Least Likely Two: Better Than Ever, #1

ONE

HOLLISTER

The word that came to mind as I looked around the dance floor at my twenty-fifth high school reunion was surreal. Twenty-five years. I didn’t recognize most of the people in front of me, and they probably had no idea who I was either. That’s why they gave us name tags at the door that had our Melville High School senior year photos on them. I glanced down at mine. I didn’t look nearly as punk rock as my eighteen-year-old self, but I hadn’t gone completely mainstream with my style choices either. In a sea of knee-length dresses and shoulder-length hairdos, I was rocking my nose stud and what I called my Debbie Harry sexy pantsuit. My big red hair would never be tamed into anything sleek or demure, although my friend Jenna, who was at my side, did her best to style it into something fabulous tonight.

She took a swig of her white wine. Remind me why we came here?

Curiosity, I said. And networking. I’m always looking for new clients.

You don’t really have time for any more clients, do you? she asked. You’re already so busy.

Maybe one of us will meet a cute guy here, our friend Bridget chimed in. Look at Melissa and Ethan over there, all loved up. High school sweethearts. They recently got back together after twenty-three years.

Melissa was heavily pregnant and had that special glow about her. Good for her having a baby in her early forties. She and I had run the literary magazine together in high school when she was a junior and I was a senior, but we’d lost touch over the years.

She’s someone I’d actually enjoy talking to tonight, I said.

Maybe Ethan knows some nice single men, Bridget suggested.

I’m not looking for love, I said. I’m just trying to prove I’m not a cautionary tale.

Bridget squeezed my hand. You never were! And you have nothing to prove to anyone.

I know, you’re right.

Although as a former valedictorian—fine, co-valedictorian because I had to share the honor with the worst person on the planet—there was a lot of pressure on me. At least I thought so. Getting knocked up my senior year of college was never part of my plan, but life rarely cares about such things as plans.

Seriously? Bridget shifted to get a better view across the room. Is that Boomer the Bear?

Sure enough, our school’s mascot, a grizzly bear, was boogying his way across the dance floor. He was large, furry, and not wearing a stitch of clothing over his bear suit.

That’s a new Boomer, I said. They’ve updated him. The old one had a bow tie.

Some dancers ignored him while others smiled and waved. One guy shooed him away when Boomer got behind his dance partner, put his paws behind his head, and did a little bump and grind. No one seemed to want to give him too much attention, lest the bear target them next.

Boomer is nasty! Jenna said gleefully. It was the first time she sounded happy about being at our reunion.

People in animal costumes were slightly freaky because you couldn’t see who you were dealing with. Plus, it was early in the night, and no one was drunk enough yet to dance with a bear. Well, almost no one.

Boomer locked eyes with me—as far as I could tell through the bear head—and made his way in my direction. Then he turned his paws open palm and started wiggling them, beckoning me to the dance floor.

Oh shit, Jenna whispered. The bear has chosen you as his mate.

Bridget put her hand on my shoulder. See, I told you one of us might meet someone here.

The three of us cracked up as Boomer raised his paws in the air and started breaking it down—knees bent, booty shaking. Then he pretended to reel me in like a fish on a line.

I briefly considered what I’d said earlier about networking. Dancing with a person in a bear suit might not be the best way to gain clients. Then again, when did I ever let what other people thought stop me?

Hell, let’s do this. I shimmied over to Boomer who received my attentions with great enthusiasm and several body rolls. Bridget and Jenna weren’t far behind me, and before long the three of us had Boomer in a dance sandwich. A circle of people formed around the four of us, clapping, hooting, and hollering. It would seem that we’d broken the ice for the bear.

This is going to make their night, I yelled above the music to Boomer.

I was hoping to get a response out of him, her, they—whoever it was inside the costume—but that bear wasn’t breaking character.

Keeping up our rep, Jenna shouted to me as Boomer turned to grab her hand and spin her around.

Some things never changed. We were still the class weirdos.

I suspected Boomer was being played by someone young because that bear wore my middle-aged ass out. He busted out the Dougie, the moonwalk, the floss, and a bunch of other moves I didn’t even know the names for. When he was down on the floor doing the worm, I made the time-out hand signal to my friends and left them for a much-needed beverage break. As I approached the bar, there was a man in a nicely cut blue suit already there with his back to me, ordering a drink. His jacket was off, and I could see he had a cute ass and strong shoulders. Probably someone’s husband so I didn’t get too excited, but I did straighten up and strut a little as I sidled up to the counter. We were close enough to bump elbows.

