Leslie can’t help but think of that picture of her aunt as a child, unstained by any of life’s pain or unhappiness. Leslie only knows a little of that story-a husband who left and a son who died in infancy-but it’s enough to realize what made that girl so bitter, and the words leave her mouth before she’s aware she’s saying them: “I felt bad for her.”
Her mother doesn’t bat an eye, just props her feet on the coffee table and leans back into the couch. “You sound like your father.”
Considering that her nana stuck by Marilyn’s side until her death, this revelation about her father isn’t entirely surprising, and she doesn’t find the comparison to herself unwelcome. There was a time as a child that she collected comparisons to her father like missing pieces of herself, but it’s been a long time since she’s felt that compulsion. “I can’t help it,” she says, a bit petulantly, knowing that in some ways, the world is a little more black and white for her mother; perhaps it is easier for Leslie to forgive a woman who she’s only seen a handful of times in her adult life, though, when Marilyn’s biggest grievances with her stem entirely from childhood indiscretions and not conscious adult choices. “No one wanted her there. I wasn’t happy to see her. How can I not feel bad for someone who lives like that?”
Her mother sighs, and Leslie can hear the shift in her tone before she even begins to speak. “Leslie, you can’t pity someone who chooses to be miserable. She’s held on to every bad thing that’s ever happened to her, every disappointment in her life, and she turns it back on everyone else. Living that way is her choice, and she has to live with the consequences.” Her mother takes a sip of her wine, her annoyance written in the furrow of her brow. It’s nothing Leslie hasn’t heard a thousand times before: You have to take responsibility for the life you choose to live, Leslie, and no one decides how you live but you. They’re all variations of the same refrain, mantras Leslie has been living by for as long as she can remember. As if to drive the point home, she adds, “I still believe part of her felt vindicated when your father died. Like your grandmother was finally getting her fair share of the grief.”
Leslie frowns, the cruelty in that thought coiling poisonously inside of her. She wishes she could dismiss it as her mother’s own critical nature, but there’s a ring of truth to it that makes her sad. It sounds like the most depressing sort of life-reveling in others’ sorrows because you can’t deal with your own-and despite what her mother says, it does inspire pity.
Beyond that, though, and far more important is that her mother is also right: how you deal with hardship is a choice. One her mother made herself when tragedy touched her life. One that, for her, was born not in bitterness, but in strength; the strength that Leslie so admires, she’s spent her whole life trying to emulate it in her own way. And maybe her mother was a little harder or colder at times because of what happened, but she never let it stop her life from being full and rich and happy.
Thinking of her own choices this weekend, reveling in her losses instead of her gains for the first time since she and Ben broke up, she’s proud of the way she’s picked herself back up today. Whatever sadness remains now, she knows she can’t continue to focus on it. Because her mother is right: it’s her choice. And it’s really just a matter of figuring out how to suppress all those bad feelings and focus on the good ones.
“You know,” says her mom, dragging her back to reality with both hands, “your father abided a lot of behavior from that woman because he pitied her. But whatever faults he could forgive, he never let her slide when it came to you.” She smiles, delighting some remembrance that Leslie doesn’t share. “I thought he was going to have a stroke when she yelled at you on your fourth birthday. He told her not to come back until she learned how to treat a child.”
Considering how little she saw of her aunt until Marilyn moved in with her nana, Leslie doubts she made much progress in that area.
And she’d bet her mother didn’t have a problem with that ultimatum either.
Her mom sighs, an unusually wistful sound, and reaches out to squeeze Leslie’s hand. “He really loved you, Leslie.”
Impulse propels her, and she leans in to kiss her mother’s cheek before resting her head against her shoulder. It makes her feel like a child again, remembering nights when she used to creep downstairs, unable to sleep, only to eventually find solace against her mother as she worked or read or watched television. It’s comforting, and right now, Leslie can’t think of anything she needs more.
She may have only had her dad for the first few years of her life and her mom is far from perfect, but in this moment, Leslie can’t quite believe how lucky she is.
*****
By Monday morning, Leslie has put the sadness of weekend behind her. Not that it’s hard to feel cheerful on a Monday morning, with a whole new week ahead of her and the return to work. Particularly on this Monday morning, which is set to begin with a meeting with Ben and Chris.
