The two weeks after Ben turns in his notice until he leaves are the longest of Leslie's life. He's there, but he's not. She passes him in the hallways. Sees him across the courtyard. Listens to him in meetings. He's inescapable. He's everywhere.
And he's already gone.
It's like living with a ghost—having him so close she can touch him, yet knowing he's beyond her reach. And the loss is so sharp, so acutely painful that she has to stop herself from changing her mind a dozen times a day.
Not that it would matter.
There are some things you can't take back.
[]
On the night before Ben's last day of work, Tom throws him a going away party at the Snakehole Lounge. And Leslie feels awful that she didn't do it herself, but she's having a hard time thinking of his leaving as anything to celebrate.
She still goes, of course. How could she not? Sticks close to Ann and watches as Ben moves through the groups of people with an endearingly disbelieving, kind-of gratitude, shaking hands and saying goodbyes. Scribbling forwarding addresses on coasters and ensuring people have been added to his contacts list. And it strikes her that probably no one has ever done this for him before, that with every town he's left, every move he's made, maybe no one's ever said 'we will miss you' when he goes.
And maybe it's not her right, and maybe it's a little bit cruel, but suddenly she can't stand the thought of him leaving without her saying it, too.
She corners him at the bar, managing to catch him alone for what might be the first time that night. And there's a flicker of something in Ben's eyes that ricochets between real anger and full blown panic, stopping just a hairs-breadth short of either. Then his entire face changes, becoming guarded and defensive in a way that makes her think of the first time she met him—expecting the pain and determined not to let it show.
"Leslie Knope."
The full recitation of her name, the deliberate, artificial, distancing, makes her flinch and for a second she almost loses her nerve. But only for a second.
"Can we, umm, can we talk?"
Ben casts a deliberate glance around the crowded club, then settles his gaze back on her and raises an eyebrow in silent commentary she can read all too well.
"Maybe outside?" she adds.
The bartender brings his drink over at that moment, and Ben takes a long pull on his beer, considering the question, before turning back to look at her, eyes hard. "Sure you want to risk the scandal?"
It's a mocking challenge. A wounded animal lashing out—bitter and ugly and terribly vulnerable. But knowing the cause doesn't make it sting any less, and Leslie has to force herself to hold his gaze, not to strike back or runaway.
"Ben. Please."
And for second she knows he's going to say 'no', can see the intention on his face, the word half-formed on his lips. Then he stops, looks down at her, and something inside him seems to give. He sets his bottle down on the bar with a defeated sigh.
"Yeah, okay. Why not?"
The weather has turned in the two weeks since their visit to Indianapolis, and the crisp fall night cuts through Leslie's summer-weight cardigan, making her shiver the moment they get outside. But she knows if she goes back in to get her trench, she'll have missed her opportunity. So she hunches her shoulders against the chill, determined not to give in.
Wordlessly Ben shrugs out of his windbreaker and hands it over; stopping her instinctive protest with a look that tells her he's a split-second from turning around and walking right back inside if she gives him the slightest provocation.
Leslie takes the windbreaker and puts it on, giving him a tentative smile. "Thanks."
Ben just shoves his hands in his pockets and moves over to the side of the building to get a little protection from the breeze. "What did you want, Leslie?"
A hundred things. She wants a hundred things—wants to run for City Council, wants to win, and she wants to be the kind of person who didn't care quite so damn much about any of it. She wants Ben to have a fantastic successful career and wants him to give it all up for her; wants to keep him and wants to figure out how to let him go. She just wants too many things to have them all.
"I just, um, you know, wanted a chance to say goodbye."
For a beat he doesn't say anything, simply watches her, waiting. When she doesn't continue, he gives a tight jerk of his head and looks away, mouth twisting in a sardonic smile. "Well, okay then."
Without waiting for a response he pushes off the wall and starts to head back into the club.
This can't be it. This just can't be all.
"Wait!"
The word pulls Ben up short, like he's on a choke collar. And he stands silhouetted against the lights from the entrance, body tense, shoulders rigid.
"What do you want from me?" he finally rasps, voice brittle in a way that makes the words crackle and snap, even as it betrays how fragile his control is. The slightest touch, the lightest pressure, and he'll crumble.
She takes a careful step forward, wary of breaking him. "I don't want this to be how we leave things. Do you?"
"Do I want-" Ben murmurs, the words coming out on a breathless, scornful chuckle, like he can't actually believe he's having this conversation. He shakes his head, rubbing a hand along the side of his face. Then almost to himself, he sighs, "You know what? No."
"I thought we could go to JJ's or-"
But he holds up a hand as if to ward her off. "No. I mean no. You don't get to decide this part. How this goes."
"Ben-"
"I'm sorry, but I can't- I can't just go out for waffles with you like everything's okay. God Leslie, it hurts just to look at you. Don't you get that?"
She does. She really does. Because the past two weeks have been agony. Because every time she catches a glimpse of him all she can think about is the way he looked that night, under her, above her, about his hands on her skin, his heartbeat beneath her palm, about all she's losing. And it hurts. Of course it hurts. But that doesn't stop her, because Leslie can't help but think that when he's gone, all she's going to wish is that she'd looked more.
She takes another step forward, tries again. "Ben, I just-"
But at that moment the door to the club swings open and a few twenty-somethings stumble out, cutting off all conversation.
For a long instant, Ben holds her gaze, almost daring her to continue despite the audience.
But she doesn't, and he turns on his heel, escaping back into the club.
Leaves her standing there in the parking lot, clutching his windbreaker around her.
When she gets home that night, she hangs it up in the back of her closet next to his shirt.
Remnants of something she never truly had.
