Your Voice or Mine

Pulling into the parking lot, Quinn realizes she hadn’t thought about how public this place is.  How is someone like Ben O’Leary supposed to eat here in any peace?

She wonders that, but clearly he does a better job of staying incognito than she would have thought.  The restaurant is about as crowded as she would’ve expected for somewhere so popular, the hostess rightfully frazzled when she looks up from the computer.

“How many?”

“Oh, um…” honestly she isn’t sure.  Would any of his people be here? Had he already gotten a table?  This is starting to feel very poorly planned and the hostess does not have the time. 

“In your party, can you tell me how many are in your party?”

“I think we might have a reservation.” That’s typically how interviews went anyway, particularly with the celebrity types. “Maybe under Quinn?”  She’s almost positive he wouldn’t want to use his own name.

“Nope.” The voice comes from right behind her and she jumps about a foot in the air.  Leaning over her shoulder is a very unsubtly bespectacled and baseball capped Ben O’Leary.  “We have a table in the back.  The uh, way back,” he raises his eyebrows at the hostess from behind his sunglasses, “if that’s uh, a thing that you’ll know what I mean.”

“Oh, Mr. O’L—”

“No!” He shouts over her, quick and small, and honestly a little crazy.  The hostess shrinks back. “Sorry, yes that is correct, but no, let’s not... say it.”  He raises his eyebrows again and she nods slowly.

“Of course, my apologies sir.” 

“No, no apologies necessary, really.” Ben tries waving it off, only stopping when he realizes his frantic movements are drawing more attention to himself.  Quickly steering Quinn by her shoulders, they pass through the restaurant and kitchen into a small room where a two top is set up with silverware and a flower. It’s not until they’re standing in front of it that he seems to realize he’s touching her. Lightly pushing her towards a chair, he pats her shoulders stiffly and reaches for her seat before halting, arm outstretched.  “You don’t want me to...?” He points at the chair and she forces back a laugh.

“I’ve got it, thanks.”

“Right.” Clearly he’s not surprised, and she quietly rolls her eyes at his assumption as she pulls the chair out herself.  Getting comfortable, Ben pushes a menu at her from across the table.  The food isn’t her typical get, but she quickly spots a couple of options that look alright and the sheer array of milkshakes makes her heart skip a beat.

“What are you getting?” He’s looking hard at his menu, and his anxiety only makes her more confused. She leans forward, noticing his focus intensify as she gets closer.

“A banana milkshake, or— I don’t know—” she glances back down at the menu, “all of them. The Portobello burger looks good.” Looking back up at him, she finds his eyes waiting for her.

“You’re a vegetarian?”

“Only when I’m in the states.”  He tilts his head, confused. “You ever been in a meat packing plant?”

“Never.”

“Well if you want to keep enjoying your food, don’t.”

“But only in the states?”

“Only in countries where the people making the rules care more about money than morality.”

“Oof.” Ben collapses back in his chair, almost like he’s taken a hit, a hand slapping against his stomach, wounded. “You just have these things on reserve don’t you? Where do you keep them?” Quinn snorts and Ben’s smile widens. “It can’t be good for you.”

“I’d like to think it’s not about me.” When he doesn’t seem to know how to respond, she shrugs. “Plus I think my grays are actually coming in pretty even.” Running a few fingers through her hair, she pulls the front most piece forward, showing off the silvery streaks that her mother always tugs at and threatens to cut away in her sleep.  Ben seems to come back to himself, grinning.

“Mr. O’Leary!” An older gentleman with a cap of thin gray hair emerges from the kitchen. His arms outstretched, he has the kind of smile you get when you have a famous person at your restaurant.  “We could not be more pleased to have you here, truly an honor!”  He comes over to their table, shaking his head emphatically when Ben begins to stand.  “Please keep your seat, don’t trouble yourself!  Really, how polite, but don’t even think of it.”  Despite all this, Ben looks torn, butt halfway out of his chair. “I’m Sid, and this is my humble establishment. What can we fix up for you, huh?” Clapping a hand on Ben’s shoulder, he turns his wide smile onto Quinn.  His expression stiffens for a moment, clearly trying to identify her, racing through movies and tabloids in his head.

“This is my friend Quinn.”  Giving up on trying to stand, Ben plops himself back down.

“Of course!  Of course, you don’t have to tell me who this is!  Quinn, what a true honor.”  Assuming she’s another celebrity, he takes her hand off the table and does a small bow, Quinn grimacing reflexively.

“Thanks. The honor,” she looks at Ben, “the honor is ours.”  She finishes lamely, and the man shakes his head, waving his hands dramatically.

“Please, no! Oh, you are too kind. For the two of you, whatever you want, on the house!”

“Sir, we couldn’t possibly—”  Ben tries, but is interrupted, and Quinn is caught off guard by the look of embarrassment on Ben’s face.

“I insist! Tell me, what are you having?”

“I’ll have the Portabella burger.  And a milkshake, but I can’t decide.  Which is your favorite?”  She asks, trying to pull some of Sid’s focus from Ben for a moment.

“How fun!  Our Hawaiian milkshake is a bestseller.”

“That sounds perfect.”

“Wonderful! And for you sir?”

“I’ll do an unsweetened iced tea and the grilled chicken wrap.”

