Life Plus One

by Rachel Robinson

  He chuckles. “I’m employed by the government, Harper. I don’t break any serious laws. I double parked because I wanted to see you sooner. I’d also like to point out that you don’t look like a geek anymore, so you should probably stop referring to yourself in that way. It looks desperate.”

  He glances over, a grin in place. His brown eyes flutter a couple times before he turns his attention back to the road, waiting for my retort. “It doesn’t matter what you look like, Ben. It’s what’s inside.”

  “I beg to differ. I’m a prime example,” he replies, palming his wide chest with a free hand. “You know I’m the same person even if I don’t look anything like what I used to. People treat me one way because they don’t know who I really am. You’ve never known how beautiful you are. It’s so bad that people probably think the low self-esteem thing is for attention.”

  I scoff. “That’s not even close to the truth. I’m confident.”

  He nods. “I know that, but do others?” I fold my arms across my chest, and he continues on, “I got us concert tickets for tonight. We’ll go see our parents now to get that out of the way.”

  I laugh. “I do actually miss my parents,” I say. “What concert?” I ask, my voice a little too loud.

  Ben laughs. “A wee bit excited, huh? Just your favorite indie rock band of all time,” he says, sighing in a big, exaggerated way.

  “No way,” I say. “Cold War Kids?”

  “Yes way. We need to be pre-gaming by five, so I hope you don’t want to spend too much time hanging out with the parental units.”

  I squeal so loudly, I have to cover my own ears.

  “You better wear something illegal,” he replies, wincing at my excitement.

  Chapter Four

  Ben

  I tried to take the third glass of whiskey from her hand at my place, but she insisted on swallowing it down. Her cheeks were already red, so I should have known to force the issue. She promised to tell me if she got the spins. That was my last concession before we dumped ourselves into the back seat of an Uber and made our way to the concert venue. We’re right next to stage. My buddy Tahoe has Harper on his shoulders so she doesn’t get squashed, and because I didn’t trust her on the floor by herself while I went to the restroom.

  Seeing her after all this time does weird things to me. It’s a nostalgic feeling of being home, just by being in her proximity, but there’s also more—a longing so violent, I’m unsure how long I can stave off the desire. The band starts playing the song “First” and I can hear Harper scream from my place several feet to her right. Her lithe arms are in the air and her cropped shirt rides up, showing off even more of her tight stomach. I glare at Tahoe when he catches my eye. He shrugs and makes a crude tongue gesture. I roll my eyes and shake my head. He’d never touch her. He knows Harper is everything to me.

  I want her on my shoulders and I’m about to tell Tahoe to hand her over, when Harper’s voice cuts through the air, “Ben!”

  I smile and tilt up my chin to let her know I heard.

  “Take a photo! It’s my favorite song. Take a photo!” she yells, making a goofy hand motion like she’s snapping a photo.

  Nodding, I slide my phone out of my pocket, hold it up, and snap several photos. Swallowing hard, I scroll through them and give her a thumbs-up. She’s already staring at the band, the excited light in her eyes, her lips mouthing the words to the song. Harper is beautiful—a step beyond stunning, and bordering on scary attractive. I post one of the photos on my Instagram account with a simple caption: #twenty #plusone. She’s smiling wide, her arms lifted high above her head and half of her face is masked by a cascade of wild hair.

  Harper doesn’t do Instagram, her social media prowess is limited to Facebook. She logs in there just because her college groups are active participants and it’s mandatory to keep up. She’s had the same profile photo for over a year. It’s a black and white candid photo taken of her profile. I never asked who took that photo, but I love it. I’d probably be a little sad if she does change it just because it’s something I associate with her. I, on the other hand, love social media of all sorts. As long as I keep my filters and privacy settings strong, I can post what I want, where I want.

  I return to studying Harper in person. Her long chestnut hair hangs halfway down her back in waves and every curve on her goddamn body was sculpted to my exact preference. Tahoe sees me staring and motions for me to grab her. He lifts her tiny frame off his body and places her in front of me. I can’t take my eyes off her moving lips as the words from the song feel like they were meant just for us—right now. Harper moves toward me, her hands falling on the front of my sweaty shirt. Tahoe rejoins our group of brothers and the women they came with to leave us alone.

