by Watson, Lucy
Talking in movie quotes was my and Rose’s thing. The people at the senior center thought we were nuts. They were right.
“Jesus Christ,” Ben curses on an annoyed breath.
Winston glances over at Ben with a mischievous grin, then shoots me a devilish smile. “Better start looking for a dress, ’cause we’re getting married,” he states before turning to Ben. “You better be nice to my future wife, Crawford. And let me know if the lawyer is cool with us helping. We could have that list knocked out in a few days.”
With that, he disappears out the door.
Ben tosses the money onto the bed and turns to me, his arms crossed over his broad chest. “If you’re thinking about cozying up to my friends, don’t. Bad enough I have to deal with you here.” With that, he turns for the door.
Ouch.
“Yeah, pretty sure you don’t get to tell me what to do,” I call after him.
“Pretty sure I just did,” he says over his shoulder and walks out.
I flip off the empty doorway.
* * *
You know that part in a romantic-comedy when two people turn a painting project into an adorable paint-fight that starts with a playful brush-dab on the nose, followed by wayward Jackson Pollock-style splatters and a fit of belly laughs, which slowly dies and turns into a scorching kiss.
Well, that shit does not happen in real life. At least not to me. At least not with Ben.
I shoot a glare at his back as we finish rolling our third coat on the living room walls. Three coats because we had to fix my second coat lines that only Ben could see.
Every muscle in my body feels like it’s on fire, but do I take it easy like a reasonable person? Nope. Instead, I try to keep up with Ben’s furious pace. And to add to my frustration, he’s not even breaking a sweat.
Ugh.
I’m not gonna lie, I’ve been taking advantage of the music blasting from his earbuds to tell him what an asshole he is for the last three hours. I feel a little better, but not much. You know what would make me feel a lot better? Hitting his head with the roller, painting his coal black hair Winter White #789. I’m pretty sure he’d get me back, but maybe if I can make it look like an accident…
Giddy excitement, mostly from exhaustion, runs through my body as I bring the roller off the wall and turn to face him. Say hello to my little friend…
The doorbell chimes, snapping me back to reality. I look to Ben to see if he heard it, giving him a second to get the door if he did. Definitely not noticing the way the muscles on his arms bunch and move as he brings the roller up and down.
Up and down…
I slam the brakes on my pervy train of thought.
“Don’t worry. I’ll get it,” I huff out, setting the roller in the orange paint container thingy.
I tuck a few fallen strands behind my ears, readjusting my ponytail as I walk to the front door. I hope it’s Derek so I can have an excuse to take a break, but in case it’s Ben’s friend again, I plaster a smile on my face and swing open the door.
I’m hit first with a burst of fresh air. Then I’m hit with the blinding halo of an angel-woman around my age standing in the doorway.
She’s tall and lithe with thick blonde hair, so blonde it’s almost white. Flawless skin without a freckle or a stitch of makeup. Naturally bubblegum-pink lips. Green-yellow eyes so vibrant I wonder if they’re contacts. It’s safe to say she’s one of the genetic Powerball winners.
She smiles sheepishly, causing a small dimple on her cheek to shine through, and I half expect to hear a church choir or bells tolling in the background or some shit.
“Hi… I’m Kate.”
I should probably introduce myself, but I’m a socially awkward idiot, so I just stand there staring at her.
“An old friend of Ben’s,” she adds and wrings her hands a bit, looking nervous. “Umm… is he around?”
Well, there it is, folks. Ben may be a lot of things, but it turns out a liar isn’t one of them. Standing before me, in all her 5’9” angelic glory is Ben’s “type,” which is, as he previously stated, not me. One might say she’s the polar opposite of me.
“Come on in.” I give her what I’m praying looks like a genuine smile and step to the side, gesturing her inside. My arms feel suddenly stubby and ungraceful. I feel like Danny DeVito standing next to Arnold Schwarzenegger in Twins. “He’s in the living room.”
“Thanks.” Her breathy voice is tinged with nerves.
It looks like she wants to say something more, but then she glances at Rose’s cardigan. When her breath hitches and her eyes turn glossy with tears, I know she wasn’t just an old friend of Ben’s. She was something more. My mind runs through the stories Rose told me, to see if I remember any about an angel named Kate.
Nope. No angels.
Her eyes meet mine.
“Is he doing okay?”
“I’m not sure,” I answer honestly while shutting the front door.
He’s been a total asshole to me, but who’s to say that’s an everyday occurrence. I briefly wonder if this is how he grieves and I’m the asshole for not giving him space. I push the thought back.
She gives me a sad smile, takes in a heavy breath, and we walk into the living room, seeing Ben still hard at work.
I want to turn and head down the hall to my room, giving them privacy, but she just stands there looking at me, her eyes expectant.
It dawns on me that she thinks Ben is mine. And she is waiting for me to let him know she’s here.
Instead of explaining all the ways in which Ben is definitely not mine, I walk over to him and tap him on the shoulder, not so gently. He turns, his sharp eyes narrowing down at me, looking annoyed, his roller in mid-stroke. I wait for him to turn off the music blasting from his ears. When he doesn’t, I give him a you’re-such-a-dick-look while I motion over to Kate.