[]
Because she refuses to let that be his last memory of her before he leaves Pawnee, Leslie leaves the triptych of the Harvest Festival she bought last Christmas on his desk early that next morning. Tucks a note between the glass and the frame on the center panel.
A little piece of Pawnee for your new office.
Never doubt you'll be missed.
Ben doesn't acknowledge gift, doesn't seek her out or say goodbye, but a month later she gets a photograph in the mail. Four simple words scrawled on the back:
Thank you.
I'm sorry.
The triptych hangs behind the desk in his new office like it was made to be there.
She calls when she gets it, but he doesn't pick up. Doesn't call back.
And the message in the silence is loud and clear: she doesn't get to decide this part.
[]
Two days after the election results are announced in November a package arrives at her office (former office) via overnight delivery. And the shock of his name there on the return address label causes her fingers to hesitate a fraction too long.
"Dude, open it!" Tom insists.
She does, and her heart stops.
There tucked inside is a new name plate for her desk that's unlike anything she's ever seen. It's obviously hand-worked on what she would guess was found wood, must have been ordered at least a month before the election.
The shape of the branch has been left mostly intact, all it's contours and knots and imperfections lovingly honored with an artist's eye. The "Councilwoman Knope" is cut deep, highlighted in a light varnish that contrasts with the darker color chosen for everything else. It's somehow simultaneously classic and rich, and playful and rough-hewn. It's everything she is and everything she aspires to be.
And somehow he knew.
At the bottom of the box there's a note written in Ben's sharp, angular hand.
Because I never doubted you would win.
Congratulations,
Ben
P.S. I should have said that months ago. Forgive me.
This time she knows better than to pick up the phone.
[]
.
It's more than four years before she hears from him again.
.
[]
She'd be lying if she told you she thought about him every day. She doesn't.
The work for City Council is too hectic, too important. Takes all her energy and concentration until there's barely anything left to devote to unimportant things like breathing or sleep, let alone heartache. Leslie throws herself into it, gives it everything she has and a little bit more, because it matters, because she's waited her whole life for this, because she loves it.
Because in a way she gave Ben up to do this, and she owes it to him not to regret it, not to fail.
Because she'd be lying if she told you she didn't think about him at all.
Sometimes Leslie thinks it would be easier if she could choose it, if she could flip a switch, make a schedule, work it into her day. But it doesn't happen that way. He's like an old injury, intermittent and capricious. She can go months without thinking about him once, can smile and joke and date like any other woman. And then something will happen—a story that would make him laugh, a City Council vote he would have fought, a bad day he could have made better—and suddenly he's there, and it's as painful as if it all happened yesterday.
Ann, beautiful, beautiful Ann, who put the pieces together and came up with the right story and the wrong villain, takes control of her dating life with the focus of a crusader (or possibly a pimp. The name Leslie gives it depends on the day). She organizes parties, sets up dates, drops hints about her new neighbor the high-school principal, until it's everything Leslie can do not to tell her to date him herself (she does actually, but that's another story).
Still Leslie goes along with minimal protest. Has a string of first dates and a number of seconds and even one series that could almost be called a relationship. And she does it in part to appease Ann's fears. And she does it in part because it turns out when she cares less about how her dates go she has more fun (well there was the time she ended up in a lake, and the time with the rabid squirrel, and the time with the lakeandthe rabid squirrel . . . But the point is generally she has more fun).
But mostly she does it because there's a piece of her, a horrible aching piece that keeps hoping Ann's crusade will succeed, that the next guy will be the guy who makes Ben leave her alone entirely.
And then comes Brent, the Hospital's new development officer. Brent who is so deliberately everything Ben isn't (tall, classically handsome, with prematurely gray hair and the confidence to match) and yet occasionally so exactly the same (same incredulous enjoyment of Pawnee, same dry wit) that somehow she manages to stop thinking of him as a statement, as a choice. And for a little while she thinks okay.
Thinks finally.
But it doesn't work that way. It doesn't work that way because neither of them let it. Maybe because they don't want it to, maybe because they can't. She's not entirely sure. But it's easy and comfortable and unchallenging and maybe for awhile it's exactly what they both need. Brent is dependable and undemanding, willing to come to events when she wants him, unbothered when she cancels. They date for two years and yet there's always a casual passivity, a holding back on both their parts. Ready to take what the other can give, not particularly anxious to go searching for more. They work together, they fit each other, but only so much and only so far.
Brent has a ten year-old daughter, a precocious, dark-haired bookworm, he gets on alternate weekends and summer vacations, and despite Jessica's unfathomable and misguided enjoyment of libraries, Leslie knows she could love her all too easily given half the chance. But Brent is careful to keep them from getting too close, to limit the time they spend together, to ensure that Jessica never gets the wrong impression, never asks if she'll be her step-mom.
And Leslie's grateful she never gets the question.
But sometimes she wonders what happened to being tempted to jump off a cliff.
The day they break up feels disconcertingly similar to every other day. They've both seen it coming for months. She's gearing up for the Democratic primaries and even though a run for the Indiana House of Representatives isn't exactly the big leagues, she knows Brent well enough to know he's not going to even chance putting Jessica in the spotlight, not for her. And she doesn't want him to, not for this. So it's mutual and civil and when it's done her strongest emotion is a wistful kind of regret that she'll never get to see Jessica turn thirteen.
That night it's not Brent she thinks about, but Ben. And she's not even surprised. He's always been there, pushed aside, overlooked, but never really gone, like the shirt and jacket that still hang in the back of her closet.
Leslie's never been the type of person to look back, to second guess. The whole process has always struck her as pointless and a little self-defeating. She makes the decisions she makes and she trusts herself enough to own them, embrace them. It's a philosophy that has always served her well, kept her looking forward, focused on the things she could do something about. It's always worked.