  I grab her hands and lock them with mine. We stare at each other and don’t say anything at all. The music says everything we can’t, or won’t. The buzz of life and energy around us is electric and the second she leans up toward me, I think it’s finally going to be it. This will be the moment we’ll call ours. Then the song ends and hesitation lights her eyes as she pulls away from me. Harper swipes a hand across her forehead.

  “Feeling okay?” I ask, leaning into her ear so she can hear over the roar of applause. “We can get some air.”

  “I need another drink,” she replies, trying to distance herself from my body.

  I catch her hand in mine. “Hey,” I say, pulling her back. “It’s me.”

  “I know,” Harper says, her eyes brimming with tears. A far-off look washes her features, and it’s not the blatant drunk eyes. She licks her lips and says, “It’s you.” She nearly chokes on those final words and I’m left wondering what she means.

  She swallows hard and turns to flee. I follow her out into the lobby where they’re selling T-shirts and stickers and beer. “I need a shirt,” she says, unfolding a wad of cash she pulls out of her tight jeans.

  “Okay,” I reply, my ears fuzzy now that we’re away from the amps. My hearing won’t ever be the same after the blasts and explosions I’ve been around. She buys an oversized black shirt with a simple logo and pulls it over her head, effectively cutting off my view of her tight stomach and outline of her tits. “Everything okay?”

  “I will be. Let’s get another drink?” she asks, flitting over to the alcohol line before I can respond. This is Harper trying to do avoidance. “This is so great. Thank you, Ben. For tonight. It’s really…awesome.”

  I’ll let her get away with it for now, so she feels like she has some control of her emotions, but when we’re alone tonight, in my bed, I’m going to call her the fuck out. “Happy Birthday, Harper. It needed to be something to remember. It is your twenty-first. Memorable?”

  “Did you hear them? They’re so amazing in person. This is more than memorable. Maybe even the best birthday ever.” I can think of several awesome birthdays and there’s only one way this one will take the proverbial cake, and I need to make it happen. Fate is in my hands.

  Harper orders a couple drinks, throws too much cash on the bar, and then pushes a drink into my hands. “I’m not sure more alcohol is the answer,” I tell her, sipping the top so it doesn’t spill any more than she already has. I grab the bill the bartender is trying to hand back to Harper and slide it into my pocket, shaking my head.

  She takes a few long swallows. “The answer to what?” she asks, quirking a brow. A slight sheen of sweat glistens on her face and it reminds me of when she’s working out. That thought moves to other more inappropriate thoughts and by the time she asks me her question again, I’ve already mentally undressed her.

  “Uh, do you want to get out of here now? I think they’re finished after this song.” I check my watch and glance up to meet her eyes. A little line appears between her eyes as she thinks and she stumbles back. I grab the solo cup from her hands and dump the remnants into my cup. She’s done.

  “Yeah, if I’m going to get sick I’d rather be at home.” My chest puffs out. She called my place home.
Then I realize she mentioned getting sick. Her cell phone chimes and she fumbles to get it out of the top of her shirt. The iPhone falls to the cement floor. Face down. We all know how that ends.

  I stoop down and pick it up. “Shit, it’s cracked,” I say, a second before I see the dozens of texts from some dude named Marcus. The stream of texts go a little like this: where are you? Text me back. Where are you? What are you doing? You better text me back right now. Call me. FUCKING CALL ME.

  “Who the fuck is Marcus?” I ask, and the second I say his name, I know who it is. The guy she studies with. I gulp in a huge breath as the significance of this hits me full force. “Harper,” I say her name like a question. “Why is he texting you like this?” I flash the cracked screen at her face so she can see his obviously angry messages.

  She looks away, to the right. “Do you think we can get it fixed tonight? I bet some place is open.” Taking the phone from my hand, she licks her lips and examines it closer.

