by Tessa Bailey
As soon as his back hit the door, she pushed up on her toes and attacked his mouth. The battle immediately went both ways. Her taste exploded through him, hot and delicious, but now it had a familiarity that battered him. He knew her mouth now. He knew the girl attached to it, and he’d fucked with her in the worst way, goddammit. The words zigzagging through his head commanded his mouth, using it as an outlet, and he kissed her, kissed her, kissed her like his life was at stake. He couldn’t get close enough even though she was trying to climb him with that sweet, sexy body, so he flipped their positions and pressed her between him and the door. Hard.
Honey tore her mouth away on a moan. “You want me, Ben?”
He raked her neck with his teeth. “You can’t feel me? I’m two seconds from fucking you in this doorway.” Her hips rolled against his hardness, and he pumped his own in response. “Why did you have to be so tight and wet? I can’t think of anything else. Want my mouth on it again. Want inside.”
She brushed her lips over his gently. “Too bad.”
Then she was gone. Slipped out from where he’d wedged her against the door, her body heat, mouth, touch, all stolen from him as he stood there panting into a void.
He turned to see her swipe a hand over her mouth, as if to rid herself of him. “Go ahead back inside, Ben. Go back to your sophisticated New York girlfriend and discuss Kafka over craft beers. Whatever makes you happy.” She stepped back quickly when he reached for her. “I know you want me, even though you don’t want to. Maybe you’ve never forgiven me for lying to you in the closet. I don’t know. I do know I could wear you down and make you give in. But you know what? I’m not interested in you anymore. I’m not interested in anything you have to offer.”
No. This isn’t happening. He’d accomplished what he’d set out to do, but he hadn’t taken into account what it would feel like to be on the receiving end. Is this how she’d felt? Oh God. “Honey—”
“Enjoy your night.”
She put up a hand to hail a cab. No, he couldn’t let her go like this. Ben tried to go after her, but two sets of hands held him back. His confusion over Russell and Louis’s appearance behind him cost him precious seconds. She threw herself into the backseat of a cab and left. Left him.
Chapter 12
HONEY PEERED DOWN into the eyepiece of her microscope at the slide she’d placed on the stage. After observing for a few moments, she noted her findings in her notepad. The scratching of her pen sounded amplified in the surrounding quiet, alerting her that she was alone in the lab, half of the lights shut off. A glance at the clock told her it was after five o’clock. Shit. She rubbed at her sore eyes, knowing Roxy and Abby would be wondering where she was. The downside to being an awesome cook and preparing meals often was that people started to expect it. Not that she minded. Most of the time. Her roommates found other ways of making up for their constant need to be fed. Such as letting her stew all weekend without comment or setting a tub of ice cream down on the coffee table and handing her a ladle.
She shoved her notebook and pen into her backpack and cleaned her station before winding her way down the building’s hallway toward the exit. Yesterday had gone by in kind of a haze, obviously brought on by Ben bringing a date to their supergroup mesh party. But also by the realization that she’d opened herself up to be hurt. Really, horrifyingly hurt. She’d had her share of dude disappointments in the past. Boys liking her friends instead of her. Elmer forgetting her birthday. It had always been the kind of pain she could get over with a good book or a sleeve of Oreos. But this? This was entirely different.
She might have made light of it to Roxy and Abby—because hello, the guy she just slept with walked in with someone else, and frankly, that was embarrassing as all get out—but down in the root of her stomach, she felt torn to shreds. How had this man she’d known for such a short space of time taken such a huge chunk out of her? Her little stunt on Friday night just before she’d catapulted headfirst into a cab had only succeeded in getting a small portion of it back. But it had been a start. At the very least, she’d managed to walk away with her pride intact.