Whatever gamut of unresolved emotions Leslie is well-aware still linger after this weekend, none of it changes the fact that she still wants to see Ben. She wants to spend her morning with him, hashing things out in the meeting, even if it won’t be the entirely fulfilling experience it once was. It’s oxymoronic, perhaps, finding pleasure amidst pain, the same illogical reasoning that kept her from deleting the picture on her phone, but after talking to her mom and hours of agonizing about how to fix this last night, she’s thinks she’s finally figured it out.
Something is better than nothing.
She couldn’t be with Ben this weekend, but the picture is a tangible moment she can hold on to. It’s a sign, she’s decided; one that says that Ben misses her and doesn’t want to lose her any more than she wants to lose him. They can’t be together in all the ways they want to be, but they still have friendship. To an extent, she knows this shift in focus is survivor instinct: she can’t be overwhelmed by what she’s lost if she concentrates on what she still has. She lost that perspective in a moment of weakness this weekend, but from that pain she rose more confident than before that this is the right way to look at things.
It’s a choice. She’s choosing positivity. And clearly, she’s realized, in sending this photo, Ben has chosen the same.
Their meeting is at nine, but Leslie leaves an hour early, seeking out few minutes alone with Ben before Chris arrives. It’s something she used to do regularly, even before they were together, but hasn’t continued to do since they broke up. Whatever they can salvage from their relationship, she’s sure will be born in a return to normality.
Ben is at his desk when she walks in, head bent over a pile of papers in faux concentration. The nuance isn’t lost on her; even without seeing his eyes, she can tell by the slouch of his posture and the listless hold on his pen. She’s seen him this way before, tired or lost in a daydream or puzzling through something, and her stomach twists in anticipation of the moment he looks up at her, eyes softening and a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. Lightly, she knocks on the doorframe, already smiling as he lifts his head, but the usual happiness that greets her is cut by something weary in his gaze. He blinks at her, almost like he’s coming out of a dream, and taps his pen against the desk twice before dropping it.
“Hey,” he says casually. “I thought our meeting was at nine.”
Her smile stretches a bit tighter, unwilling as she is to drop it, and she steps toward him with more confidence than she feels. “It is,” she agrees, not sure if she’s more expecting or hoping that he’ll read into what she’s not saying. When all she receives is a blank stare in return, she only fumbles more. In her mind, their parts were more clearly scripted-a give and take reminiscent of what they were. The fact that he’s not meeting her in the middle throws her off more than she’d like.
“Um…Did you need something?”
The words cut dismissively even as his eyes soften in some sort of silent apology. She wants neither from him, though, and refuses to give in simply because this isn’t going the way she intended. She’s caught him off-guard, she reasons; his opening gesture aside, she can understand that after weeks of rocky navigation of the confines of their new relationship, he hadn’t expected her to come in one morning to try to change the rules.
Hastily, Leslie opens her padfolio and pulls out the photograph she printed out last night-the same one Ben emailed her this weekend. She holds it out like a peace offering, and watches as Ben’s eyes slide from her to the picture.
Printing out the photo was an impulse decision, one made in the middle of the night after hours spent agonizing over the fact that she misses Ben so much it hurts to breathe sometimes. It was the punctuation to this decision to salvage what she can have with him; a way to fix what has clearly become a huge hole in her life. Last night, as she lay in bed, it felt like a stroke of brilliance; now, standing here, holding the picture out as he stares in disbelief, it feels a little less ingenious.
“It’s just that you told me you never print photos,” she justifies, aware that she’s tripping into that galloping rambling that sometimes accompanies a moment of self-doubt. “And this one is so perfect and sweet, and I thought you might like to have an actual print for work or for home so you can remember something happy. Although I guess maybe your brother or sister-in-law might have made you a copy already, and if that’s the case-“
“No, Leslie.” He glances at her for a second, seemingly caught off guard by his own forceful exclamation, and then takes the picture and sets it face-down on his desk. She winces and tries to cover it as a shrug. “It’s fine. Thank you.”
“I have extra frames, too,” she adds before she can stop herself. “If you want.”
“No. I-No. ” He picks up his pen, fingers rigid against it, and manages to look at her again. “Honestly? I forgot I sent you that.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. My brother and I had a few beers at dinner…I guess I had a few too many, and…well.” He shrugs away the rest of the explanation, which is as good a way as any to say it was a drunken mistake. As much as she can read into that, dissecting the unspoken nod to the fact that she was on his mind that night as much as he had been on hers, she’s too caught up in the regret she hears now. It’s written all over his face, plain as day in his eyes: I wish I had never sent it.
Hadn’t Ann said the same thing on Saturday? That he should have never sent it?