  Grinding my teeth, I take her hand in mine. “Let’s go.” I text a group message to let my friends know we’re taking off because Harper is drunk. A few inappropriate emoji messages flash up immediately. Even in a venue such as this loud, raucous theatre my brothers are tuned into their surroundings and their phones in case of emergency.

  Clutching my arm in a death grip, Harper lets me guide her out into the street. I pull up my app and call for an Uber while seething in her direction. “What are you keeping from me?” I interrupt. Harper is talking to me about a club at school and how her mom gave her a bag of goodies we should eat when we get back. “Avoiding the subject isn’t going to fare well for you.”

  Her head whips in my direction, hurt shining in her eyes. I open my mouth to apologize, but the white sedan squeals around the corner. Twenty-five security guards that pace the exterior of the theatre are automatically on alert at the quick, asshole maneuver. Their guns are drawn and gazes slide to our proximity. Even halfway in the bag I’m aware of everything around me. I hold up my hand to show the guards everything is okay. “Ubers. Time is money, right?” I call out. Security doesn’t look amused with my low-brow jab and continue to monitor our every step.

  “Are you okay, ma’am?” a guard asks Harper as he approaches us.

  “Me?” Harper looks alarmed at the attention. Her eyes flit to the gun in his hand. As do mine. For a different reason. “I’m fine. I drank too much, but it’s my birthday and the band was amazing. Are we in trouble? It’s all his fault if we are,” she says, hiking a thumb over her shoulder awkwardly. “Everything is always his fault. He never does anything he’s supposed to.”

  I groan and lean over to talk to the Uber driver, who rolled down the window. To the guard I say, “I’m trying to get my friend home, sir.”

  He nods and holsters his gun and then warns the driver to slow down. The guy looks scared, and if I was already concerned about putting Harper’s life in the hands of a strange driver, now I’m even more so. “Harper,” I say, guiding her into the backseat. My hand accidently brushes her bare stomach and she freezes at the touch.

  She straightens and slides into the seat with a clumsy slump. I wish the officer good night and sit next to Harper in the back seat.

  “You really could use some driving lessons. Didn’t you think about where you were picking us up? Guards crawl all over crowds. Use your head a little. You have one job.”

  He looks abashed. I’m not sure if it’s because of my size, the fact I’m leaning into the front seat, or the threat behind my words, but it works. He drives the speed limit all the way to my place. Harper is asleep, draped across my lap when he puts the car in park. I pull her out of the car as gently as I can. She rouses and swallows, wiping the corner of her mouth with her forearm. “That was a quick trip,” she mutters, fidgeting with the phone she has tucked in her top.

  The car pulls away slowly and I lead her up the cobblestones of my front walkway. It’s a cottage, a small house with one bedroom and few furnishings. Harper was impressed when we stopped here earlier to drop off her things. She said it reminded her of a hobbit house and skipped across the hardwood floor like a Disney princess. I pull my key out of my pocket and try to keep one arm on her as she leans against the door frame.

  With her head against the dark, gray stone she lets it fall to the side. “You’re cute when you’re furious,” she says, slurring every other word.

  I close my eyes, take in a calming breath, and push the door open. I hold out my arm like a good gentleman should and tamp down on the boiling rage I feel thinking about the text messages and her meek attempts to avoid the subject. “After you,” I say, prompting her when she doesn’t make a move.

  Her eyes scan my face and her gaze falls to my lips. My heart hammers, and that uneasy, questionable feeling enters my bloodstream for the second time tonight. “I should stay at my parents’ house. Think that driver can come take me there?” Harper asks. After her question is out she begins humming a song from Cold War Kids.

  I shake my head. “It’s late. I want to talk to you. Go in, Harper.”

  Sighing, she flicks her gaze over my chest and midsection, and then walks through the door, ambling to the brown grocery sack on the counter in the kitchen. She pulls herself up on the barstool and dumps the bag with the grace of Ben-Hur. “Come eat some of this with me, Benny.”

  My anger subsides a touch when she uses my old nickname, but I wonder if she’s doing it purposefully. I know her well enough to know how well she knows me. “Marcus,” I say. One word. “Start talking.”

  She spins on the stool, a string of licorice in her hand, wielding it like a weapon. “He’s my boyfriend, Ben. What do you want to know?”

