Eight Hundred Grapes

“I did,” I said. “Thomas called looking for you.”

“He mentioned something about that,” he said.

“Considering what’s going on between us, did you think that maybe you shouldn’t have sent my stuff to London?”

“I did. I thought you might not want me to send your stuff anywhere without talking to you first. I thought that was the right thing to do. But I decided to move everything anyway.”

“What would you call doing that?”

“Hopeful.”

I covered my eyes with my elbow. “Ben, I should get some sleep.”

“I had them leave the guest room mattress. I’m sleeping on that. Though I forgot to tell them to leave sheets. So it’s a bit of a sad situation. Empty apartment. Old mattress. No pillow for my head.”

“You could check into a hotel.”

“That’s sadder.”

He paused. We both did. The silence between us was exhausting.

“I haven’t shown up there. I’ve tried to give you space. But you do need to talk to me.”

“I’m listening.”

He got quiet. “I was ready for you to argue. Now I’m not sure where to start.”

“How about with Michelle Carter?”

“I’ve told you about Michelle Carter.”

What he’d told me was they had dated briefly the summer before we met—three months of briefly while she was filming a movie in New York. And that Michelle had crushed him. Eviscerated him. That was

the word he used. Then she went back to London and got back together with her boyfriend. The famous actor—and often her romantic costar—Clay Michaels. The couple was tabloid fodder, glossy red carpet photos of them falling into the hands of girls at nail salons on a regular basis.

Ben had never even been photographed with Michelle at an event. He liked to joke: If you weren’t photographed with a movie star you were dating, was it like it never happened?

And so Michelle became an anecdote for Ben to share about his dating life. The time he dated one of the most famous women in the world. How she completely and totally disappeared on him. How else was that going to end? Ben laughed. The way we laugh about the people who slayed us, when we’re talking about them with the one person who never would.

“Does Clay know the truth?”

“Yes. He’s always known that Maddie wasn’t his.”

“He isn’t furious?”

“Apparently he has a kid that isn’t Michelle’s.”

I was getting a headache. I pulled the covers up higher, contemplating Michelle’s odd arrangement with her boyfriend, contemplating what else I knew about Michelle: her gorgeous house in London recently photographed for the cover of Architectural Digest, her gorgeous face chosen for People magazine’s “50 Most Beautiful People.”

Boy George stared down at me, laughing. He was laughing and not doing anything to save me. What could he do?

“When Michelle moved back to London, that was it,” he said. “She got back together with Clay, and an old friend of mine, the guy that introduced us, said that they were having a baby at some point. But I never heard from her again.” He paused. “Until I heard from her again.”

“What did she say when she called you?”

“She said our summer fling resulted in a little girl who she was finally ready for me to meet,” he said.

“When was that, Ben?”