But not for Ben.
Ben stays. Ben lingers. There's something raw and undone about them that she can't quite let go of, like an unfinished painting; an incomplete concerto; the undeveloped photograph left on the negative.
And the potential, the possibility, the almost of it, is somehow all the more haunting for everything it could have been and isn't.
Maybe that's why when he suddenly materializes in front of her in the one place she absolutely should have expected him, but somehow failed to anticipate—it feels simultaneously utterly shocking and surprisingly inevitable.
[]
iv.
Southern Indiana Democratic Fundraiser
If someone had told her all those years ago there would be something she didn't like about holding public office, Leslie would have said that person was crazy.
And she would have been right. There's nothing she doesn't love about holding public office.
Running for public office is another story.
Outside of the chance to meet the people she represents, she pretty much hates everything about the process, hates the fights that aren't about the issues, the issues that aren't about the people, the people that aren't about anything other than themselves. And she really, reallyhates asking for money.
She used to be good at this. Well, no, not this, she's never been good at asking for things for herself, for other people yes (she can strong arm pretty much anyone into anything for other people), but not for herself. So this night, circulating through groups of people she doesn't know very well, pretending their donations to the party were out of altruism and they're not spending half the conversation sizing her up as someone to be watched or not? This is pretty much hell.
But as Madison, her overly-pragmatic, yet wonderfully un-cynical campaign manager continually reminds her, this is the unfortunate price of stepping on to a larger stage. And granted the Indiana House of Representatives isn't that much bigger, but bigger it is and more money is needed to step on to it. So here she stands, in the main ballroom of the French Lick Resort and Casino, in too-high heels (because apparently unless you're Barbara Boxer you're not supposed to be this short), pretending she likes this part.
There's a moment around nine when the night almost feels like it's about to take a turn for the better. She's fallen into conversation with Diane Layton, a dynamic, middle-aged woman who turns out to be the director for Women's Studies at the University of Indianapolis. When Leslie mentions Camp Athena her whole face lights up, and she starts naming current students who wouldn't be in her program now were it not for their summers there.
"We need more stories like yours in our state politics. Accessible role-models for the next generation. When you get to Indy next year be sure to give me a call, I'll want to put you on a panel for my students."
Leslie can feel herself start to blush at the assumption she'll win, tries to fight it. "Well we've got to get to the State House first."
"Nonsense, I have it on the best authority not to bet against you."
That makes her blink. Because she just assumed this was happenstance, can't think of a single person this woman might know who would remember her name, let alone have an opinion on her election run. "I'm sorry? Who-?"
"Hello, Leslie."
Oh God. She knows that voice.
This can't be happening. This absolutely cannot be happening.
But Ben's moved to join them, handing Diane a glass of wine and turning to Leslie with an unreadable expression and an outstretched hand, and it feels like a gut-shot, and- Okay. Apparently this is happening.
"It's good to see you," he says in a way that doesn't give her any clue if that's actually true.
He looks so unchanged, maybe a few more lines at his eyes, the suggestion of gray in his hair, but nothing dramatic, nothing memory doesn't airbrush away. He's still slightly boyish, still a little unpolished, still pairing a navy-blue gingham dress-shirt and striped tie in a way that shouldn't work, and he just barely pulls off. Still exactly the same man she remembers.
And yet he's not. It's subtle, beneath the surface. Nothing specific, nothing she can put her finger on, but there's a reserve, a deliberation to him that's new, and she can't tell if that's for her benefit or just who he is now.
Something flickers across his face, and Leslie belatedly realizes she hasn't taken his hand.
She responds on autopilot. Because really what else is she supposed to do? What else do you do when a man you've never quite given up on, never quite gotten over, suddenly appears back in your life and hands another woman a drink?
"You, um, you, too. It's good to see you, too."
If Diane notices the almost tangible awkwardness of the exchange she hides it astonishingly well, picking up the conversational slack with a deft hand. "As I said, I have it on the best authority that you're the state candidate I want my students to watch this year. Honestly talking to Ben you wouldn't even know there was a Democrat running for Governor in this election. It's just Leslie this. Leslie that. Leslie will run the world one day."
Ben winces slightly and half turns to say something in Diane's ear that Leslie can't hear over the circus music in her head, but Diane just laughs and shakes her head. "Nonsense, I've been dying to meet your political crush for months now." She fixes her gaze back on Leslie. "He undersold you by the way. You're marvelous."
That makes Ben drop his head and rub a hand over his face in that way he does when he's frustrated and losing, but there's just the slightest hint of something else there, a kind of amused exasperation, that says this is old-hat, expected and tolerated and maybe just a little bit enjoyed. It's the sort of thing she associates with married couples and best-friends and great working partnerships and she doesn't have the first clue which one this is. And she feels petty for the fact that it matters.
Absently she forces herself to respond to Diane's compliment. "Thank you."
"You know what he's never told me, though?" Ben's head snaps back up like he knows what's coming. "He's never told me how the two of you met."
"You know, I think Leslie needs to-"
But Leslie's already started talking, unaccountably scrambling, voice edged with maybe the slightest-tinge of hysteria. Which is ridiculous because it's such an innocuous story. "We- We worked together, let's see, a little over five years ago?"
Ben nods, and she can feel his eyes fix on her in a way that fills in all the blanks, all the unspoken pieces, makes her skin itch and her heart speed up. She takes a too-big sip of her wine and continues, "Pawnee was in some financial trouble, and he came in from the state budget office to help the city work it out. Really he was invaluable."
For some reason that makes Diane raise a skeptical eyebrow, and she looks from Leslie to Ben and back again like she's puzzling something out. Leslie takes an even bigger gulp of her wine.