Glass of ice water, please, I told the bartender, my voice raspy and parched.

I could feel the man turn to look at me before I glanced over at him with a smile on my lips. Yes, I’d probably had too much wine already judging by my desire to flirt with strangers, but I was only happily buzzed, not loaded. As our eyes connected, my stomach dropped.

Oh my God.

Ben fucking Rose.

There was no mistaking his arrogant aquiline nose or the judgmental set of his triangular jawline. Or those lips that were too thin and barely opened when he spoke, as if you weren’t worth the effort. Here he was, Ben Rose, in the flesh. Other than a few crinkles around his eyes and the flecks of gray at his temples, he hadn’t changed much. He still had the slim but muscular build of a tennis player and the aforementioned cute ass. The fact that he’d aged annoyingly well was more proof that the man was a descendant of the devil. As I stared into his cobalt-blue eyes, they lit up with recognition. Satan’s minions remembered all their victims.

Hollister, how are you?

His tone was neutral and impossible to read, but that was no surprise. My co-valedictorian reserved his enthusiasm for times of triumph over others. I’d fantasized about this moment enough to have planned out my facial expressions—polite smile, calm demeanor, relaxed yet steady gaze. But for the longest fifteen seconds of my life, I was slack-jawed and empty-headed.

Benjamin Rose, he said, clearly thinking that I didn’t recognize him.

As if.

Of course, I said. Nice to see you.

The bartender handed us our drinks, and we stepped to the side so the couple behind us could put in their orders. I surreptitiously swiped my upper lip in case there were any beads of sweat from my dance marathon. The gym suddenly felt like a sauna. I prayed the Angie Everhart hairdo that Jenna had given me hadn’t turned into Robert Smith of The Cure. I should have gone to the bathroom and checked my appearance before getting a drink. Although I was the one who approached him at the bar, I felt like Ben had cornered me at an inopportune moment, and, however unfairly, I resented it.

It’s been a long time. How have you been? he asked.

My stomach was in knots, but that wouldn’t stop me. This is what I’d been waiting for, a chance at redemption. It was embarrassing to admit that his opinion meant something to me, but no one else had to know that I’d been obsessing about this meetup for years. His smug face was the one I saw when I was up late at night writing my business plan and networking on social media. It was what I meditated on while I worked shitty side jobs to fund my new business. If I needed motivation to keep going when I was tired or discouraged, he was there for me in my memory bank in all his high-handed, egotistical glory.

I started my own PR firm two years ago. I sounded scripted because I might have rehearsed this speech a time or twelve. "It’s going really well. I’ve picked up some high-profile clients like Aaron Goodwin, the founder of Gambit Games. He graduated from Melville after us. Maybe you saw him profiled in the Times a few weeks ago? He frowned like he didn’t know what I was talking about. It was in the business section. Yeah, I feel like I’ve really hit my stride, if I can say that without sounding braggy." The laugh that came out of my mouth sounded high-pitched and, frankly, a bit unhinged.

Do you have a business card? I’d be happy to send people your way.

It was hard to see anything with flames of rage blurring my vision. No congratulations or comments on my success. Never. He immediately jumped to how he could help me because surely I was in need of his support. How could I possibly succeed without the patronage of all-powerful Benjamin Rose?

I faked a disappointed frown. Darn, don’t have one on me. Now do tell, are you still in proctology?

He blinked several times as if he wasn’t getting the joke, but how could that be? Our entire teenage relationship was built on this type of sparring.

Orthopedics, he said.

Obviously, I knew that. His jerky face was in ads all over Long Island, including on the shopping carts of the grocery store I frequented. I wasn’t going to admit it though. I wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.

He drained one of the highball glasses he was holding, then started on the other one.

I have a practice in Syosset, he said.

That’s when I noticed an ever-so-slight slurring of his words. Was he drunk? The idea of Ben being out of control at a social function seemed strangely out of character. But how could I claim to know that about someone I hadn’t seen in a quarter century?

I expected him to brag about the success of his practice or how his kid was a chess prodigy or something, anything at all. Instead, he was silent. This wasn’t the interaction I’d expected, and it was messing with my head.