“Of course, grilled chicken only,” he says while taking their menus, “I remember that interview.  Should try that myself.” He laughs, patting his round stomach.  “Well, I’ll be right back with all of that, you just yell for me if there’s anything you need!” Flashing them both a final smile, he’s away in a flourish.

“You should post about this place later or something.”

“Online? Why?”

“I don’t know, he’s giving you a free meal, seems like a little press might be a nice way to return the favor.”

“This place isn’t exactly hurting for publicity.”  Ben says, and Quinn shrugs.

“You’re not exactly hurting for cash, but we’re still eating for free.”

“Huh.”  Ben’s frowning down at the table.

“Wasn’t trying to be a dick or anything—”

“No, it’s not that.  It’s just, I never would have thought of that.  We get offered this kind of stuff all the time and it’s always… it’s the worst.”  He looks up, wide eyed. “Not that I’m not grateful!  It’s just, like you said, I have the money, really I’m the last person who should get a free meal.  But I uh, I don’t think I ever would have thought of that.”

They’re interrupted when Sid bursts back into the room, laying their plates in front of them and asking a full three times if there is anything else he can bring them. There’s a beat of silence once he’s left and Quin decides to use it.

“Why am I here?”

“Yes.” Ben nods at the chicken wrap he had just picked up off his plate, immediately putting it back down. “To business.”  Rubbing his hands together, he takes a deep breath and looks her right in the eye.  “You were trying to tell me something when you got kicked out.  I want to hear what it was.”

“You mean an apology?”

“No!  No, you were talking about the joke—” he seems to think better of his phrasing, “the thing that I said.  How you thought it wasn’t okay.  I want to know why.”

Thought it wasn’t okay has Quinn’s pulse kicking up, her anger spiking, but as he sits across from her, she realizes that he’s actually waiting for an answer

“Okay.” She has to think for a moment.  This is where she struggles the most; when she doesn’t get what the misunderstanding could be in the first place.  So from the beginning then. “What I think it’s easy to forget in your industry is that these people are your coworkers.”

“But she’s not, Clara’s my friend!”

“You’re saying that like female friendship and misogyny are mutually exclusive, and I’m telling you now, that isn’t true.” 

“I agree, but you talk to your friends differently than you talk to your coworkers.  Framing our relationship that way just isn’t accurate.”

“Fine, that’s still— imagine you’re working in an office— have you ever done anything besides acting?”

“Of course!” He seemed offended and she couldn’t imagine why.

“What did you do?”

“I stocked some shelves in high school. Was a bartender for a while.”

“Okay, so imagine you’re working at the bar.  You’re on the same shift as a woman you consider to be a very close friend of yours.  It’s a crazy busy night, strangers pack the bar, and she’s telling a story about how one night at work she… “ Quinn takes a moment to think of something, “spills water all over her white top. Your female friend says what a shit day at work that was and you yell, for all the strangers in the bar to hear—”

“But I didn’t yell it to a bunch of strangers, I said it to one stranger— you— and one of our mutual friends.”

“And the three cameras were there for what?  Posterity?”

“No, but…” He brushes a hand over his forehead, through his hair. “The people watching that, they know us.  They know we’re messing around.”

“Do you really think your fans know you?  Know exactly who you are?”

“They know I wouldn’t… they know me well enough. Well enough to know I wouldn’t treat her like that.”

“Like what though?  You’re asking me these questions, but you have this image in your head of what kind of guy you are and so it must not be possible that the answers are different from what you want them to be.”

“What kind of guy I am?”

“The good guy.”

“But you don’t think so.  You think I’m an asshole.”

“Okay hold up. I didn’t say you’re an asshole.” This has his attention.

“Maybe not said. Implied, I guess.” 

“You said a bad thing, that doesn’t make you a bad person. What you’re like in your day to day, I have no idea. Whether or not you’re an asshole, I mean, I’m not qualified to answer that.”

“That was… nicer than I expected.”

“‘Cause you think I’m an asshole?”

“No! Not, ya know— maybe… straightforward?”

“Sure. Listen, I’m still not sure I understand what you’re trying to get out of this.”

“I’m not sure I know either.”  He looks down at his plate, contemplating.  “But I think— I think that may have been it?”

“What was it?”

“What you said just now… that I’m not—”

“Wait, is that why I’m here? Because you needed me to say you’re not a bad person? So you wouldn’t be in trouble anymore!?”

“No!  I mean, not exactly—”

“Holy Christ, you’ve got the owner of this restaurant tripping over himself for you, getting this meal for free, everyone here would wait in line for hours to take a picture with you and one person tells you, you suck—”

“You said I didn’t suck!”

“—and you have to have a full meal with them!?”

“Can you just stop for a second! I—”

“You are that afraid of the idea that someone doesn’t like you, that you would drag a stranger all the way out here—” The look on his face, just like back at the hotel. “You know what, forget it.”  She gets up, and he follows her, like it’s a dance, and she doesn’t even try not to roll her eyes. Her purse swings wildly as she grabs it off the back of her chair, and she’s almost out the door, but she can’t quite bring herself— turning around, Quinn points a punishing finger right at the center of him. “You didn’t bring me here to learn something, you brought me here to make yourself feel better.  But I’m not the one who decides if you’re an asshole Ben, you are.”