by Lisa Sorbe
It’s my blood, rushing to the tune.
It’s my very soul, spinning madly, responding to some cosmic connection I can’t even begin to fathom.
The side of his jaw brushes my forehead as he dips his chin, and I melt into him more, more, until the very pull I’ve been trying so hard to resist gives one last, mighty tug, snapping my resistance in half.
The sudden release pulls a sigh from my lips, and the ease, the freedom of this moment makes me think that the resistance has snapped not just for me, but maybe, just maybe, for Ben, too. My exhalation is like a signal, a lock to his key. Because when he hears it, his arms tighten, and he slides a hand up, up, along the curve of my back, trailing his fingertips between my shoulder blades before cupping the back of my head in his palm and pulling me even closer.
Either the floor has turned spongy, cloud-like, or I can’t feel my own weight anymore. But either way, I don’t think we’re moving. Everything around us is a hum, a blur. The people, with their flouncy dresses and crisp suits, are nothing but vaporous mists, their substance more specter than solid.
Somewhere, off in the distance, I think I hear Mimi say my name and laugh. But to look, to respond in any way would put an end to this. To this, to this, whatever this is, because I don’t have a name for it. Have never experienced anything like it in my entire life.
We were already standing out of time, and then we took a step further.
I don’t think I want to come back.
The Valentine’s Day party at Jasper’s ended without fanfare, without anything more happening between me and Ben. Though for the rest of the night, I was hyper-aware of him, like there was some invisible cord stretching between us, sending sharp little tugs down the length whenever he moved. His energy pulled at me from across the room, prickled like static electricity when we stood side by side. His laughter seeped into my chest, swelling my heart two, three, four times its normal size.
But then we went home, the ride a silent trip between there and here, from the bar to Lenora’s, just a jarring transport from one reality into another.
I don’t know what I was expecting to happen between us after that dance, if anything. Though I don’t think I would have pulled away if, rather than saying goodnight as we parted ways in front of our bedroom doors, Ben had taken my hand and led me into his bed.
But now, in the light of day and with baking flour up to my elbows, the magic we seemed unable to resist last night on the dance floor has faded, evaporated entirely. It’s dark and dreary out (though no longer snowing, thank God) and a weird feeling of melancholy has been creeping in to my chest all morning. It’s Sunday, so Ben is home, sitting beneath the muted light of the greenhouse windows, laptop propped on the table and a pile of medical charts stacked haphazardly next to him.
The man never stops working.
I can only imagine how much worse it’s going to be once we break ground on the new clinic and shelter in June.
In fact, he hasn’t so much as looked twice at me all morning. He’s been about as lukewarm as the breakfast he served, which were two bowls of oatmeal drenched in ice cold milk along with a brief mutter of apology and an explanation that he had a lot of work to catch up on today. When I told him that I could just as easily take over the reins and prepare our morning meals, he waved me off and said he’d make it up to me later in the week.
But he’s here in the kitchen with me now, like that invisible tether from last night is still tied between us, binding us together, that wispy length of cord only allowing one to tread so far from the other.
Funny, but now that I think about it, we’ve been this way for as long as I’ve been here. Well, maybe not the first few days, when I was angry and moping around the house, talking myself out of rifling through his room while he was at work so I could find proof that he was the very swindler I thought he was. But after that, when I began to entertain the idea of trusting him back on that wintery trail behind Lenora’s house, when he rescued me from the snow drift the size of an SUV, we’ve mirrored each other’s movements in a way, matching each other’s rhythms and staying close enough while just being out of reach.
Or maybe that’s all in my head. Maybe I’m making too much of everything. And maybe what happened last night, the dreamy way it felt to be so close to a man who held me like no one else ever has—with such tender reverence—was actually my subconscious working overtime and doing a major number on my imagination.