When she finally does come to a conclusion, it's not at all the one Leslie expects. "Please tell me he didn't fire you. It was a terrible phase he went through, really we're all very embarrassed for him, but I promise he's in recovery and working his twelve-steps. Ben, make amends."
Ben chokes back a laugh. "I didn't fire her."
Diane narrows her eyes, and he raises his hands in surrender. "All right I tried. Once. Temporary lapse in judgment."
"Tried." Diane repeats.
"And failed spectacularly," he admits with a self-deprecating smile.
Leslie just watches the teasing exchange with the oddest sensation, a strange mixture of jealousy and loss and guilt. Because for a moment he's given his whole attention to Diane, fallen into a comfortable repartee that obviously long-established, that says whatever this is, it's strong and lasting and good for him. And she realizes she's never thought of him as having anyone outside of the people he met in Pawnee, that whenever she's pictured him, he's always been alone, been waiting for her. And she wants to be happier that he's not, that he's happy.
Wants to be happier, but isn't.
". . . No seriously, I want to know, how do you fail to fire someone?" Diane turns to her. "Leslie you have to explain this to me. Was there blackmail, embarrassing photographs, did you just simply say no? Oh please tell me you just told him no."
"Um, something like that." Actually if she thinks back on it, she's not precisely sure what stopped Ben from cutting her job out of the gate (because once the anger and the alcohol cleared it wasn't as though she had any illusions that she was somehow safe), but there was a concert that shouldn't have happened, and service concessions she hadn't wanted to make, and three months worth of budget meetings that somehow left her department relatively unscathed, and telling him no is the only explanation she can come up with.
Her gaze catches Ben's just a second before his slides back over to Diane and suddenly the other explanation comes to her and it's so blindingly obvious she can't breathe (I don't think I've been professional about anything regarding you since the day I asked you if you wanted a beer). Dear god, she needs to get out of here.
"I love it. You just refused to be fired. Oh you're going to be spectacular at the State house."
"That's what I've been telling you. Once Leslie's determined to do something, no one's going to stop her."
Diane touches his arm with a laugh. "Certainly, not you, apparently."
"No." Ben murmurs suddenly serious, his eyes flicking over to meet Leslie's in a way that makes her heart twist, "No, certainly not me."
[]
The evening passes in a kind of haze after that. Ben manages to convince Diane that they can't get away with 'monopolizing all of Leslie's time,' but not before Diane's given her the name of the president of the Democratic student association on campus and promised that she'll funnel Leslie the best volunteers for the summer break, with a conspiratorial, "As an academic, what I lack in money I can more than make up for in slave-labor."
Later Leslie discovers from Madison that whatever Diane's financial status, she's still managed to donate a couple thousand dollars directly to Leslie's campaign fund. And all she can think is she could have been very good friends with a woman like that, but she catches a glimpse of Ben touching Diane's shoulder in silent communication as he moves away to join a different group, and she knows it's not going to happen.
The thought causes a sharp stab of irrational anger to lance through her, because she's never been that kind of woman before. She has entire slogans about not being that kind of woman ('utereses before dudereses', 'ovaries before brovaries' etc.), but here she is, exactly that kind of woman, and she's furious with Ben for turning her into one.
The anger carries her. It may be unfair and misplaced, but it sharpens her focus, lets her cut through the maelstrom of emotions running through her. So she holds onto it, keeps it close, allows it to protect her from the sound of Diane's clarion bell laugh; the sight of Ben across the ballroom, immersed in an animated debate that reminds her just how stubborn he could be; the shock that goes through her when he glances up to find her looking at him and just looks straight back.
It's like reliving their entire relationship in one moment, all the affection and longing and anger and hurt, jumbled together in one turbulent mess. And suddenly she can feel herself standing on the edge of that cliff again, and it's ten times higher now, and she'll never survive the fall. But it's so beautiful and god, she can't remember why she didn't jump.
And if you asked her, she'd tell you it's the anger that makes her pause in the lobby, coat in hand, when she sees him sitting alone at the bar across from the casino entrance (because it was a crappy thing he did, ambushing her like that, and he deserves to be told that).
But really there's every possibility it was that look.
Madison doesn't even blink when Leslie tells her there's someone she wants to talk to, and she'll see her tomorrow. And probably a more experienced campaign manager would be leery of allowing her candidate off the leash, but Leslie switched over to tonic water the moment Diane and Ben stepped away, and she's subjected Madison to the chart on more than one occasion, and quite frankly there were bigger, far more indiscrete fish at this fundraiser. So Madison just shrugs and reminds her about the pancake dinner tomorrow evening out at the Eagleton senior center before saying goodnight.
Leslie has always been a planner. She makes lists, constructs scenarios, creates alphabetized contingency plans for everything from garnering support for the new construction on 'Whitcomb Ave' to the unfathomable but potentially catastrophic possibility that JJ's might one day close.
So how has she never planned for this?
For a second a dozen openings cross her mind ranging from 'Sometimes I miss you so much I feel like I barely function' to 'I didn't deserve to be treated like the villain' to 'Do you love Diane?' and everything in between. But when she opens her mouth what comes out is something else entirely.
"I guess you really did need glasses, after all."
There's a mirror behind the bar, and she can see the moment her voice registers, then the moment he places the reference, it's like a key turning, the tumblers clicking into place one by one, and she holds her breath waiting for what will be unlocked.
Ben looks up from his phone and turns, a hand going self-consciously to the rectangular frame glasses he'd obviously forgotten he was wearing.
"Yeah," he gives a small, embarrassed laugh and takes them off, slipping them into his suit-coat pocket, "Yeah, it turns out I did."