Tomorrow morning, she had English class, and she intended to walk in with her chin up. Look him right in the eye. She didn’t run away from uncomfortable situations, and this would be no different. Honey shook her head when a traitorous spark of anticipation kicked up in her chest, telling her she still yearned to lay eyes on Ben after everything that had happened. God, when would that go away? Maybe when she stopped dreaming about his lips on her neck, thigh wedged between her legs, the way it had been on Friday night. Maybe she just needed to know why so she could get some closure. Was it her initial lie, the fact that she was his student, or something else? He’d looked so . . . tortured.
Honey jammed her headphones into her ear and blasted some old Dixie Chicks, thinking about the first concert her mother had brought her to up in Lexington when she was thirteen. They’d worn matching T-shirts and everything. The memory brought a much-needed smile to her face as she rode the train downtown to Chelsea, even though a half-empty Coca-Cola can rolled down the aisle and sloshed brown liquid over her shoes. When her phone rang twenty minutes later on her way into the apartment, she wondered if she’d somehow projected her thoughts to her mother all the way down in Kentucky.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Hey, girly.”
Instantly, Honey knew something was wrong. Her shoulders tensed as she hung up her backpack just inside the door. Her mother only called her by that nickname when something bad happened. Three times in her life, her mother had used it. When Granddaddy Perribow died. When the Little League phoned to inform them she couldn’t try out because she had a vagina. And just now. “What’s wrong?”
“Now, don’t you go thinking you need to come home, Hon. I just want to get that out of the way up front. I mean what I say. I won’t even pick you up at the airport.”
“Yes you would, don’t lie and what happened?”
When her mother was upset, she strung her words together in one long breath. Honey did the same exact thing. Her father used to complain that the Perribow women had a secret, angry language that no one could decipher and he gave thanks for that fact every day.
Her mother’s quick exhale echoed down the phone. “Your brother fell off the dang tractor, is what happened. Laid out in the field wailing for help and nobody was home. Broke both of his legs, the big idiot. I love him to pieces, but he is. He’s a big ol’ idiot.”
Honey stomped her foot, mostly because she needed somewhere to put all the feelings. Dammit. Teddy was injured, and again she wasn’t there. She was here in this giant city, a plane ride away from the people who loved and needed her. “Is he smoking while he works the fields again? I swear, he’s going to turn green one of these days, and then what’ll he have to say for himself?”
As far back as she could remember, her brother had liked to get stoned. He was as good-natured as they came, wouldn’t harm a fly, and had never progressed to any harder drugs. So they’d all kind of learned to live with it, especially after he turned eighteen. He was a functioning pot smoker. Most of the time. Like when he wasn’t getting so high he fell off the dang tractor.
She tuned back in to her mother’s ramble. “Your father needs to get this crop planted by the end of the week, so he’s gone into town looking for help. He’s going to lose time either way, though, because—”
“No one knows how to work the tractor but us,” Honey finished for her. It was true. Their rusted-ass tractor not only acted up with annoying frequency but it flat out stopped working when it didn’t like the way a newcomer treated it. Her father claimed it was haunted. Panic invaded her stomach at the thought of what her family could lose if they didn’t plant a crop in time. All their extra resources went to pay for school. They couldn’t afford such a setback. “I’m coming home.”
“No, you’re not. I won’t pick you up at the airport.”
“Yes, you will. Don’t lie.”
“Well, if I’ve got an extra mouth to feed, I best get cooking.”
“Bye, Mom.”
“Bye.”
Honey disconnected the call, a little stunned over what she’d just decided on the fly. She would miss an entire week of classes, but if she emailed each of her professors tonight and explained the family emergency, they would probably let her email her work from Kentucky. After all, she was carrying As in all her classes. The small amount of rent she paid left her with additional funds, so she could afford a flight. And damn, damn, she was just so homesick. Did it make her weak to want some time with her family? They needed her as much as she needed them right now.
She turned when someone cleared their throat behind her. Both roommates were standing in the living room, looking more than a little confused.
“Was that English?” Roxy asked.