It wouldn’t be the first time that wishful thinking has gotten the best of me. There was a brief period, back when I first met him, that I actually thought Cliff wanted me as a daughter. That I’d finally, finally be able to use the word ‘Dad’ and have it directed at someone who was mine. For the first few months that he dated my mother, he spent almost as much time wooing me as he did her. But once he proposed, once we left behind everything I’d ever known for California, it became obvious that Clifford Renshaw had no intention of loving another man’s child.
We continue to work separately throughout the morning, Ben bent over his laptop doing research and me bent over the kitchen island, mixing batter and trying to decipher the ingredients for Lenora’s old-fashioned almond spice cake from the splotched note card I pulled from her recipe box. I intend to bring it over to Gloria’s when I’ve finished with it, to thank her for the clothes she gave me yesterday. Maybe she can use it to lure Garrett into her kitchen, promising him a sweet slice or two. The thought makes me smile, my first since I got up this morning, and I can’t help but laugh out loud when I think of how the feisty woman would take that connotation—sweet slice. My outburst elicits a raised glance from Ben, who shoots me a quizzical stare over the screen of his laptop. I just press my lips together in a dopey grin, shrug without explanation, and return to my ingredients. When I feel the heat of his gaze lift, I chance a glance back up and watch from under my lashes as he types away on his keyboard, a small smile brightening his features. Considering the mask of indifference that he’s been sporting all morning, seeing his grin now is a little bit like witnessing a sunbreak on a stormy day.
But when the doorbell rings at quarter to eleven, the mood in the house shifts entirely. With the ding, Asha barks and Ben looks up from his work, takes one glance at my sticky hands, and offers to get it.
I smell them before I see them.
Even above the scent of vanilla and allspice and cinnamon and cloves, the two dozen roses hiding Ben from the waist up can’t be overpowered. For one wild and crazy moment, I think they’re from him, and that perhaps the second-guessing and overthinking I’ve been putting myself through all morning was all for nothing.
Maybe his indifference has been nothing more than a misinterpreted joke, paving the way for this enormous arrangement of flowers. A declaration of sorts, declaring not love (because obviously it’s too soon for that) but, perhaps, like.
And do I want Ben to like me? Like, like like?
Yeah, I think I do.
And when that thought crosses my mind, the heaviness I’ve felt all morning, the leaden weight of rejection, begins to lift.
But then.
But then.
But then, when he sets the vase on the island between us, his eyes meeting mine over the sprawling bouquet of red on red, I know.
Ben didn’t send these.
And how foolish, how stupid I was to assume that he had.
His gaze isn’t accusing, but the liveliness I’ve come to know in it is gone. Suddenly, abruptly, he’s the Ben from before. The Ben with the surly expression and tipped brows, who picked me up from the airport and carted me up to Lost Bay. The Ben whose features are carved in ice, his full lips flattened into a firm line of not anger, exactly, but resigned duty. The Ben of few words, cold and distant, who stood by me at the funeral and offered me his coat before ripping away half of my inheritance.
The man before me now has slipped back into his role of stranger, as so many people are apt do without thought. This is Cliff. This is Cliff all over again�
�at first warm and then cold, so cold, always cold, forever cold. For a moment, this regressive turn of events has me frantically searching my brain, scouring my memories of the last few days, wondering what I could have possibly done wrong.
But there’s…nothing. I’ve done nothing, absolutely noth—
“Babe!”
I haven’t heard his voice in weeks, and hearing it now, here, in Lenora’s kitchen, where I’ve been living the last month and a half in a sort of fairytale fish bowl, makes the ground that was already wobbling beneath my feet careen right out from under them. Pressing my batter-stained hands flat against the laminate countertop, I notice the figure looming behind Ben’s shoulder and suck in a deep breath.
“Daniel.”
I’ll admit it. There was a part of me, earlier, when I thought the flowers were from Ben, that felt a small twinge of disappointment that of all the blooms he could have picked, he picked roses, which I’ve always felt to be such a generic expression of love.