"And now you're putting me in soft-focus? Should I be grateful or offended?"
Ben shakes his head, "Neither. They're for reading. Too much time in front of a computer. You, I can see just fine."
He adds the last with a small, soft smile that Leslie feels herself returning, as her free hand absently moves to smooth-away non-existent wrinkles from her red, raw-silk sheath. And for a moment it's almost as though no time has passed, but then it stretches a beat too long, becoming awkward and stilted. Like dance partners who don't quite remember all the steps.
Belatedly he gestures to the stool beside him in silent invitation.
And even though she's the one who sought him out, Leslie suddenly finds herself backpedaling, offering him an out. Because Ben is a nice guy, the kind of guy who invites you to have a drink with him out of politeness, and she doesn't think she can do socially-obligated small talk. "Oh, I, um, I don't want to intrude, if you're waiting for Diane or need to go meet her or-"
"Diane's playing poker and might be at it for hours. Sit down. I'll buy you something with a sugared-rim, and you can save me from pathetically updating my fantasy baseball team at a bar."
"Well, that is pretty pathetic. Tragic almost."
"It really is." He smiles and gestures to the bar stool again, "Help me Obi Wan?"
She laughs and takes a seat before she realizes she'd made the decision. "A Star Wars reference and Tom's not here. I feel like I should call you a nerd on his behalf."
"Wow it's been a long time since I've heard that."
"Well that settles it." She turns a little to face him and pronounces with as much solemnity as she can manage, "Nerd."
Ben laughs good-naturedly, and nods as if to say he sees how it is now. And for a split-second it's like they're back having a beer at ten-thirty in the morning, and she's calling him Mr. Mayor, and letting herself really see him for the first time. For that split-second it feels like a beginning, like a do-over. And then the laughter fades and his eyes slide away as he takes a deliberate pull on his beer, and she's reminded that this is at most an epilogue, a kind of final passage to book-end their story with bizarre symmetry.
"So, how is Tom?" he ventures after a moment.
"Running a men's clothing boutique. Or emporium. I forget what I'm supposed to call it."
Ben looks horrified. "Dear lord, really?"
"Hey, he dressed you once if I remember."
He winces at that. "Do me a favor? Don't tell Diane that. I'll never live it down."
The way he says Diane's name is so unselfconsciously casual that it throws her off balance, makes her question whether she imagined the look he gave her earlier, and then makes her hate herself for not wanting to have imagined that look.
Avoiding his eyes, she reaches for the flavored-martini list seeking the solace of highly sugared alcohol.
"Leslie?"
"Did you know they have five chocolate martinis on here? I didn't know that was possible. It's kind of overwhelming."
For a second she thinks he's going to protest, push, but then he turns and motions the bar-tender over. Points to his beer bottle. "Can I get another one of these, and-" he looks over at her, "how much do you trust me?"
At the moment, she has absolutely no idea.
Ben takes her silence as acquiescence, "A white-chocolate raspberry martini." He gives her crooked half-smile, "You'll like it. It's basically dessert in a glass."
And suddenly she's angry again, because he's got her completely off-kilter, and she doesn't know where she stands, and there's something wrong about the fact she wants to stand anywhere.
"So, Diane seems nice. How long have the two of you been together?" It's a complete non-sequitor, abrupt and challenging, but if she's going to do this, if she's going to sit here and reminisce with him and let him order her a drink he knows she'll like, she needs to hear it, needs to be able to see the boundaries.
The note of accusation in her voice makes him blink, and for a second he just looks at her. Then as if something's clicked into place, his expression shifts, becoming a funny mix of rueful and embarrassed and maybe just the tiniest bit pleased. "If by together you mean standing in for her died-in-the-wool, entitlement-slashing, Republican, economist husband who, according to Diane, can't be trusted to behave himself in civilized company? About eight years off and on."
"Diane's married. To a Republican." She repeats stupidly, somehow latching on to the most and least important pieces of information simultaneously.
Ben nods, the corners of his mouth tugging up in amusement. "Paul."
"Sorry?"
"His name's Paul. He was my college roommate."
"Diane's married to your college roommate."
"For fifteen years and amazingly they're both still alive."
"Oh," she says, trying to sound neutral and detached, even though she knows the horse is kind of out of the barn on this, but still is the pretense of dignity too much to ask here? "Oh, I thought-"
He cuts her off, no longer quite so amused by the whole thing. "Leslie, did you really think I'd try to convince someone I was seeing to support your candidacy without telling her-" he casts about for the right words, lands on ones he doesn't really like, "that we had a history?"
The bar-tender brings their drinks over at that moment, and she's saved from having to respond. Because now that he's said it out loud the answer is obvious—no, he wouldn't do that—and she feels simultaneously a little silly and terribly exposed by her obvious preoccupation with the issue.
Stalling for time to come up with an appropriately face-saving rejoinder, she takes a sip of her drink. Then takes another. It's exactly as advertised—dessert in a glass. Surprisingly strong dessert in a glass. Ben watches her obvious appreciation of his choice with a smug, self-satisfied expression, and she's not entirely sure that the pleasant warmth uncurling in her stomach is only due to the alcohol.
This is beginning to feel unexpectedly dangerous. Because when she walked over here he was in a happy long-term relationship with a very nice woman who she hated. And now he's suddenly not. At least she thinks he's not, maybe he's got a Republican wife who can't be trusted to behave herself either. Was there a wedding ring, would he wear a wedding ring? And oh god why can she not stop thinking about this? This should not matter so much. This should not matter at all. Damn him and his stupid dorky glasses and good drink selecting skills for making it matter.
She turns to him and glares. "You could have told me."
