Prude Page 3

  To this day, the selfishness of that statement still stings. That afternoon, I made a promise to myself to never be that stupid again when it came to a man. I didn’t cry while he was packing his things and filing away our life together, like I had just been a parenthesis, a mere moment leading to his glorious future. When he left though, I felt hollow and heartbroken. Almost four years of my life, gone. I cried to Cora on the phone that night, and she invited me to go out and have fun with her the night after.

  It was then that I got completely drunk and accused Ben of having been instrumental to the demise of my relationship. I cannot remember what I said, but there were lots of tears and make-up running down my face. I probably looked and acted like a crazy person. Most of the details are blurry, but I can still remember Ben’s perplexed, stunned face.

  When I recovered from my stupid hangover, I sent him a long, heartfelt apology email. He replied saying that he was sorry about what happened with James, and added that if he was such a fool to let me go, he did not deserve me. He told me we were good, and that I shouldn’t keep worrying about lashing out at him. But after that, even though “we were good,” I always felt extremely uncomfortable around him and tried to avoid him at parties and such.

  Now I’m sitting across from him at a restaurant in Montauk. The place of course is romantic, despite what he said. It’s not over-the-top elegant, but it’s definitely upscale, still maintaining the cozy, relaxed, beach atmosphere. We are sitting outside, and the view is beautiful. We did miss the sunset, but the sky is still tinted in pink and light blue.

  I pull a cardigan out of my purse and put it on.

  “We can sit inside if you are cold,” he says, furrowing his brows. Why does he look even cuter when he does that?

  “I’m okay. I don’t want to miss this. When do I ever get to dine on the beach? This place is so beautiful. Do you take all your conquests here?”

  “No!” he says laughing, looking completely unfazed by my inappropriate question.

  Damn you, word vomit. I realize too late what I said. It sounds like I’m trying to inquire about his love life, or that maybe I put myself in the “conquests” category. Man, no filter. Get it together, Prudence. I try to correct myself before he can add further.

  “That didn’t come out right. I meant, do you come out here often?”

  “Hmm, sure. Nice save there, Prudence. No, I don’t come out here often. And no, I don’t bring conquests to this restaurant,” he says, smiling and using air quotes.

  The candle on the table illuminates his face, and I can’t help but notice how handsome he is. Not that I didn't know that before. It's just the first time in years since I have sat across from him. He has some light specs of green in his blue eyes. I have always been a sucker for blue eyes. His mouth is moving, and I realize I missed what he was saying, lost in my daydream.

  “Hmm, sorry, what?”

  “I was just saying, we were in the middle of a conversation in the car. I was trying to get to why I invited you out tonight . . .”

  “What, you didn’t invite me to show me the beautiful scenery? I knew you had an ulterior motive!” I say, feigning outrage and pointing my finger at him. He laughs, and once again I find myself attracted to him, and I have to focus and dismiss any thoughts I might have about him.

  “Like I was saying, you and Biblio might have parted ways, but I can help you out. You know what I do, and you know I’m good at it. Look at James today. I know I contributed to his success.”

  I roll my eyes. I can’t help it. Just hearing the name makes me prickly.

  “I can do the same for you. What I’m saying, Prudence, is that I want to work with you. I want to be your agent.”

  Our waiter comes over just as Ben is finished with his selling pitch. I don’t have time to answer, and we are both distracted by menus and what to order. We let the server tell us all about the specials. I pretend to listen to every word. In reality, I’m too distracted by Ben’s proposal. Even after the waiter leaves and we are left looking at the menus, I avoid his eyes, and I can feel him watching me and waiting for some kind of reaction or response from me.

  “Well, this is disappointing . . .” I say as I look over my menu and pause.

  “What is it? You don’t like the menu? We can go somewhere else if you don’t want seafood . . . I should have thought about it . . .”

  “No, it’s not about the food . . .” I sigh and say, “I thought you brought me out here with a different type of proposal in mind, and instead it’s about work! Bummer!”

