by Cassia Leo
Even hearing my dad’s nickname for Instagram gives me insta-paranoia. I fear Ben might hear everything we’re saying through the wood-paneled walls of our house, across our side-yard and his, and through his bedroom window — the one I used to climb through when we were still hiding our relationship.
I wonder if my dad knows Ben is back.
“You okay, possum?” my dad asks, setting the milk down on the counter.
“Louisa’s not very bright,” I remark. “Mason doesn’t care who she’s with. He just wants her to keep her loser boyfriends away from Gracie. I’m sure the judge will understand that.”
My dad smiles. “That’s not how it works. Dating losers is not reason enough for the courts to come between a mother and child. Mason has plenty of reason to be anxious. You definitely should take Gracie with you to the beach.”
“I will. Is Hunter coming back this week?” I ask, knowing how upset it made Mason when our younger brother didn’t return from San Francisco in time for Father’s Day last week. If he doesn’t make it back for Fourth of July in nine days, Mason might turn into a human firework.
Mason had to give up his minor league baseball career to focus on getting custody of Gracie, who was conceived during a one-night-stand. Hunter graduating from Sonoma State last month with multiple major league offers really hit Mason hard. Finding out he was first round draft pick for the Giants was like setting off a sarin-gas grenade in our house. The atmosphere became so toxic that Hunter decided to go to San Francisco a couple weeks ago to party with his new major league friends. If he isn’t back in time for Fourth of July next week, Mason might spontaneously combust.
Not to mention, it will break my parents’ hearts.
“I don’t know when Hunter’s coming back. That is the million-dollar question, possum.”
Once I’ve filled my thermos, I head upstairs, all the while trying not to think about Ben’s offer to help Mason, or the new über-sexy scruff he was sporting. Last night, I was flabbergasted when Mason accepted the business card with the contact information for Will Abernathy, Esq. I thought he would toss it in the trash or burn it to ashes. But I should have known, just as Ben obviously knows, that Mason will do anything for his daughter — possibly even accept help from the one person he hates more than Louisa.
I enter Gracie’s room, admiring the lilac walls I painted and frilly white linens I picked out for my two-year-old niece. Kneeling beside her toddler bed, I gently wake her by brushing her soft, light-brown curls out of her face. She opens her hazel eyes slowly and, as soon as she sees me, her face scrunches up in an adorable grin.
“Good morning, angel. Want to go to the beach with your auntie?”
She gasps and nods enthusiastically, then sits bolt upright. “Is Daddy going?”
“No, sweetie. Daddy has to work at home today. It’s just us girls. Is that okay?”
She tilts her head and puts her tiny finger on her mouth as she ponders this, then nods in agreement.
Once she’s changed into her bathing suit and I’ve gathered as many beach toys and kid snacks as I can stuff into my tote bag, I grab the spare car seat off the shelf in the garage and strap her into the back of my Beetle. As I pull out of the garage and onto Beach Avenue, I try to resist the urge to glance in the direction of Ben’s house, but I just can’t resist. And I immediately regret it when I lock eyes with Ben as he steps out onto the porch.
He’s shirtless, wearing nothing but a pair of low-slung jeans and a sleepy expression that gives me butterflies. I’ve seen that expression countless times. It’s almost a Pavlovian response when the corners of my mouth curl upward. Ben’s face splits into a gorgeous grin, obviously pleased to see me smiling instead of scowling.
What am I doing?
I quickly turn away and drive off as fast as I can. When I arrive at Michelle’s house, she’s already outside waiting for me. She’s wearing a large-brimmed beach hat that shades her face, a colorful boho poncho protecting her slender shoulders, and sunglasses to shield her eyes from the dangerous ultraviolet sunlight.
She hops into the passenger seat and smiles when she sees Gracie in the back. “Good morning, Gracie. I didn’t know today was a girl’s day out. You are looking fierce! High-five, girl,” she says, holding out her hand.
Gracie beams as she smacks Michelle’s hand. “Fierce!”
Michelle lowers her sunglasses to get a better look at me. “And look at you… You’re looking pretty fearsome yourself.”