  I’m drawn to her, and even though I don’t remember moving I’m standing in front of her in seconds, her eyes looking up at me and my frame in between her legs. “Let’s pretend for a second that he is really your boyfriend, which I have a hard time believing because you haven’t mentioned that. Why is he texting you like a ragey asshole? That’s not okay. Even less okay than you having a boyfriend to begin with.”

  She scowls. “You’re not my father. You can’t tell me I can’t have a boyfriend. Heck, even my father can’t tell me I can’t have a boyfriend. I’m an adult the last time I checked.”

  Shaking my head, I say, “I never said you couldn’t have one. I said I don’t like it.”

  Harper catches her breath and holds it. After a beat of two, she brings the red candy to her lips and bites off a piece. Chewing with her mouth closed, she watches my face. After she swallows, she says, “I’ve been with him for a while now. I told you we studied together and that wasn’t a lie. We have classes together. Same major. As for why he acted like a complete moron in those texts, well, I can’t say for sure. Though I’m not sure why, but I think jealousy might have something to do with it.”

  “Can I call him?” My heart is hammering. No one talks to Harper like that. No one touches Harper. No one loves Harper. No one but me.

  Her eyes widen, then she relaxes a touch. “What do you want to talk to him about?”

  I walk into the kitchen and pour out a glass of water and slide it in front of her, then open the cabinet and take out a bottle of whiskey and pour two fingers into a glass and gulp it down.

  “I get water and you get alcohol? That’s not fair. It’s my birthday.”

  “You can’t handle your liquor like I can.” I shrug at her expression. “It’s the truth. Deny it.”

  She doesn’t. Instead, she pulls her phone out of her little, tight top and slides the cracked device across the counter. “Call him then. Maybe he’ll chill out.”

  Or maybe I’ll kill him via telekinesis. I pick it up, find his number, and hit the green button. Harper shoves a whole licorice stick in her mouth and grins. I walk into my bedroom, shut the door, and sit on my bed.

  “Where the fuck have you been?” Marcus says.

  “Who the fuck are you to talk to Harper like that?” I seethe, trying and failing to
keep my voice low.

  “Who’s this?” Marcus asks.

  “This is Ben.”

  “Oh,” is his response. Oh. Like I’m some fucking afterthought. I’ve been her only thought for as long as she’s been alive and this motherfucker is going to settle into the place I give him. “Where is she?”

  “We were at the concert tonight. For her birthday. She didn’t have her phone on nor would I assume she could hear it in that madness. We just got home. Now, answer my question. Why the fuck are you talking to my girl like that?”

  He laughs. “Your girl?”

  I swallow down the bitter pang of reality. She’s not my girl, but somehow along the way I’ve forgotten that fact. “Yeah. My girl.”

  “She’s my girlfriend, Ben. She sleeps in my bed. Harper and I have more in common now. You’re her childhood best friend. You’re her past, bro. I’m her future. Move your muscles out of the way for a second or two and you’ll clearly see she’s changed. I didn’t want her to go. So, yeah, I’m pissed off she’s ignoring me.”

  My breath steals and it’s because there’s truth in his words. “She’s not ignoring you,” I say, swallowing down all of the insults I was planning on saying. Marcus is merely jealous. Harper was right. He obviously cares for her. I can’t say I’d be acting any differently if the woman I loved was spending the weekend with a man like me. I sigh. “I’ll always be in her life. Always. Better learn how to like me.”

  He laughs. “Where is she? Put her on.”

  My fist is balled so tight I have to work to loosen my grip before I punch a hole through the wall. “She’s indisposed at the moment,” I whisper, hoping he assumes the worst.

  “We’re talking about the same girl, right? She’d never do anything with you. It doesn’t serve her moral compass.”

  Now, I laugh. “I am her compass. She’ll always come back to me. Remember that.”

  I click off the phone before I let him say another word that will pick at the threads of my relationship with Harper. Sure, things have changed, because we grew up, but our friendship will always remain. Even if she’s dating a dickhead. It’s a dickhead who obviously knows her.