  I look up just in time to see his shocked face. I try to keep mine straight, but I can’t keep myself from laughing and hiding my face behind the menu.

  “Just kidding!” I say a little too loudly, and he laughs, never looking away from me. Even when he stops, a smile still lingers on his lips. The waiter comes back with two glasses of water, and Ben takes a sip from his glass and looks at me with a gleam in his eyes.

  “So, this is how you want to play? Don’t worry, I'll get you back!” Uh-oh, I might have awakened the competitive side of him.

  I smile and lower my eyes back to the menu.

  “So, what about my non-indecent proposal? Will you let me be . . . your agent?”

  I smile. “I don’t know, Ben. I’m flattered, of course, that you thought of working with me at this very, very low time in my professional life,” I say in a light tone. “But I don’t think it’s a good idea. I don’t think I would get you the pay cut you are used to. My books do well enough, but I’m not anywhere near the sale levels of other authors you work with. Why would you waste your time with me when you could work with someone else that can sell more?”

  Yeah, I know, I do a wonderful sales pitch, but that’s what I really think. Why would he want to work with me?

  “Prudence, you should know by now that's not what I’m all about. I took a chance on James when no one else would. I liked his first novel and I seriously thought he showed a lot of promise. Then his manuscript was even better than I expected it to be and ended up doing so well! Did you know it has been optioned for a movie?”

  I nod. “Yes, yes I heard,” I say, a little annoyed. “He is a brilliant writer and I’m happy for him, but . . .”

  “You wish he had given you a little more credit. After all, you spent numerous hours revising his work instead of yours. He was pretty ungrateful, despite the support you showed him.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. I don’t know how he knows all this, but it is pretty spot on.

  “Do you read minds?” I ask him. “Yes, I would say that’s pretty accurate.”

  “Did I sound bitter? I didn’t mean to, but maybe it’s just because James dumped me too,” he says, and he does sound bitter.

  I had heard about that, of course. James is just an ungrateful prick.

  “You know what? I heard his new book is not doing so good after all. He must really be missing his ghostwriter by now. I think we should toast to that,” he says, raising his glass.

  I smile widely and clink my glass to his. I don't think I would go as far as calling myself James' ghostwriter, but when you are together, and writing is what you both do for a living, the lines become blurred. You start with just doing some editing, propose some minor plotline changes and then start adding here and there. My name made the acknowledgements, but not in the way that I wanted. I was the first name in a line of friends and collaborators. I still remember how much that stung.

  Eventually, we stop talking about James and work. We have dinner, and the seafood is some of the best I have ever had. I haven’t had scallops this good in a long time. I also drink a few glasses of white wine, because it is oh-so-light and delicious. I know I will regret it later, but now I feel fabulous. As the evening comes to an end, though, he once again brings up working with me.

  “My point is, Prudence, I think you are a great writer, and possibly capable of even better things than those you have accomplished so far.”

  “I think you a
re overestimating me a little. You are looking at a writer who wanted to write the next big novel and ended up writing young adult because it came so easily to her,” I say nonchalantly. “I mean, I enjoy doing it, sure, but I feel I got too comfortable doing what I do. I couldn’t even face the truth, and apparently missed the ‘hints’ my editor was giving me. Then again, if I wanted to write something completely different, would Biblio have been okay with it? How do you write something completely different from what your name is tied to? I guess writing is just like any other job. You start doing something and you get comfortable. It becomes what you know, what you are used to.”

  I realize I’m ranting. I lower my eyes, embarrassed. My fingers start tracing the pattern on the tablecloth. He doesn’t say anything, but I can feel his eyes on me. I keep going with my rambling. “I know it's my fault too. I should have been more aware of what was going on, questioning what I was doing. If I would have brought Biblio an idea for a different book, they probably would have agreed to it.”

  I relax into my chair, slouching a little bit. I stare at the glass of wine in my hand and after a few seconds I take a sip out of it and look up at him. A playful smile appears on his face.

  “Are you done throwing yourself a pity party?” he asks, chuckling.