“Why?” she asks, realizing instantly that the question has nothing to do with the context of their conversation. Hastily, she backtracks. “I mean, I’m glad you sent it. It was nice.”
Ben looks incredulous now, like what she’s saying defies all logic, and she’s immeasurably glad that she didn’t mention her initial reaction, or, worse, the copy she printed out for herself, tucked carefully away from prying eyes and questions she can’t answer. The questions that linger in Ben’s eyes now. “I don’t think,” he says, so deliberately cautious that she can feel the sting of his words before he finishes, “that we have that kind of relationship anymore, Leslie. We shouldn’t-I shouldn’t have sent the picture.”
“Why not? We’re friends.” She manages a real smile this time, grateful that she’s finally managed to say what she intended the moment she walked into his office. “Friends send each other photos all the time.”
“Leslie, we’re not-“ He pauses, reconsidering what they both know he was about to say, and awkwardly finishes, “These aren’t typical circumstances. I’m sorry I sent it.”
Words fail her in that moment. Ben has rendered her speechless before, often in much more pleasurable circumstances, but this might be the first time that she feels a bite of cruelty behind it, intended or not. She had come in here certain that he had realized what she had this weekend: that he still has her friendship, that it was the foundation of their relationship and that it still means something, but he just looks at her a little sadly before dropping his eyes back to the papers on his desk, a wordless dismissal that she can’t find the words to fight. And it hurts. It hurts to see him choose this-to pick nothing over something-and make both of them miserable in the process.
“I-uh-I have a lot to get done before the meeting, Leslie. I’ll-I’ll see you later?”
She nods, even though he’s not looking at her, still stunned by his words and actions, not quite comprehending what just happened. She feels dazed, but underneath her confusion, her decision remains, an unbreakable foundation she still believes in wholeheartedly.
Something is better than nothing. No matter what he says.
Part Four
Pairing: Ben/Leslie
Word Count: 3400 (this part)
Rating: PG (this part)
Setting: Somewhere around “Meet ‘n’ Greet.”
Summary: Loosely, this is series of moments that make up Leslie’s ideas for the unity quilt. Somewhere along the way it’s morphed into a lot more.
A/n: So tonight I learned the very important lesson that I am more than capable of revising my writing in a car with a soundtrack of the 60s greatest hits. In other words, I am forever grateful that I don’t get carsick. Thank you so much to everyone who left feedback on the last chapter. I greatly appreciate the fact that you guys are sticking with this story despite the drastic turn it’s taken from the original premise.
Part One Part Two Part Three(a)
The day after her cousin’s wedding, Leslie wakes up with an emotional hangover. It’s the kind of exhaustion she can feel down to her bones, that leftover weariness that comes from crying out her emotions and still not feeling any better. It’s a rare morning that she’d rather roll over and go back to sleep than face the world, and it takes effort to remind herself that hiding doesn’t solve any of her problems.
Still, when Ann mistakes her distress for an actual hangover, wordlessly offering her a couple of aspirin and some water, she takes it. Considering she’s going to her mom’s for dinner later, it feels somewhat like a preemptive strike.
“You left your phone in the bathroom,” says Ann, tossing the offending object onto the bedspread. Somehow she manages a look that’s simultaneously sympathetic and suspicious, but there’s only concern in her voice when she adds, “I think maybe you should delete that picture.”
Leslie nods, hoping the queasy feeling in her stomach isn’t written on her face or, if it is, that Ann takes it as a sign of an actual hangover. Excuses, explanations, and halfhearted agreement all war on the tip of her tongue, but she finds herself unable to commit to any of them. Rare as silence is between them, though, particularly on Leslie’s side of the conversation, Ann seems unperturbed by the lack of response. Whether she’s consciously choosing not to push the matter or taking Leslie at face value, it doesn’t particularly matter; when she downs some aspirin and heads back to the bathroom without admonishment, Leslie’s overwhelmingly grateful.
She doesn’t look at the picture again. But she also doesn’t delete it.
*****
The drive back to Pawnee makes a significant dent in wearing away her initial bad mood. It helps that she isn’t one to cling to unpleasant feelings. Even if they linger beneath the surface, never quite dissipating, she latches onto the better moments in her day with her usual gusto. The continental breakfast is subpar-there’s no whipped cream in sight-but Ann volunteers to drive back and they spend most of the trip singing along to the radio. The songs are punctuated by Leslie’s insistence they play the license plate game, even if the most exotic one they see is Missouri; Ann even listens to her detailed list of the best state plates and agrees that it’s hard to top Hawaii’s. Leslie thinks she might be humoring her a little (her ready agreement about Hawaii is stifled by the fact that she can’t pinpoint the moment she saw a Hawaii plate, which Leslie finds suspicious-who doesn’t remember their first Hawaii license plate sighting?), but she appreciates the intent behind it.