I smile as I pull out of Michelle’s street onto Highway 1. “Really? I wanted to try something new with my hair, but it didn’t turn out the way I wanted it to.”
“A new hairstyle?” she replies, sliding her sunglasses back in place. “And where did you get the idea for this new hairstyle?”
I run my fingertips over my dark hair, feeling the soft grooves in the mermaid French braid that trails down the back of my head and sweeps over my right shoulder. It took me forty-five minutes to do my hair this morning, which is about thirty-five minutes longer than usual. Probably why Michelle wants to know where I found the idea for this new hairstyle. She knows me too well.
“Pinterest,” I say casually.
She’s silent for a long, excruciating moment before she finally replies, “Well, you look fierce,” she says, glancing in Gracie’s direction before she whispers, “as fuck.”
When we’ve found a spot in the private parking lot at Portuguese Beach, Michelle carries Gracie while I grab my bodyboard and beach bag. There are too many rocks at this beach to surf safely, but bodyboarding is pretty low-risk. We set off to find a prime sunbathing location near the water. I smile as my sandaled feet sink into the cool sand. I love early morning trips to the beach.
“No camera today?” Michelle remarks as we lay out our towels and unfold a couple of beach chairs about twenty meters from the water’s edge.
“I’d rather not think of anything work-related,” I reply plopping down into a chair. “I saw him outside today.”
Michelle kneels on a towel and begins applying Gracie’s sunscreen. “What was he doing? Taking selfies?”
I snort. “I think he was just watching me leave.”
She sneers. “Ugh. Why the hell did he come back?”
I shake my head as she hands me the bottle of sunscreen. “I don’t know, but I hope it’s nothing serious. Like, what if something’s wrong with Frank?”
“No way,” Michelle replies, dismissing the idea that Ben’s dad might be sick. “Frank is solid as a horse. With any luck, he’ll outlive Ben.”
I chuckle, though I know something about Frank that Michelle doesn’t know.
After Ben and I broke up three years ago, I worried that Frank would no longer be friendly with me. I thought at best we’d turn into cordial neighbors. I learned quickly I had nothing to worry about.
Frank continued coming over for family poker night once a month and I still went over there every once in a while to give him feedback on his zombie comic. Occasionally, Frank and I still went out for brunch at The Dunk on Sunday mornings. The last time we went to The Dunk, he had a major coughing fit on the way home. While we were stopped at a traffic light, I watched him lower the driver’s side window of his Prius and spit out a pretty sizable glob of bloody phlegm onto the street.
I pretended not to notice, because I didn’t want to pry. Honestly, I assumed he just had a bad cough and didn’t feel like going to the doctor. But that was only three weeks ago. Now Ben is back very suddenly and with a vengeance. I really hope this is all a coincidence.
After Gracie and I take a dip in the shallow waves, I set her up with some buckets of seawater and sandcastle building tools while I take a seat on my beach chair to enjoy the view and the breeze on my skin. As I watch Gracie so intensely focused on making a perfect castle, I try not to let my mind wander to the mental image of Ben standing on his porch shirtless, scratching his new scruff and showing off the V carved into the base of his abs. I’ve successfully avoided seeing Ben for
three years by averting my gaze when I’m standing in line at the grocery checkout and never going on celebrity gossip websites or social media.
He’s been back less than one day and I already went on Pinterest this morning. He’s already invading my every thought. He’s like brain cancer. Very fucking sexy brain cancer.
“Hey, Char.”
My muscles tense at the sound of my name, Charlotte, shortened to Char — pronounced with the sh-sound at the beginning. Everyone calls me Charley, except my dad, who will probably call me possum until I’m old and gray. Ben is the only person who calls me Char.
Ben steps around our chairs until he’s standing in front of us, looking down at Gracie. “Is that Mason’s baby?” he asks as if we’re on speaking terms.
Michelle shakes her head as she promptly covers her face with her poncho. “I’m staying out of this.”
Ben smiles at Michelle’s words. “You’re looking good, Michelle,” he remarks.
I try not to let the sting of jealousy show in my face. Then, I laugh as Michelle flips him the bird. But when I turn back to Ben, the sexy look on his face stops me cold.