  “Yes,” I reply, rolling my eyes. I place the glass on the table.

  “Prudence, you can write anything you want. You have enough experience and enough imagination to come up with a story that is not necessarily in the young adult wheelhouse. If you don't want to put your name on it, pick a new name. Any name! There are plenty of well-known authors doing that!” He is right, of course. If I wanted to finally try something different, all I'd have to do is pick a name. Didn't J.K. Rowling write two books under two different aliases for the same reason?

  “I think I could do that. Write under an alias, I mean. This could be exciting. I already have the perfect name!” He laughs at my childish enthusiasm.

  “What would that be?” he asks, seemingly interested.

  “I was thinking Amanda Reese. It’s a perfect plain Jane name.”

  This could work, I tell myself. What a hell of a day! Heck, what a hell of a week. First I “divorce” my long-term publishing company, then I suck it up at a book signing, and third, I end up dining with an old frenemy. Okay, end up is a little harsh, even for Ben. If he didn't invite me out to dinner, I would be just catching up with the girls in our hotel room. I look around and see a girl to my left staring at us. I’m sure she must think I’m the luckiest girl in the world. Her date is not nearly as attractive as my companion for the night, as far as I can tell. Well, I guess she can’t hear our conversation, and doesn’t realize this is a business dinner.

  “I didn’t know you spent your time out here. I never would have pegged you for the Hamptons type. No offense,” I say, changing the subject.

  “None taken,” he says, smiling. “I have been out here since I was a kid. The ocean has always been a big part of my life. I started surfing when I was maybe eight. At first it seemed just something to do during the summer, but as I grew up, it became part of me. I even skipped school to surf some days. I don’t mean to sound full of myself, but I was actually pretty good. I even won several competitions, and I was about to go pro.”

  “So, what happened?”

  “I was seventeen. I had gotten hurt before, but it was nothing like this one time. I basically fell off my board after getting hit by a huge wave and I went underwater. My board hit me in the face. I was losing a lot of blood, and couldn’t get back on my board. This guy surfing by saw I was bleeding, and helped me out. I think I eventually passed out. I just remember waking up in the hospital. I lost four of my front teeth and had to get one hundred and fifty stitches on my forehead. It could have been way worse. I got lucky.”

  I never noticed any scars on his face.

  “Where is it?” He points at a horizontal line on his forehead, right by his hairline.

  I don’t know what makes me get up out of my chair and go to the other side of the table to check it out. I’ll blame the wine for the sudden spontaneity.

  “Let me see,” I ask, leaning down to look at his face up close . . . too close.

  I hold his jaw up and I run a finger across the scar. He seems to be confused and equally delighted by my sudden proximity. He closes his eyes, seeming to relish my touch, then he opens them to look at me, and when I stare back, I suddenly feel self-conscious.

  I give him a playful slap on his cheek and say, “I would have never been able to tell. Looks just like a forehead line.”

  Ben picks up the check, claiming it’s a business expense, and we walk back out to the car. He opens the door, and I get in on the passenger side. He is about to close it, but he stops for a moment and leans in. His face is only a couple inches away from mine. Sitting up in the car, I’m eye level to him, for once. He pauses and grabs my right hand, holding it.

  “Tell me something, why Amanda Reese?” he asks, and I sigh, regretting I said anything at all.

  “Well . . . it’s silly. Amanda Reese is Harry's girlfriend and Sally's friend in When Harry Met Sally. Five years later, neither one of them can remember her name. It's the perfect generic name!” As I say it, I wish the earth would open up and swallow me whole, because I realize I sound like a total nerd.

  “Hmm . . .” he says. “A generic name for a not so generic girl . . .” He kisses my hand and then places it in my lap. He must be teasing me with this gesture, to get back at me for my joke earlier. Still, I can't help but stare at him as he closes the door and circles the car to get in his seat.

  I’m still surprised by his proposal, and I know I need to say yes or no, but I’m not ready to give him an answer yet. This whole day has been kind of surreal. Before we leave, I feel the need to say something.