Ben blinks. "I'm sorry?"
"You could have told me you weren't seeing Diane. You should have."
His face contorts in puzzlement, "At the fundraiser?"
Leslie nods. He shakes his head and laughs.
"What? I don't think it's that unreasonable of a request. I had a lot on my mind without having to decipher your ridiculous hired-escort relationship with your college roommate's wife."
"Wait, so I'm a gigolo now?"
"Whatever," she waves her hand dismissively, "What you call it isn't the point. The point is there is no possible way I should have been expected to figure that out and you should have disclosed it at the beginning."
Ben gives her an incredulous look. "You're kind of serious about this, aren't you?"
She pops one of the raspberries in her mouth and stares him down.
"God, you're still absolutely im-" He bites off the last word and looks away, rubbing a hand across his forehead.
"What? I'm still what?"
"Nothing- I'm just- I'm trying to picture exactly how something like this goes. Do I do it before or after the handshake? As part of the introduction? Talk me through the etiquette of this. I walk up to you and say . . . What? 'Hello Leslie, you look lovely. I see you've met Diane, who I'm not dating, by the way.'" He gives an exaggerated frown, "No, that's a little awkward, isn't it?"
She glares at him. It has very little effect. "How about, 'Hello Leslie. I see you've met Diane. Diane's the wife of my college roommate Paul, who I volunteered to fill in for tonight because my stunningly attractive fiancé is off saving children in Haiti.'"
"Oh, so we're going for a complete disclosure here?"
"Transparency should be the watchword of all modern politics."
"And I'm sure you would have reciprocated. Because it's only polite. So you would have shaken my hand and said 'Hello Ben it's good to see you. I'm here alone because I'm in the midst of a secret passionate affair with the hot, well-built college student who does my landscaping in the summer, and he gets very jealous.'"
"Exactly," she deadpans and they both laugh at the obvious absurdity.
"Well it's good we've got that cleared up," Ben murmurs.
"Absolutely."
Silence descends again, but it's a little more comfortable this time. Ben rolls his beer bottle in his hands. Leslie takes another sip of her martini. Then unexpectedly, he turns and extends his hand.
"Hello Leslie, you look lovely. I'm glad you got a chance to meet Diane, who I am not dating, but is one of my very best friends and likes you quite a bit. I escorted her tonight because we have a lot of fun together, and I'm not seriously dating anyone right now."
She takes his hand with a small smile and no little trepidation, but she was the one who started this and she doesn't get to back out now. "Hello Ben, it's good to see you. I like Diane quite a bit too, but I'm glad you're not dating her. I'm here alone because I'm not seriously dating anyone either."
"So no torrid affairs with college-age landscapers?"
"No. Though now I'm intrigued by the concept."
Ben huffs a small laugh and gives her a warm genuine smile that makes her whole world tilt sideways, and for a moment all she can think about is how much she likes the view. Belatedly she realizes they haven't let go of the handshake and his thumb is absently skimming along the back of her hand.
As if her awareness has prompted his own, Ben stops abruptly and goes to pull away, but her hand tightens around his instinctively, holding him there.
"I've missed you, you know."
It's an unplanned admission, tumbles out unbidden and unwanted, making her vulnerable, making him obligated. But it happens all the same. Because she's carried this with her for four years, tucked away out of sight like a terrible secret, like she wasn't allowed, like it wasn't her right, and it's finally just grown too heavy. So here she is laying it at his feet like an offering without the first clue whether she wants anything in return.
Ben sighs and looks down at their hands, "Leslie- I don't-"
But he breaks off and shakes his head. Then carefully, deliberately, he sets her hand down on the bar and pulls away.
He doesn't go far, just turns back to his drink, obviously trying to gather his thoughts, figure out what he wants to say, and even though Leslie's terrified of what that might be, she feels like she owes it to him to hear it.
"I should have said goodbye before I left," is how he finally starts. He's not looking at her, keeps his eyes firmly fixed downward, at the spot on his beer bottle where he's scratching the label with his thumbnail. "Even after- Well, I should have at least said goodbye. You were right about that."
"I never held it against you. I mean I hated how we left things, but I never held it against you."
He looks up and meets her eyes in the mirror. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
They give each other tentative half-smiles then look away.
"I got the nameplate you sent after the election. It was perfect, thank you." She turns the martini glass in her hands and adds, "I would have called to tell you, but . . ."
"I know." Ben rubs at the side of his neck and sighs, "You should know, the night you won, I picked up the phone to call you, god I don't know, at least five times."
"Really?"
"Really."
"I would have liked that."
They lapse into silence again. Leslie finishes her martini and starts to fiddle with the stirrer. Ben goes back to shredding the label on his beer. Finally he sets the bottle back on the bar with a defeated sigh.
"I missed you, too. Of course, I missed you, too."
"But?" Because there is a 'but,' she can hear it in his voice.
"I don't- Leslie, I never called you when you won because I didn't think it would be one phone call, because I didn't know if I could figure out how to just be friends with you, and I couldn't put myself through that all over again if the answer turned out to be no."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
"And now?"
"Sorry?"
"Do you, um, do you think you could figure out how to be friends with me now?"
She knows it's presumptuous, knows it's demanding and dangerous and probably a really, really bad idea. But all being around him like this has done is make her achingly aware of every space inside her that's been empty since he left, and it's only a little bit about wanting him. It's about stories she's never told him and accomplishments she's never shared. About the fact she wishes she knew if he was happy or if he likes his work or hates his boss. About the fact that it hurts to imagine walking out of this bar knowing she might not hear from him again. Because she misses him with a pain that's almost physical, and really, it's only a little bit about wanting him.
And if it's more than a little bit, well that's her problem.
