Chapter One
Ben, February 28
Have you ever lied to someone because it was the right thing to do? I’m not satisfied with how today turned out, but I know it was the right decision. Today, I chose to let a woman I love more than I’ve ever loved anyone go. Let me explain…
I grew up in London as the only son of overprotective parents who were comfortable but not quite wealthy. In my first year of high school, I watched a group of upperclassmen in a government program tour Parliament, then fly off to Washington, D.C. I remember watching them with awe, thinking, That’s what I want to do. I begged my parents for years, and when I was old enough to join the program, they finally gave their approval.
But that summer, the program was canceled due to a lack of funds. I was gutted about it. In frustration, my parents signed me up for a student exchange program, hoping it would satisfy my desire to travel. The idea was simple: I’d live with an American family while their child would live with mine in London. I was approved, and that’s how I ended up spending my final year of high school in the Arizona desert. It’s also how I met Elizabeth Banks.
Liz sat directly to my left in Calculus. I admired her quiet focus and confidence, though I never told her that. While our teacher droned on, my attention frequently wandered. Liz, on the other hand, was always hunched over her desk, furiously scribbling notes—or, I imagined, doodling hearts around some jock’s name. I never asked.
That year I had more confidence than sense. I dated a lot, and probably broke a few hearts along the way. But I never dared approach the smart girls. They intimidated me. I guess that hasn’t changed.
Anyway, I graduated and returned to England, where I chose to pursue a career in engineering. University was an adventure. Three mates and I shared a flat in the city, and we partied like there was no tomorrow. Girls came and went, the “walk of shame” from our door became practically legendary, and I can’t deny that a lot of those girls were from my bed. I hated myself the next morning, but it never stopped me. I became frustrated with the women I met; they always seemed like someone different when they were away from their friends.
Despite my self-destructive habits, I was becoming a decent student. By my third year, I had earned a reputation as someone who went above and beyond on assignments. I never settled for mediocrity.
The most memorable of those assignments was a statistics project where I surveyed women to understand what they looked for in a mate. I decided to get ambitious—half my respondents would be from the UK, half from the US. I divided my data into five age groups and included relationship status to see if there were any patterns.
I know, I’m boring you with the details, but here’s the important part: my old high school in Arizona turned out to be incredibly helpful. One call to the principal, and I was connected with the alumni association president, who handed me a list of contacts. Some of them were surveyed, others helped by reaching out to their networks across the country. By the end, I had responses from over 100 women, covering every age group I needed.
Elizabeth was one of the last to respond. By the time I called her, I already had enough data, but I couldn’t resist including her. I still remember the nervousness I felt dialing her international number.
“Liz, it’s Ben. How are you?”
“Hi, Ben. I’m great. How are you?”
“I’m good, thanks. Appreciate you agreeing to help with my survey.”
“No problem.”
“The survey’s about what women want in a man, so some of the questions might be personal. I promise I won’t attach your name to your answers.”
“Okay,” she said, her voice tinged with curiosity.
“Let’s dive in. Age?”
“Twenty-one.”
“Relationship status?”
“Single.”
“Occupation?”
“College student. Retail sales for now.”
“Living arrangement?”
“College dorm.”
“Roommate?”
“Yes.”
“Male or female?”
“Female. She’s also twenty-one.”