She spends the afternoon getting caught up on work, and by the time she heads over to her mom’s house, her mood is considerably amplified. That uptick only continues when her mother answers the door, shoes off and a glass of wine in hand, all good signs that despite planning in advance, she hasn’t accidentally caught her mom in the middle of something important. Dinners with her mom are infinitely better when Leslie isn’t left with the sinking feelings she’s keeping her from something.
“I brought wedding cake,” she says, in lieu of a greeting. She holds up the slightly smushed pieces of cake she absconded with, more than proud that they survived the journey back to Pawnee. Her mother’s sweet tooth might not be as prolific as Leslie’s, but it’s nothing to be trifled with either.
“Oh right.” Her mom heads into the living room and pours Leslie a glass of wine without asking. “I forgot that was this weekend. How was the wedding of the year?”
Ignoring the sarcasm, Leslie settles next to her mother on the couch, temporarily abandoning the cake on the coffee table. While her mom still talks to her aunt on a semi-regular basis, Leslie is well-aware that lately the conversation has been dominated by discussions of wedding dresses and the price of flowers and continued prayers for good weather. Leslie’s fairly certain that it was more than just a few decades worth of ill feelings that kept her mother from attending.
Still, it’s on the tip of Leslie’s tongue to reiterate what her mother already knows: color schemes and first dances and a myriad of other lovely if standard wedding fare. The words have barely formed in her mouth, though, when she finds herself unable to voice them. Somehow, it’s too far from the truth of what yesterday was. Leslie has no desire to rehash anything that left her crying on Ann’s shoulder last night (there’s a reason that telling her mom things ended with Ben was easier than telling her they were together), but she can’t lie outright either.
Instead, she finds herself putting it in the simplest possible terms of understanding. “Aunt Marilyn was at the wedding.”
Succinctness is more than adequate here, as is the slightly disgusted look her mother gives in response. Whatever falling out came from her father’s death, the courtesy was extended to Marilyn long before that. To say the least, her aunt’s particular brand of distaste certainly isn’t limited to Leslie. There is a brief moment where Leslie prepares to sit back and let her mother get in her digs, to infer the backdrop of melancholia that lingered over the wedding for Leslie, but almost instantly, she questions her intention in bringing up Marilyn at all.
It’s that picture.
Whatever legacy of misery Marilyn leaves behind, whatever opinion her mother is more than entitled to have, Leslie can’t help but think of that picture of her aunt as a child, unstained by any of life’s pain or unhappiness. Leslie only knows a little of that story-a husband who left and a son who died in infancy-but it’s enough to realize what made that girl so bitter, and the words leave her mouth before she’s aware she’s saying them: “I felt bad for her.”
Her mother doesn’t bat an eye, just props her feet on the coffee table and leans back into the couch. “You sound like your father.”
Considering that her nana stuck by Marilyn’s side until her death, this revelation about her father isn’t entirely surprising, and she doesn’t find the comparison to herself unwelcome. There was a time as a child that she collected comparisons to her father like missing pieces of herself, but it’s been a long time since she’s felt that compulsion. “I can’t help it,” she says, a bit petulantly, knowing that in some ways, the world is a little more black and white for her mother; perhaps it is easier for Leslie to forgive a woman who she’s only seen a handful of times in her adult life, though, when Marilyn’s biggest grievances with her stem entirely from childhood indiscretions and not conscious adult choices. “No one wanted her there. I wasn’t happy to see her. How can I not feel bad for someone who lives like that?”
Her mother sighs, and Leslie can hear the shift in her tone before she even begins to speak. “Leslie, you can’t pity someone who chooses to be miserable. She’s held on to every bad thing that’s ever happened to her, every disappointment in her life, and she turns it back on everyone else. Living that way is her choice, and she has to live with the consequences.” Her mother takes a sip of her wine, her annoyance written in the furrow of her brow. It’s nothing Leslie hasn’t heard a thousand times before: You have to take responsibility for the life you choose to live, Leslie, and no one decides how you live but you. They’re all variations of the same refrain, mantras Leslie has been living by for as long as she can remember. As if to drive the point home, she adds, “I still believe part of her felt vindicated when your father died. Like your grandmother was finally getting her fair share of the grief.”