He set the empty glass on the bar and took his phone out of his pocket, scowling down at it as it vibrated in his hand.

Damn. Sorry, I really need to deal with this call. When he looked up at me, I could have sworn that he looked genuinely disappointed. Can I catch up with you in a minute?

Sure, I lied. There was no need to resume our awkward interaction. I’d said what I needed to say to him.

Nice to see you, Holly.

I flinched at the awful nickname he used for me in high school. I had to force my fists to unclench so it didn’t look like I was about to punch him in the throat.

Hollister. Not Holly. He acknowledged his mistake by mouthing sorry, then walked away. Jackass, I muttered.

With his phone pressed to his ear, he crossed diagonally through the dance floor, not even noticing he was marching between Boomer and his current dance partner. Of course not. He thought only about himself. Everyone else was superfluous to what was happening in his world.

The whole drama I’d constructed in my head about seeing Ben Rose again had just fizzled out in real life. He had other things going on that were much more important than me, clearly, and of course he did. We were strangers now, and he had no bearing on my life, nor I on his. We were co-valedictorians and competitors back in the day. So what? No one cared—no one but me—and it made me feel small and pathetic.

A hand wrapped around my arm. Hey, are you okay? I hadn’t even noticed that Jenna was at my side. I saw you talking to Ben Rose.

Yeah. I took a deep breath and straightened my shoulders. He was his usual self. And possibly drunk.

Gross. We watched as he exited the gym, probably seeking a quieter place to take his call. She turned to me with a puzzled expression. He got kind of hot though, right? I’m sure he’s still a pompous prick, don’t get me wrong, but he looks good.

She wasn’t wrong, but I would never—not ever—admit it.

My friend, you’ve clearly had too much to drink, I said. Let’s go dance.

I put my arm around her as we walked toward the dance floor where Boomer had moved on to yet another partner. Bridget had found Melissa, and the two of them were twirling around to Madonna’s Lucky Star while Ethan, Melissa’s husband, awkwardly swayed side to side. I went over to give Melissa a hug, which was difficult with her pregnant belly between us.

You look great! I told her. It’s so good to see you again.

It’s wonderful to see you too. She pulled a face and rubbed her baby bump. I’m a house. Eight months pregnant. But I’m really, really happy. We both looked over at Ethan, the love of her life, who was trying to ignore Boomer’s efforts to get a conga line going.

Gives the rest of us hope, I told her. Not Boomer. You and Ethan.

I’m living proof, you never know what life is going to bring you! she said. When I went to my cousin’s wedding, the last person I expected to run into was Ethan.

I pretended not to be thinking about Ben as I danced with my friends. Even though nothing terrible happened during our interaction, I felt like I could cry tears of frustration. Why was that? I was happy with myself and how I was living my life. I had a successful consulting business and a daughter who was an awesome human being. Money, for the first time in my life, wasn’t a problem. I had great friends, an adorable cat, and good health. Why the hell did I still care what Ben Rose thought of me?

I looked up as if I were expecting the gym ceiling to open and reveal the heavens with some kind of insightful message for me. Instead all I saw was the rafters and a bunch of athletic banners. My meetup with Ben had ended in a whimper, not a bang. I needed to stop this pettiness and move on from my high school feud. For someone who went through her life saying she didn’t need validation from a man, it would appear that recently I’d built my world around just that. I took the deepest breath possible and blew it out, releasing all the angst I’d built up, waiting for this moment with Ben. No sense in wasting another second thinking about him.

Throughout the evening, I saw him several more times from afar, but I didn’t let it bother me. I simply ignored his existence, or tried to at least. The hours flew by as I chatted with people I knew and many I didn’t. Apparently dancing with Boomer did nothing to hurt my business reputation because several folks asked for my card after hearing I was in PR. Having clawed my way back from the bottom several times in life, it was nice to feel like a mover and a shaker for once.

Toward the end of the evening, I made a run to the ladies’ room, and on my way back into the ballroom I nearly stumbled into a person hurtling toward me. It was Ben Rose, and he was the color of pea soup, his face glistening with a sweaty sheen.

Bathroom? he asked, a frantic edge to his voice. He was like a vodka-scented room freshener.