“God, you’re fucking gorgeous when you laugh,” he says.
I roll my eyes. “Watch your language,” I reply, nodding toward Gracie.
“Shit, sorry,” he says, then he realizes his mistake. “Ah, fuck!”
“You’re bombing, Benjamin,” Michelle mutters through her poncho.
I press my lips together to keep from laughing.
Ben sits down on the sand next to Gracie. “You want some help with your castle?” he offers.
Like a good girl, Gracie looks to me for permission and I nod, which brings a huge smile to her face. She nods at Ben, and he begins helping her pack damp sand into a bucket. I try not to visibly swoon, but my insides are break-dancing.
“Did you give Mason that card?” he asks.
I grab my thermos out of my beach bag and take a swig before I reply. “Why are you here, Ben?”
He’s silent for a while before he finally replies. “My dad has lung cancer,” he says, looking up to see my reaction.
I grit my teeth against the instant wave of emotion that crashes over me. “You’d better not be lying to me.”
He narrows his eyes. “You think I’d lie about something like that?”
Michelle uncovers her face to look at me, but I bite my lip to keep from crying. “You okay, honey?”
I nod hastily and draw in a deep breath to quell the storm of mixed emotions raging inside me. On one hand, I don’t want Ben anywhere near me. On the other hand, I’m so glad he chose to come back to be with Frank. Frank doesn’t deserve to be alone in that house, surrounded by memories of his deceased wife, at a time like this.
“Is he gonna do chemo?” I ask, trying to sound as casual as possible. I don’t want Ben knowing how close Frank and I still are. But judging by the skeptical look on his face, Ben is not buying my calm and composed act.
“It’s too late for that. He has less than five months,” he says, a hard edge in his voice. “Oh, fuck!”
“Hey! Language!” I remind him, but he doesn’t respond.
His jaw muscles clench as he glares at something behind me. “I’m sorry, Char. I didn’t know they’d get here so soon.”
Looking over my shoulder, my heart stops when I see a fat guy with a ponytail and a long-lens camera kneeling on the edge of the cliff behind us while taking pictures.
“I’ll make ‘em leave,” Ben says, brushing sand off his cargo shorts as he gets to his feet.
“Don’t bother,” I say, stuffing my thermos into my bag. “We’re leaving.”
“You don’t have to leave because of one paparazzo,” he replies incredulously.
I shake my head and laugh. “Jesus Christ, Ben. This stuff,” I say, pointing at the guy, “isn’t my life anymore. This is your life. Leave me out of it.”
“Don’t do that,” he says as I begin gathering Gracie’s toys. “I’ll leave so you can stay. Don’t make her cry.”
Gracie looks up at me with her puppy-dog eyes and my shoulders slump as I let out a huge sigh.
“Bye, Ben.” I don’t look at him as I say the words. I don’t want to encourage anymore interaction. The sooner he leaves, the fewer bathing suit pics I’ll see of myself in the tabloids.
But just as I begin to think he’s taken the hint to leave now, he squats down next to me, his lips and scruff brushing against my ear as he whispers, “You look hot as fuck in that bikini, kitten.”
Then, he’s gone. Leaving me with a painful ache between my legs and a crushing longing in my chest. And just like that, I’m fucking falling.
Ben is like the ocean. He’s beautiful, powerful, capable of lulling you to sleep with his song. He’s also unpredictable, full of secrets, and easy to drown in.
Maybe after four months, it’s finally time to have sex with Tyler. Or maybe I should just test the waters by taking him a quart of Michelle’s chili.
5
A Couple of Kids
Then
When I was thirteen, my mom took me shopping for clothes for the new school year. It was the middle of August in California, and not exactly scarf weather. So, when I grabbed an eighty-dollar black cashmere scarf off a display in Macy’s, my mom shook her head and told me to put it back.
When I told her I had read an article in Seventeen magazine that said wearing a scarf in a picture makes you more photogenic, she reluctantly allowed me to buy it. She was the only person who knew my most shameful secret, that I got interested in photography because I was desperate to find a way to make myself look prettier in pictures.