  “Ben,” I say as I place my hand on his arm. “I really appreciate your offer. I want to give you an answer, but I’m going to need a few days.”

  “Of course,” he says, a wide smile spreading on his face. He knows his pitch had the desired effect. It did peak my interest. I’m almost one hundred percent sure it's not a good idea. Maybe I should just wait it out, work on my next story, and then find an editor on my own. Or I could give self-publishing a try, since so many authors have been extremely successful.

  We’re quiet for most of the ride, listening to the music. I try to look out my window, but it’s so dark, I can’t make out anything. I have lived in New York for years, but I have never been all the way out here. Suddenly, one of my favorite songs comes on, “Together” by The Raconteurs.

  “Oh my God, I love this song!” He turns the volume up right away and I start singing along. I’m not even embarrassed to sing in front of him. Not that I’m this great singer or anything, but it’s one of those songs I can manage to sing without sounding off-key. The wine must have done its job, because I’m relaxed and finally at ease. Yes, it’s definitely the wine. Otherwise I wouldn’t have started a car karaoke session out of the blue in a million years.

  I don’t even care that he is staring at me.

  When the song and my impromptu performance ends, I don’t give him the time to say anything about my vocal prowess, instead, I ask him, “How does one go from being a quasi-pro surfer to becoming a book agent?”

  He exhales a cleansing breath and chuckles, keeping his eyes on the road. “Well, after the accident, I really had to take it easy. It was hard for me and it was hard for my mom. After they rescued me, she thought she was going to lose me. I was out of it for a while at the hospital, I guess. And of course I looked like shit. The doctors said I had to say goodbye to surfing for a while, until I was in the clear. So I had to give myself time to recover. I had to kiss my pro career goodbye, and I promised my mom that she would not have to bury me. To this day, I don’t go out if the weather is stormy or if the water is too rough. Although I’d like to.” He pauses. “Since I could no longer spend my time surfing, I tried to find other hobbies
. I tried playing guitar, but I sucked at it.”

  I laugh.

  “It’s true. I really did,” he says animatedly. “I thought I was going crazy. I didn’t know what to do with myself. My mom had also taken away my skateboard to avoid possible head injuries. Then a teacher at school started recommending more books than the normal coursework would require. He was always so easygoing about it. He’d always say, just give it a try. I think the first book he gave me was The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka. You know, it might have just been it was the right book at the right time, but that started something. He gave me Heart of Darkness, Lolita, Crime and Punishment—all kinds of classics. Before my junior year was over, he had given me most of the senior year books. Anyway, that’s what started it all. I found out I really enjoyed reading. I could easily do it all day. When senior year came around, I aced all my tests since I had read most of the stuff anyway. So, in college, I studied English just because I love literature. I thought about teaching, but when I did that internship at Biblio, I found out there was more about books that I loved . . .”

  He stops mid-sentence and doesn’t elaborate, maybe because he knows I know the rest. He and Cora were interns at Biblio while still in college. He worked there for maybe a year and then went to work at a literary agency. I think he was trying to move up as an assistant, but Cora got the job, and there was no other position available for him at the time. I always wondered why he never went back to Biblio. Sure, he probably makes good enough money as an agent, but Mr. Hunter seems to like him so much. I’m sure he would give Ben a good position with a commensurate salary. I’m a little distracted when he asks me why I left Florida and moved to New York. It takes me a minute to find the right words.

  “I was a little too dark for Florida back in my high school days. All I did was listen to Radiohead, The Smiths, The Cure, and wear black all the time. I didn’t really fit in. Sunny Florida wasn’t really my thing. You can’t get peace, even when it rains. God, the humidity,” I say emphatically. “Why do you think everyone complains about the humidity in Florida? Even when you live there all your life, you deal with it, but it's not something you really look forward to. But you know what’s funny? Although I used to be so dark in my teen years, I ended up writing cutesy sappy teenager romances. My sixteen-year-old self would be so disappointed.”