Ben shakes his head. "Honestly? I still don't know."
"Oh," she whispers and reaches into her purse for her wallet, trying to mask her disappointment and failing miserably. "Okay, I mean, I understand. I shouldn't have-"
He reaches out and puts a hand on her wrist to stop her. "Can you give me another drink to figure it out?"
[]
She gives him two more. Another 'round of beers for both of them with a plate of fried calamari to start absorbing some of the alcohol, followed by ice waters and coffee when they start to feel everything go a little blurry around the edges.
They talk pointedly about nothing. She tells him about Ron's marriage to his third wife who he insists on calling Tamberlee despite the fact she introduces herself as Tammy. But they've made it to their one year anniversary and the only time the fire-department was called to the house there was an actual accidental fire, so Leslie's stopped stocking-up on whiskey, cigars, fire-extinguishers, and medical supplies in preparation for Ron showing up on her door-step.
He tells her about the dog that followed him home in South Bend and never left, and how happy he was to move back to Indianapolis where the winters were milder.
"You're from Minnesota."
"And do you see me trying to go back?"
[]
There's a dangerous moment in the middle when they somehow wind up on the subject of past relationships despite their best intentions.
He dated a woman named Rachel, who handled recruitment compliance for Notre Dame's athletics department, for a year and a half while he was up in South Bend (Leslie immediately imagines her to be stunning cross between Danica Patrick and Anna Kournikova, and isn't sure she hides it well). He says her name with honest, quiet affection, and she makes the mistake of asking what happened.
Ben shrugs. "Julianne finally retired and Craig asked me to take over Local Government Finance in Indy."
He utters the words with an offhand finality that gives her pause, because it's their story and yet it's so obviously not. Her eyes catch his, and she can read the unspoken parts there, the offers he didn't make, the conversations he didn't have, the cliffs he never tried to jump off. She swallows and looks away, caught between real sadness at the possibility that she's partly responsible for that, and a horrible kind of joy at the idea that maybe she really was special.
She tries to reciprocate by telling him about Brent and winds up talking about Jessica more than she intended.
"You miss her, don't you?" Ben asks with genuine sympathy.
And the thing of it is, until this moment she hadn't realized quite how much. "Yeah, I guess- I guess I do."
"She would have been lucky to have you as a step-mom."
Leslie shakes her head. "Brent and I were never- I mean from what I could tell she has a great mother, and Brent is a wonderful dad. Jessica always came first for him. She's a happy kid. I just-"
"Got attached?"
"Apparently," she looks down at the mug in her hands and bites her bottom lip, "It doesn't get any easier does it?"
Ben doesn't say anything.
[]
They push past it with a determination born of necessity because they can't afford to go back down that road, not right now. This thing, this new, half-formed thing they're doing is too young, too fragile to withstand the assault, and she needs it to survive.
So she asks him about his job and listens in open-mouthed astonishment as it sinks in that he now has regulatory oversight for the tax rates and budget of every municipality in the state.
"I'm sorry, are you telling me you've kind of been my boss for a year, and I didn't know? How did I not know this?"
"Has Pawnee tried to change it's tax rate or finance a bond in the past year?"
"No."
"There's your answer."
[]
He gets her talking about the campaign, and laughs when she tells him about poaching Madison from Mayor Gunderson's office after a now legendary city council meeting that somehow resulted in an escaped possum and Madison cutting Tammy Swanson's hair off in front of everyone.
"Wait, why was there a possum?"
"You know what? I don't remember."
"You really hired her because she cut off Tammy Swanson's hair?"
"Have you ever seen anyone else successfully stand up to that woman?"
[]
The night unspools too fast and Ben moves them over to the set of couches in the lobby so he can keep a lookout for Paul who is apparently driving in from Southern Illinois University where he teaches to spend the weekend with his wife and Ben at the resort.
"So they don't live together?"
"Well, they do in the summers. Paul comes in to Indianapolis and teaches a summer course at Butler, and Diane usually goes down at Christmas because Paul's family is over in western Kentucky. But frankly, by September I think they're both happy to have the space."
"I can't imagine-"
"I know, neither can I. It's certainly not my idea of a marriage, and I don't think it was theirs either. But they make it work. And I'm not just saying that because they're my friends. They really, really work at making it work."
Leslie takes a sip of her now lukewarm coffee and grimaces. "It must be hard though."
Ben shrugs. "Well, I'm sure it's no walk in the park, but- I don't know, they make each other so happy, you know?"
Five years ago, six months ago, Leslie would have said she didn't know. Because there's an order, a way things are supposed to go. Because to her relationships have always been hothouse flowers—delicate, exotic creations to be nurtured and tended, requiring careful attention and exactly the right growing conditions. But sitting across from Ben is like finding a crocus in the snow, a resilient, seemingly impossible thing that has no business being alive.
And yet there it is all the same.
"I can imagine."
It comes out more wistful than she intended, and Ben's face freezes. Leslie shuts her eyes and flushes in embarrassment. She can't keep doing that. Not while she's trying to convince him that they can be friends, that they can be something, that there's an option that doesn't include never seeing each other again. It's unfair to him and dangerous for her, and she just cannot keep doing that.
There's a clink of a mug on the coffee-table and a rustle that says he's standing up. Dammit.
Dammit, dammit, dammit.
"Ben-"
"Excuse me, there's Paul."
Paul turns out to be a teddy bear of a man with a professor's full beard and kind eyes. He greets Ben with a tired smile and a one armed hug, and for a few minutes Leslie can tell she's been completely forgotten.
Finally they make their way back over and Paul slumps down on the empty sofa with a contented exhale and looks up. "So how much money am I out?"