It’s an ungrateful response, I know. Because roses are timeless…until they aren’t. Women are so diverse, each one of us as unique as the flourishing flora blooming across this great wide earth, and cheers to the man who takes the time to pick a petal that reflects his beloved’s heart, her soul, her will and her passion.
Roses, while beautiful, are too easily accessible, too easily snagged from the countertop of a convenience store at the last forgotten minute. To me, they represent an easy out. And from what I know of Ben, well, he doesn’t strike me as the sort of person to take the easy way out of anything. He puts thought into everything he does, every action he takes. Every word he speaks is considered, weighed, necessary.
Ben is subtle and subdued, quiet in his confidence, and in those very traits lie his strength.
And this gaudy display of extravagance, dressed in petal and baby’s breath, is the opposite of subtle, the very contradiction of quiet confidence.
Then again, maybe I’m just jaded. Cliff’s preferred flower to send my mother after one of his wrongdoings has always been roses, and sometimes their thick, velvety scent stirs in me resentment rather than whimsy.
But it’s the thought that counts, and Daniel put enough thought into this particular bouquet that he delivered it himself. In person. All the way from sunny California.
I don’t even try to wipe the shock from my face, to organize my features into an expression that’s more aesthetically pleasing, because my mind is too busy buzzing with questions. So many that when one finally pops out of my mouth, it does so in a rush that sounds accusatory. “What the hell are you doing here?”
A ripple of annoyance flutters across Daniel’s face, followed by a flash of something darker swimming just beneath the blue of his eyes. He casts his gaze to the floor, dipping his head and rubbing the back of his neck before releasing a self-deprecating chuckle. When he glances back up, the irritation has been so thoroughly washed from his features that I immediately fall into doubt, wondering if I read him wrong. If it was just a trick of shadow and light that warped his boyish squint and nervous smile into something darker.
He looks as he always does: perfect, put together. Thick hair, jet black and falling across his forehead in perfectly tousled waves. Creamy caramel skin, tanned even deeper by the California sun. Thick eyebrows offsetting those blue, blue eyes. Sharp jaw, clean-shaven as always.
The man is just as stunning as ever.
Yet here in Lenora’s kitchen, those qualities I once found so appealing seem…off.
His lines are too perfect. His appearance too polished. His teeth are too square and too white.
And that’s when I realize—the problem isn’t with Daniel.
The problem lies with me. The me that, in such a short time, I’ve changed into. Or, quite possibly, the me I’m in the process of becoming.
“I just… The way we left things…” Daniel drops the suitcase and the designer duffle bag he’s carrying and takes a step forward. “Lenny, I just wanted to see you. I had to see you.”
For some reason, Daniel’s words make me search out Ben, maybe to see how he’s reading the situation or just to look for his input, his guidance. Which, of course, would be a pointless pursuit considering that I’ve never once discussed Daniel with him.
But then I realize what I’m doing. What I’m actually doing.
I’m looking at Ben to see if I’ve lost him.
If the Ben from last night is still in there, and if that dance, our dance, meant anything at all.
In answer to my probing stare, he takes a step back, offers a weak excuse about needing to head into the clinic to retrieve a chart, and politely excuses himself from the room. A few seconds later, the door to the garage closes—not with a bang but with a quiet, almost inaudible click.
I’m not surprised. Ben isn’t, after all, the screaming type.
But I had hoped he was the fighting type.
Maybe I’m being unfair.
The silence that follows is awkward, and Daniel breaks it with a snort. “Nice roommate.”
I toss him a glare. “He’s being polite. Giving us some space. Space that I thought we were taking until my trip ho—” I stumble on the word, quickly recovering, “—to L.A. in May.” Folding my arms over my chest, I do my best to stand my ground, remembering the gauntlet he threw down weeks ago, when suggesting we take a break. It was a gauntlet that I quickly picked up and tossed right back, immediately agreeing to his terms. But now, I can see that he was bluffing—a bluff I apparently called by keeping my distance all these weeks.