I pointed behind me. Down that hall and on the right. Are you gonna make it?

Ignoring my question, he searched around wildly for another option. I followed his eyes to the fire exit to our left. Even though it said NO EXIT in bold red letters, he barreled through it, the metal door slamming behind him. For several seconds I was immobilized, in total shock. Ben Rose consistently had it together. He was the guy in the freshly pressed button-down who always had a pen ready for class. Always. He had his hand up before anyone else had worked through the math problem. Even when I’d seen him running outside the school for tennis practice, he never seemed to break a sweat or slump his shoulders. This behavior was wholly unprecedented, but then again the Ben I knew was a teenager, twenty-five years younger than the man who nearly vomited on my secondhand designer shoes.

The emergency door surely locked behind him, and if I walked away, he was going to have a long walk all the way around the building to get back inside. It would be dark, and if I remembered correctly, there would be a tight squeeze past the foul area with the garbage dumpsters. Honestly, he deserved no less. On the other hand, I could be the bigger person and see if he needed help. And if I were able to do a wee bit of gloating, would that be so terrible? I mean, if reunions weren’t good for a little schadenfreude when your nemesis got publicly drunk, what were they for anyway?

TWO

BEN

As the heavy metal fire door slammed shut behind me, I realized I was locked out, but there was no time to worry about it. I was on the verge of regurgitation. I stumbled down the stairs and into the grass before tossing the contents of my stomach. Revolting as the experience was, I was relieved to have done it privately.

The air outside was cool, and it felt good against my heated skin. I sank down onto the stairs, holding my head in my hands, both out of frustration and because everything was slightly off-kilter and spinning. I was going to have the bedspins when I got home and a hell of a hangover in the morning. That hadn’t happened since college.

Please don’t let Hollister follow me out here was the only thought in my head. I couldn’t bear the idea of her coming outside to witness my humiliation and shame. If there was a God, Hollister would stay inside and leave me alone to wallow in my misery.

A loud creak told me that I was right to be an agnostic. Without turning my head to see who was behind me, I said, Please go away. I’m fine.

My request was met with silence which meant she was considering what to do. She was too kind to bolt, and I needed to reassure her that it was all right to leave me there.

Just prop the door open for me. I tried to erase every shred of vulnerability from my tone. Thank you.

As I should have expected, Hollister ignored my words and took a seat next to me on the steps, far enough away that she was out of spew territory. The front of her blazer gaped open a little when she sat down, but I pretended not to notice the reveal of her beautiful cleavage. The last thing I needed was for her to see me ogling her. Inebriated and horny wasn’t a good look, especially at our age. I had to tamp down my lust. It helped that the ambiance wasn’t great, what with the cement seating and vomit stink, definitely not what I had in mind for seeing her after all these years. I held back from making eye contact with her because I knew what I would see there, and it was the thing I hated receiving more than anything else in the world. Pity.

A few more moments of silence passed, during which I had no idea what to say. Maybe if I stayed quiet she would leave.

Do you want to talk about why you drank yourself into oblivion this evening? she asked.

I ran my hands over my knees, still not looking over at her. Not particularly.

She waited again for me to say something more, and when it became clear I wasn’t going to, she said, Got it. I just wanted to come out here and make sure you weren’t having a Jimi Hendrix experience. Now that I see you’re alert and responsive, I guess I can go back inside.

Sounds good. Despite my efforts, my voice sounded tired and old. Defeated. Please keep the door propped.

She huffed with irritation, and I knew I should say something so she didn’t walk away thinking I was an alcoholic who got wasted at every social event he attended. If this was how I left things between us after years of not seeing her, it was going to haunt me.

I’m sorry I had to walk away a little while ago. It was my ex-wife on the phone. She likes to call me when she knows I have plans and start arguments about pointless things.

She was silent for a long moment before saying, She sounds delightful. No wonder you were hitting the sauce.

My ex-wife, Courtney, knew I was at my reunion tonight because I had to reschedule my weekend with our girls. If I hadn’t picked up the phone, she would have continued calling and then harassed me later for not answering. If one of our daughters had been sick, it would have been a whole drama. No one was sick though. Courtney just wanted to remind me that she was selling our condo in Florida, which she got in the divorce. I needed to electronically sign some papers she’d emailed to me because my name was still on the mortgage. For