That was the summer before eighth grade, which was the first year a boy had ever asked me to dance at a school event. I was wearing my scarf that day. Since then, I always wear my “lucky scarf” when I feel like I could use a little good fortune.
As I walk through the Bodega Dunes Campground taking pictures of hollowed out Redwood trees, I draw in long breaths of pine-scented, salty ocean air. I wish I could bottle this scent and spray it on everything.
The dappled sunlight on the forest floor and the rays of sun beaming through the trees are stunning. The way the sun’s rays look like the beam of a projector, creating a pattern on the ground like a sparkling web of sunshine, makes it feel like I’m a tiny speck of dust floating in the midst of a spectacular light show called “the universe.”
I want to capture that feeling in a photograph, but I don’t have my tripod. I don’t think I’d do it justice without a longer exposure.
Achieving the perfect balance of light and shadow in a photograph is as important as it is when painting a picture. Sometimes, you get lucky — hence the scarf. But most of the time, a beautiful photograph has been carefully planned, staged, and edited in post.
My dad says the new Nikon 58 millimeter lens he bought me is supposed to help me take sharper pictures with better focus on the subject. I’m only fifteen, but my dad is convinced I’m going to be the next Annie Leibovitz. As much as I love photography, I don’t know if I want to do it as a profession. It’s a cool hobby for now. Plus, my selfies are way better than my friends’, even if the subject of the selfie isn’t as pretty.
I find a hollow tree trunk, which appears to be wider than the rest, and decide to photograph it. But as I squat down on one knee to get a skyward shot, I hear something moving around inside the tree.
Oh, crap. What if it’s a cougar? Or a bear? Holy shit.
I stand slowly and begin backing away, keeping my eyes focused on the dark opening as I wait for a wild animal to emerge with fangs bared. As I’m about to turn around and book it out of there, I hear a very distinct male groan, then a male voice shouts, “Fuck!”
But it’s not just any voice. It’s Ben. I’m sure of it.
I approach the tree slowly until I’m about ten feet away, when I see the dim highlights on the top of his head and back. He’s bent over in the middle of the hollowed out tree, his hands grasp
ing his knees as he dry heaves. The knuckles on his right hand are ripped to shreds and dripping blood. The closer I get, the stronger the beer smell becomes.
“What are you doing?” I whisper.
His head snaps up and his eyes are red and swollen, his face soaked and shimmering with fresh tears. “What are you doing here? Get out of here!”
I’m only fifteen. I don’t think I know what love is. But I’m fairly certain I’ve loved my brother’s best friend since the first time I saw him at Campbell Cove when I was eleven.
So when this seventeen-year-old boy — who I’ve turned into a god in my mind — demands I leave him alone, it feels as if I’ve been hit by a train. Instant agony.
But I set aside my feelings and step inside anyway, because that’s what you do when someone you love is hurting. Right?
“I told you to leave. Go take your stupid pictures somewhere else!” he shouts as I continue toward him. “Get out of here, Char!”
That one word — Char — the nickname only Ben uses, gives me the strength to stand my ground. I let my camera dangle from the strap as I unwrap my black scarf from around my neck.
I ignore the stench of alcohol and the four empty beer cans strewn across the floor. “Let me see your hand,” I say, stepping forward as I gesture toward his bloody appendage.
“What are you doing?” he says, his jaw set with anger as I step into his personal space to grab his hand.
“I just want to help,” I reply when his hand flinches away from mine. “Please give me your hand.”
I’m close enough to smell him. My heart races at that familiar fragrance — like cedar and sunshine — mixed with the bitter scent of the beer.
He hesitates for a moment before he holds his hand out to me. “But that’s your lucky scarf,” he says, as I begin wrapping it around his bloody knuckles.
I can’t help but smile at the fact that he remembers this. “It’s lucky I wore it today.”
I want to ask why he was in here basically abusing himself, but anything that could make a person do something like this has to be pretty serious. If he wants to talk about it, he can do it when he’s ready. Besides, I’ve seen him get moody and self-destructive when he thinks about his mom, who died before Mason and I met Ben. That’s probably what this is about.