“When you mentioned that you were living with your grandmother’s friend, I just assumed he was, you know…” Daniel shrugs, sinking his hands deep into the pockets of what looks to be a new, expensive ski jacket. I can only imagine that he built a whole new wardrobe around this trip. Something that, as I push up the sleeves of one of Lenora’s old sweaters, is pretty obvious I didn’t have the time nor the funds to do.
I frown. “Thought he was, what, ninety?”
“Well, yeah. Pretty much.”
“Does it matter?”
Daniel’s resulting sigh is one of frustration, not weariness.
But if he’s frustrated, I’m even more so.
I suppose some women would think this is a romantic gesture, hopping a plane at the last minute to surprise the one you love. Or, at least, the one you’re supposed to love.
I’m still not sure where we stand on that issue.
Daniel ignores my question. “Lenny, please. I flew all the way up here to see you.” He rounds the island slowly, a handsome predator in expensive sheep’s wool. “To make things right.” He’s so close I can smell his expensive cologne, and like the pungent aroma of the roses, it drowns out everything else.
It’s spicy and sweet, like a mix between nutmeg and saffron mingled with vanilla, the scent itself giving off a heat that makes you want to drop whatever it is that you’re doing and curl up as close as you can to the person wearing it. It’s a fragrance that wears down defenses and instigates arousal.
At least, that’s what it’s always done to me.
And I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t doing anything to me now.
But lust isn’t love, and it’s high time I figured out the difference between the two.
I lean my hip against the counter and face him, tilting my head so I can meet his gaze. “Make things right. Uh-huh. Okay. And what do you mean by that, exactly?”
He sighs again, and this time he does sound weary, tired. “For what I said. About you depending on your grandmother’s money. About you caring more about your inheritance than us. I know that’s not true.” He reaches out to grab my hand and, for the first time, seems to notice my appearance from the neck down. His brow furrows and his lips turn down at the edges. “What are you doing? Why are you covered in…is that flour?” He turns, surveying the kitchen island, the mixing bowl full of batter and the spread of ingredients littering the countertop. “Are—you’re not…” His eyes w
iden, and when he faces me again, they’re filled with laughter. “Holy shit,” he says, his frown flipping up as he laughs. “You’re baking?”
I push off the counter and huff, annoyed that he finds the idea so hilarious. “What’s so funny about that?”
“Nothing. I swear, I’m just…” He chokes out one last laugh and holds his hands up in a submissive gesture that I’m sure he hopes will placate me. The problem is, I’ve never known Daniel to submit to anything. “I’ve just never seen you so much as pop a frozen waffle into a toaster. So all this?” He waves a hand at the island, indicating the cake batter. “It’s just a surprise. That’s all. Nothing more, I swear. Baby, please. Look, I’m not laughing at you, okay? Cross my heart.” He runs a finger over his chest, drawing an invisible X, and grins a cheeky grin.
I’m still annoyed, not yet ready to give in, not even sure I want to give in, but I can’t help but crack a small smile at his ridiculous expression. Then, when he takes my hands in his, I thaw a little more. They’re warm and familiar, and when he pulls me close and dips his chin to meet my eyes, I’m reminded of how it feels to have his attention. All of his attention. Only this time, there’s no swoony sensation sweeping through my stomach, and my heart isn’t pitter-pattering the way it did before. Before I left for Minnesota, for Lost Bay. Before we argued and tossed out cruel words we couldn’t take back. Before I lost touch with everything I thought I knew.
Including myself.
So when his lips brush against mine, lightly at first, I don’t push away. Instead I lean into the kiss, returning it, rising up on my toes to press myself into him more and more, hoping that maybe, just maybe, I can remember what I’ve forgotten.
And when I finally part my mouth, allowing him in, I swallow his growl of triumph with a moan of my own.
“I come all the way up from California to see my beautiful girlfriend, and the first thing she does is put me to work.”
I finish folding up the quilt that was covering Lenora’s bed and shrug. “The things we do for those we love, right?”