Leslie frowns, the cruelty in that thought coiling poisonously inside of her. She wishes she could dismiss it as her mother’s own critical nature, but there’s a ring of truth to it that makes her sad. It sounds like the most depressing sort of life-reveling in others’ sorrows because you can’t deal with your own-and despite what her mother says, it does inspire pity.
Beyond that, though, and far more important is that her mother is also right: how you deal with hardship is a choice. One her mother made herself when tragedy touched her life. One that, for her, was born not in bitterness, but in strength; the strength that Leslie so admires, she’s spent her whole life trying to emulate it in her own way. And maybe her mother was a little harder or colder at times because of what happened, but she never let it stop her life from being full and rich and happy.
Thinking of her own choices this weekend, reveling in her losses instead of her gains for the first time since she and Ben broke up, she’s proud of the way she’s picked herself back up today. Whatever sadness remains now, she knows she can’t continue to focus on it. Because her mother is right: it’s her choice. And it’s really just a matter of figuring out how to suppress all those bad feelings and focus on the good ones.
“You know,” says her mom, dragging her back to reality with both hands, “your father abided a lot of behavior from that woman because he pitied her. But whatever faults he could forgive, he never let her slide when it came to you.” She smiles, delighting some remembrance that Leslie doesn’t share. “I thought he was going to have a stroke when she yelled at you on your fourth birthday. He told her not to come back until she learned how to treat a child.”
Considering how little she saw of her aunt until Marilyn moved in with her nana, Leslie doubts she made much progress in that area.
And she’d bet her mother didn’t have a problem with that ultimatum either.
Her mom sighs, an unusually wistful sound, and reaches out to squeeze Leslie’s hand. “He really loved you, Leslie.”
Impulse propels her, and she leans in to kiss her mother’s cheek before resting her head against her shoulder. It makes her feel like a child again, remembering nights when she used to creep downstairs, unable to sleep, only to eventually find solace against her mother as she worked or read or watched television. It’s comforting, and right now, Leslie can’t think of anything she needs more.
She may have only had her dad for the first few years of her life and her mom is far from perfect, but in this moment, Leslie can’t quite believe how lucky she is.
*****
By Monday morning, Leslie has put the sadness of weekend behind her. Not that it’s hard to feel cheerful on a Monday morning, with a whole new week ahead of her and the return to work. Particularly on this Monday morning, which is set to begin with a meeting with Ben and Chris.
Whatever gamut of unresolved emotions Leslie is well-aware still linger after this weekend, none of it changes the fact that she still wants to see Ben. She wants to spend her morning with him, hashing things out in the meeting, even if it won’t be the entirely fulfilling experience it once was. It’s oxymoronic, perhaps, finding pleasure amidst pain, the same illogical reasoning that kept her from deleting the picture on her phone, but after talking to her mom and hours of agonizing about how to fix this last night, she’s thinks she’s finally figured it out.
Something is better than nothing.
She couldn’t be with Ben this weekend, but the picture is a tangible moment she can hold on to. It’s a sign, she’s decided; one that says that Ben misses her and doesn’t want to lose her any more than she wants to lose him. They can’t be together in all the ways they want to be, but they still have friendship. To an extent, she knows this shift in focus is survivor instinct: she can’t be overwhelmed by what she’s lost if she concentrates on what she still has. She lost that perspective in a moment of weakness this weekend, but from that pain she rose more confident than before that this is the right way to look at things.
It’s a choice. She’s choosing positivity. And clearly, she’s realized, in sending this photo, Ben has chosen the same.
Their meeting is at nine, but Leslie leaves an hour early, seeking out few minutes alone with Ben before Chris arrives. It’s something she used to do regularly, even before they were together, but hasn’t continued to do since they broke up. Whatever they can salvage from their relationship, she’s sure will be born in a return to normality.
Ben is at his desk when she walks in, head bent over a pile of papers in faux concentration. The nuance isn’t lost on her; even without seeing his eyes, she can tell by the slouch of his posture and the listless hold on his pen. She’s seen him this way before, tired or lost in a daydream or puzzling through something, and her stomach twists in anticipation of the moment he looks up at her, eyes softening and a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. Lightly, she knocks on the doorframe, already smiling as he lifts his head, but the usual happiness that greets her is cut by something weary in his gaze. He blinks at her, almost like he’s coming out of a dream, and taps his pen against the desk twice before dropping it.
“Hey,” he says casually. “I thought our meeting was at nine.”