Honey’s laugh sounded unnatural to her own ears. “Not according to my father.” She tapped her phone against her thigh. “I’m going home for the week. The tractor broke my brother’s legs.”
“Oh my God,” Abby breathed. “Who is tractor?”
“It’s not a person.” Honey headed for her bedroom, knowing they would likely follow her. “It’s an evil contraption that only my family knows how to work.”
In the doorway to Honey’s room, Roxy propped a hip on the door frame. “So you’re going home to plow the fields?” She frowned. “Are you sure this has nothing to do with Ben plowing your field, then acting like king asshole?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” Honey answered quickly, having anticipated the question. “I’m not running because of a guy. I wouldn’t.”
Abby nodded, even if Roxy didn’t. “Do you want us to come with you?”
Tears pricked behind Honey’s eyelids, so she hid them by getting down on her knees to search for her suitcase under the bed. “I appreciate the offer, but it’s just me. They just need me.”
“Okay, but the offer stands.” Abby clapped her hands together. “I can at least help by looking up flights. Aisle or window.”
“Aisle.” Honey found her suitcase and yanked it into the center of her room, thinking both of her roommates had gone. But when she glanced toward the door, Roxy was still there, arms crossed. “I’m not running because of Ben,” Honey said preemptively.
“Hmm.” Roxy looked doubtful. “I’m kind of an expert at running from guys. Ask Louis.” She sauntered into the room with a drawn-out sigh. “I won’t pry, because I’m also an expert on hating people who pry. But promise me one thing?”
Honey gave up the pretense of rummaging through her drawers and looked at Roxy. “What’s that?”
“Promise you’ll come back.”
Honey opened her mouth to make the promise, closing it with a snap when she realized she couldn’t.
WHEN BEN SAW a message from Honey sitting in his email inbox early Monday morning, his first thought was, Oh Jesus, she’s dropping my class. He’d done a bang-up job of keeping himself together over the weekend, drinking enough to drown two Yetis. But this was somehow the worst news he could have imagined receiving while still lying in bed with a motherfucker of a hangover. It meant no more heartbreakingly sincere papers that kept him up at night. No more certainty that he would at least see her. Nothing. She’d dropped him—for good reason—and now he wouldn’t be her professor anymore, either. It made him want to pull the pillow over his head and block out the world.
He didn’t, of course, because there was an urgency spinning around him madly, begging him to read the email. Any communication with her was beyond what he’d expected, be it good or bad. He had no right to be this desperate to read words she’d written, when he’d behaved like such an asshole, but no one was here to judge him, save the empty whiskey bottle lying at the foot of the bed.
Ben snatched his glasses off the bookcase, put them on, and sat up with a groan when his entire being rebelled. How much had he drunk exactly? Not enough to feel this horrible, but then again, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. Russell had stopped by with a pizza at some point, which had basically been an excuse to tell Ben what a failure he was as a human being. Then they’d watched the Yankees game and polished off a six-pack without exchanging a single word. Ben had no idea which day of the weekend that had taken place, because he’d continued the party on his own as soon as the door had closed behind Russell. A pathetic, one-man party where the goal had been to drink until Honey’s face blurred. It never did. It was still there, stronger and more beautiful with each passing minute. Sobriety was bullshit.
He tapped the email with his thumb and blinked to bring the bright electronic screen into focus.
Professor Dawson, it began. Ouch. No more Ben for him. Even through two simple words, he could hear her tone of voice. Detached. Formal.
A family emergency has come up and I won’t be in class this week.
Ben sat up straighter. She wasn’t dropping his class, but she wasn’t going to be there, either. What kind of emergency sent you flying out of the state? It had to be bad, possibly a relative dying. Was she okay? God, he hated the idea of her dealing with bad news on top of what he’d done to her Friday night.
I have attached the assignment you gave out Friday morning to this email. Hopefully that is acceptable. If it isn’t inconvenient, I would appreciate you responding with any assignments for the upcoming week, reading or otherwise, so I can email them to you on time. Thank you.
