[serial] Coping Skills, Part 2 of 4

After eight months apart, Lindsay, recovering from a breakdown, runs into Ben again and tries to mend their relationship.

Here’s Part 2 of Coping Skills! If you missed Part 1, check it out here:

[serial] Coping Skills, Part 1 of 4

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Warnings

past suicide attempt, past abuse, pregnancy

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Erin’s hard, pregnant belly presses against Lindsay’s stomach as they hug. “Oh my god,” Lindsay says. “It’s so good to see you.”

“You too.” Erin pulls away and frees herself from her peacoat and massive tartan scarf. They slide into booths on opposite sides of the table. Lindsay’s Sapporo is already half gone; Erin is fifteen minutes late and blames it on traffic, even though there’s never traffic.

The restaurant is called Mr. Cho’s. It touts being “fine dining” but it used to be a Pizza Hut and maintains a significant portion of its former life’s décor: red vinyl booths, salad bar, brownish transparent water glasses and small plastic plates. Neon signs blink in the windows advertising American beer. Glittery Chinese scrolls hang on the walls.

“How have you been?” Erin asks, shapely dark eyebrows raised and distressingly smooth face in a moue of concern.

“Good.” Lindsay nods. “Better. You?”

When it’s clear she’s not going to expound, Erin pours herself a glass of water and starts a rapid-fire monologue about her own life. While she talks, the door opens and cold air rushes in. Lindsay glances up to see a short, youngish woman with red hair, wearing a fur-topped coat and high heels. Following close behind is Ben Shepherd. The woman smiles and holds up four fingers. The host leads them to a table across the restaurant. Lindsay tracks them, heart rate spiking. Ben pulls out the woman’s chair for her. He shoulders off his old bomber jacket, the one Lindsay often buried herself in while they shared a joint on his front porch. It evokes the stench of Lucky Strikes and old leather. Underneath, he’s wearing a light blue button-up, no tie, pressed dress pants and shiny shoes. His black hair curls into ringlets, messy from the wind, though there’s been a clear attempt to style it into something manageable. It’s cut differently than when she saw him last—shorter on the sides now, longer on top.

The woman gives off femdom vibes. Maybe he’s attending a munch. Of course Ben would be out looking for someone new by now. Lindsay hasn’t spoken to him in eight months. Or maybe he’s out with coworkers or clients. She wouldn’t know; she never asked him what he did for a living.