Her smile stretches a bit tighter, unwilling as she is to drop it, and she steps toward him with more confidence than she feels. “It is,” she agrees, not sure if she’s more expecting or hoping that he’ll read into what she’s not saying. When all she receives is a blank stare in return, she only fumbles more. In her mind, their parts were more clearly scripted-a give and take reminiscent of what they were. The fact that he’s not meeting her in the middle throws her off more than she’d like.
“Um…Did you need something?”
The words cut dismissively even as his eyes soften in some sort of silent apology. She wants neither from him, though, and refuses to give in simply because this isn’t going the way she intended. She’s caught him off-guard, she reasons; his opening gesture aside, she can understand that after weeks of rocky navigation of the confines of their new relationship, he hadn’t expected her to come in one morning to try to change the rules.
Hastily, Leslie opens her padfolio and pulls out the photograph she printed out last night-the same one Ben emailed her this weekend. She holds it out like a peace offering, and watches as Ben’s eyes slide from her to the picture.
Printing out the photo was an impulse decision, one made in the middle of the night after hours spent agonizing over the fact that she misses Ben so much it hurts to breathe sometimes. It was the punctuation to this decision to salvage what she can have with him; a way to fix what has clearly become a huge hole in her life. Last night, as she lay in bed, it felt like a stroke of brilliance; now, standing here, holding the picture out as he stares in disbelief, it feels a little less ingenious.
“It’s just that you told me you never print photos,” she justifies, aware that she’s tripping into that galloping rambling that sometimes accompanies a moment of self-doubt. “And this one is so perfect and sweet, and I thought you might like to have an actual print for work or for home so you can remember something happy. Although I guess maybe your brother or sister-in-law might have made you a copy already, and if that’s the case-“
“No, Leslie.” He glances at her for a second, seemingly caught off guard by his own forceful exclamation, and then takes the picture and sets it face-down on his desk. She winces and tries to cover it as a shrug. “It’s fine. Thank you.”
“I have extra frames, too,” she adds before she can stop herself. “If you want.”
“No. I-No. ” He picks up his pen, fingers rigid against it, and manages to look at her again. “Honestly? I forgot I sent you that.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. My brother and I had a few beers at dinner…I guess I had a few too many, and…well.” He shrugs away the rest of the explanation, which is as good a way as any to say it was a drunken mistake. As much as she can read into that, dissecting the unspoken nod to the fact that she was on his mind that night as much as he had been on hers, she’s too caught up in the regret she hears now. It’s written all over his face, plain as day in his eyes: I wish I had never sent it.
Hadn’t Ann said the same thing on Saturday? That he should have never sent it?
“Why?” she asks, realizing instantly that the question has nothing to do with the context of their conversation. Hastily, she backtracks. “I mean, I’m glad you sent it. It was nice.”
Ben looks incredulous now, like what she’s saying defies all logic, and she’s immeasurably glad that she didn’t mention her initial reaction, or, worse, the copy she printed out for herself, tucked carefully away from prying eyes and questions she can’t answer. The questions that linger in Ben’s eyes now. “I don’t think,” he says, so deliberately cautious that she can feel the sting of his words before he finishes, “that we have that kind of relationship anymore, Leslie. We shouldn’t-I shouldn’t have sent the picture.”
“Why not? We’re friends.” She manages a real smile this time, grateful that she’s finally managed to say what she intended the moment she walked into his office. “Friends send each other photos all the time.”
“Leslie, we’re not-“ He pauses, reconsidering what they both know he was about to say, and awkwardly finishes, “These aren’t typical circumstances. I’m sorry I sent it.”
Words fail her in that moment. Ben has rendered her speechless before, often in much more pleasurable circumstances, but this might be the first time that she feels a bite of cruelty behind it, intended or not. She had come in here certain that he had realized what she had this weekend: that he still has her friendship, that it was the foundation of their relationship and that it still means something, but he just looks at her a little sadly before dropping his eyes back to the papers on his desk, a wordless dismissal that she can’t find the words to fight. And it hurts. It hurts to see him choose this-to pick nothing over something-and make both of them miserable in the process.
“I-uh-I have a lot to get done before the meeting, Leslie. I’ll-I’ll see you later?”
She nods, even though he’s not looking at her, still stunned by his words and actions, not quite comprehending what just happened. She feels dazed, but underneath her confusion, her decision remains, an unbreakable foundation she still believes in wholeheartedly.
Something is better than nothing. No matter what he says.
Part Four