Honey Perribow
Ben tossed his phone onto the bed and grabbed his laptop off the floor, where he’d miraculously remembered to charge it. A minute later, he had Honey’s email pulled up to open the attachment. He’d completely forgotten he’d even given an assignment on Friday, dropped it into the murkiness of the weekend. He remembered now, though. Remembered wanting to read something, anything, from Honey, so he’d asked for a creative writing piece on any topic, student’s choice. It had been so unlike him, leaving anything up to chance. Not being specific. Even the students had shown their surprise. God, he’d crossed so many lines at this point to get close to her, to figure out how her mind worked, that he should really just resign. Honestly.
He read her abrupt message once again with the kind of voraciousness one reserves for a pie eating contest. Perhaps when he was finished reading the assignment, he could figure out how to dull the sick feeling that had hit him at the realization that she was no longer in New York City. She was hours and miles and eons away from him at that very moment. If he wanted to see her, it wouldn’t only be a bad idea; it would be impossible. Feeling helpless on top of miserable wasn’t a great combination. Massaging his pounding forehead with one hand, he continued reading.
My family is like a baseball team. Dad is the third base coach, except he never tells you to stay on third. He’d say it was the coward’s way out and God hates a coward. No matter how low your odds are of reaching home plate, he’ll send you there every time, fully believing you’ll make it. He lacks the ability to doubt, even when he should, and often to his detriment. Mom is the catcher, giving everyone subtle signals as to how they should proceed in every situation. A nose scratch means change your shoes. An ear tug means you’re adding too much salt. Of course, if she ends up calling for the wrong pitch, it’s not her fault. You should have known it was the wrong call. Maybe she was just testing you. My brother is the mascot. Loved by many, but forgotten by all unless he’s standing right in front of you, big and colorful. High as a kite. He’ll make you laugh in a way that has you forgetting why an hour later, but the content, happy feeling lingers. Making you want to be around him again.
I’m not sure who I am on the team yet. Sometimes I think I’m the team doctor, but the pull of running the bases is too strong. I want to drop my scalpel and sprint so fast my lungs hurt. So maybe I’m the pinch runner who steps in when someone can’t carry their weight or is missing a step. But when I’m standing on first base, cheating towards second, I get lost staring into the outfield. The place where all your thoughts and secret
s get swallowed up by a discreet blue sky. Blue sky never tells, it just listens. When I’m in the outfield and I hear the crack of bat meeting ball, when I see the ball sailing up, up and know it will eventually come down, time elongates into something without boundaries. The ball hangs in the air so long, it could be plucked out of the sky with my daddy’s barbequing tongs, flipped over like a sizzling burger. I want that ball more than anything. Anything. That’s what I used to think. When I don’t make the catch and the collective groans go up from the dugout, I used to think I was crushed. Used to wish for time to go in reverse so I’d get another chance.
Time does have boundaries, though. It puts you at the plate when you’re not ready and it strikes you out. It strikes you out. It strikes you out. All the while, the things that used to be important, like a perfect pop fly, begin falling outside your reach. Or fade into memories. New things take their place. Jobs. Friends. A man.
If you look extra closely, you can see it happening. The smell of a tweed jacket replaces the scent of freshly cut grass. Stolen kisses replace . . . everything. A man becomes that perfect pop fly that lands at your feet, not in your glove.
While I don’t fear failure even though it hurts, I do fear the answer to one question. Now that I know what real, consuming want feels like, will I want to catch that ball as much next time I’m in the outfield?
It was possible he didn’t breathe until he’d finished the entire three pages. Him. She’d written about him? The tone was the same as her other work, but she’d never spoken about something personal. Why now? Unless she’d written it Friday afternoon, before the clusterfuck at the Longshoreman, she’d written those candid thoughts after he’d destroyed what had been between them. Destroyed it.