Ben holds up his hands and shakes his head. "Oh no, I am not getting in the middle of this. The last time I told you anything, I had to endure an entire tirade about how it's not your money at all. I think she actually gets angrier at me than you."
"That's because you were brought up properly and should know better. He's just an insufferable heathen." Both Paul and Ben turn to find Diane standing a few feet away holding up her phone. She looks down at it and reads. "Woman, I have arrived. Attend me." She crosses her arms. "Seriously?"
Even Leslie can see that she's barely holding back a brilliant smile.
Paul shrugs and plays along. "I am but a weary traveler in need of succor. But if you're too tired, I passed some young and impressionable cocktail waitresses who-"
Diane cuts him off with a slap to the back of his head and long kiss.
Ben gives an exaggerated cough, and then another.
Finally Diane pulls away and looks over at him in mock surprise. "I'm sorry dear, I didn't see you there."
"Very funny. But really-" he gestures in Leslie's direction, and Diane face lights up in delight.
"Leslie! You're still here." She settles down beside Paul on the couch, "Husband, this the woman running for the Indiana State Assembly that Ben's always talking about."
"You make it sound like I'm stalking her. I talk about other people, you know."
They ignore him, and Paul extends his hand across the coffee with a smile. "He really doesn't. It's very nice to meet you Leslie. How much money did my wife give you?"
"Behave."
Leslie takes his hand with a smile and tries her best to settle in to the repartee. "I think I'm going to have to follow Ben's lead on this and not interfere with the sanctity of the home."
"That much, huh?"
"We thank you for your generous support."
"Well then," Paul leans forward, and rests his elbows on his knees, eyes glittering, face serious, "as a contributor, I have a few questions."
Ben and Diane react simultaneously. "No!"
"What? Free and frank discourse is the bedrock of all civilization. I'm sure Leslie's more than capable of holding her own."
"I'm sure she's capable of wiping the floor with you, but it's late and watching you discourse with another woman is not what I was looking forward to tonight."
"But I have legitimate concerns."
Diane sighs and rolls her eyes. "Leslie, do you golf?"
"Yes, but-"
"Come golfing with us tomorrow. Paul apparently has serious, legitimate concerns, and it will be good for him to get his ass-kicked by someone new. Besides Ben's a terrible golfer, he could use the help."
"I'm not a terrible golfer. I don't play. There is a difference."
"Keep telling yourself that." She looks back over, "So eleven sound good? It's a beautiful course."
Leslie swallows and glances at Ben who looks a little bit like he's being slow-marched to his execution. And she supposes that's her answer, isn't it?
"You know, I'd love to, but there's so much going on with the campaign, and it's a forty-minute drive back to Pawnee. In fact, I shouldn't have stayed this late." She stands and extends her hand, "It was wonderful to meet you both, and really thank you for the support."
Ben moves to join her. "I'll walk you out."
Leslie waves him off. "I'm valet parked, and you all need to catch up. I'll be fine."
She turns away to keep him from reading the lie on her face.
[]
Her phone rings while she's standing outside by the valet desk and there's a surreal moment when she can't actually process the "Ben Wyatt. Pawnee City Government," that flashes across her screen, until finally it sinks in that he must not have changed his cell number, either.
She hits the answer key with trembling fingers. "Hello?"
"So I'm about four years late, but I wanted to call and say congratulations on the election."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Also, I need your advice on something."
She bites her lip, closes her eyes and prays. "Well, I'm usually pretty good with advice. What's up?"
"I ran into someone tonight. Sort of an old flame."
"Really?"
"Yeah, and it was really great to see her, and my friends think she's amazing. And it felt good you know?"
"Yeah, I know."
"But the thing is . . . she kind of broke my heart last time."
It hits like a sucker punch and Leslie swallows hard, trying to hold back the tears. "Well, I'm- I'm sure she didn't want to. In fact, I would bet it broke her heart, too."
There's a long pause as he digests that piece of information, and then he exhales. "Yeah. Okay, so here's my dilemma. Like I said, my friends really like her, in fact they invited her to come golfing tomorrow. And when she left, I realized I want her to come, too. But, I don't know, with all of that history do you think it's possible for the two of us to just be friends? Because I'm not sure I can do this any other way."
And there it is, up front and above board and nicely classified. Take it or leave it.
Dear god, this has to be the stupidest, most reckless thing she's ever done.
"I think, um, I think that she would be very lucky and very grateful to have you as a friend, and if she has any sense at all she'd be sure not to jeopardize that."
"So you think I should go after her?"
"I don't know. Do you want to try to be friends?"
"You know I've been thinking about it all night, and I honestly still don't know."
"Oh."
"Yeah. But here's the thing-" Absently, she registers a door opening behind her and suddenly Ben's voice isn't just on the phone. She turns to find him standing at the hotel entrance still holding his cell-phone to his ear, staring at her.
Her heart speeds up at the sight of him. "There's, um, there's a thing?"
"The thing is . . . I'm actually a really terrible golfer, and she's pretty good."
She laughs. "Well that-, that does change everything."
Ben smiles "It does, doesn't it?"
"Definitely. You should definitely go after her."
"You think?"
She nods, "If for no other reason than to save yourself the embarrassment."
"Yeah that's what I thought, too. Okay, I'm gonna go for it."
He ends the call. Walks over to her.
"Hey."
Belatedly Leslie realizes she's still holding her phone to her ear. Drops it awkwardly. "Hey."
"So I, um, I thought about the whole friends thing, and I called and got advice from someone whose opinion I really respect, and-" he shrugs, "I think you should come tomorrow."
"You sure?"
He shakes his head. "No. But come anyway. Okay?"
She smiles.
"Okay."