I see the moment his eyes find her. Emotions, raw and powerful, flash in their endless dark depths. He yanks the earbuds free and blindly shoves his roller at me.
Splatters hit my hair and face. Lovely.
“Katie,” he says her name like a plea. For what I don’t know.
I glance over to Kate while awkwardly trying to set down the roller. Her face is flushed with tears rolling down her cheeks. Her eyes are locked on Ben’s.
She even looks beautiful when she cries, maybe even more so. Her lips are puffier and a deeper shade of pink, her cheeks rosier, her eyes greener.
“Hi, Benny.” She manages before a sob breaks free.
Benny.
Ben crosses the room in an instant, his long strides closing the distance in a few steps. He envelops her in his solid arms as she cries softly, her graceful hands going around his waist, moving up to grip at his wide back. He kisses the top of her head. It’s such a protective, loving gesture. It makes my heart hurt.
I push out the memory of the hallway at the funeral home and how it felt being tucked in those strong arms. Was that really only yesterday?
“Shhh. It’s okay.” His voice is so gentle, so soft I almost don’t recognize it without the sharp bite.
I can’t see his eyes clearly, but I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t recognize those either.
“I wanted to go to the funeral, but your dad…” she whisper-cries against his chest, between sniffles. “I’m so sorry.”
He moves back and tilts her chin up to meet his eyes. It takes her a moment to reach his stare, but when she does, he runs his thumb along her cheek to wipe away her tears.
“It’s okay, babe,” he says, his words sweet and tender, so unlike him. But then again, I don’t really know him. He wipes her other cheek with his thumb and offers her a gentle smile.
She gives him a small smile through her angel-like sniffles and nods.
With a sharp pang, I realize that this moment isn’t mine to watch, the intimacy in this room isn’t mine to feel. I quietly hurry to grab fresh clothes from the dryer, so I don’t have to see what happens next, and make my way to the den, ca
refully shutting the door behind me, feeling like I’ve been punched in the gut.
* * *
A charge of wild emotions stampede through me as I turn on the shower and strip from my paint-spattered clothes, my stiff muscles screaming in protest at the motion.
I hang my towel over the shower door realizing that 24-hour antiperspirant isn’t an actual thing and step in.
The hot water beats down on my aching back and neck. I close my eyes with a groan, tilting my head back, letting the water wash over my face while I try and force myself not to think about the two people in the living room. Or maybe they’ve moved to the bedroom—to my bed. But, of course, it’s all I can think about. I picture the protective way he held her to his chest, the gentle way he spoke to her.
Did Greg ever hold me like that? I think so, but I’m not sure.
I huff out a heavy breath, spraying water from my mouth as tears sting my eyes. Do I miss him? I bite my lower lip to keep it from quivering and try not to give a name to the feeling that’s taken hold.
I will not cry.
I’m lonely.
I will not cry.
And it sucks.
My throat constricts around what feels like a million shards of glass.
My soul reaches out for something to grasp onto, anything to keep it from sinking into this muddy swamp. A tear breaks free as my soul finds only air.
I lather up my body, take in a shaky breath, and force myself to smile. Yes, I force myself to smile, knowing I probably look like The Joker on crack, because as crazy as it sounds, sometimes smile-therapy actually works. I pray this is one of those times.
Before long, the vice around my chest loosens, the swamp disappears. I’m not gonna bust out in song anytime soon, but I can breathe again, so I’ll take it.
My phone chimes from beneath my heap of clothes on the floor, so I slide open the shower door and fumble with my pants, trying to keep water spillage to a minimum and free my phone from the back pocket.
Derek: Sorry, Em. Gotta run over the hill and won’t be able to make dinner.
I wait for disappointment to take hold, but I’m relieved. The only thing I feel like doing is slipping on my pajamas and curling up with Netflix in my magic bed. If Ben and Kate haven’t ruined it.
Ben and Kate.
Even their names are a perfect match. Before I can stop myself, Ben and Emelia echoes through my mind.
Nope.
Doesn’t work.
I let our mismatched names wash through me while I reach up to dry my hand on the towel and return the text.
Me: No problem, D. Talk later. :)
I toss my phone back onto the pile and retake my position under the steaming spray. I’ve always liked my showers hot. Greg was a lukewarm kind of guy, which meant I always froze my ass off when we had our sexy-shower-time. Yes, he actually called it that. He also used the word hump. Needless to say, dirty talk was not his strong suit. He did have other strengths though.
Strengths I will not think about.
Will. Not. Think. About.
I rinse off, letting my mind run through the catalog of my favorite movies instead. Movies I’ll be binge-watching in bed. Winston’s playful smile flashes as I reach for the shampoo. Tombstone will be the first on my list.
9
Hot Stuff
By the time I get up the nerve to trade skulking in the den for a movie marathon in bed, the sun is setting and the house is empty. But more importantly, upon close inspection, it seems that my magic bed hasn’t gotten any unwanted sexy-time with Ben and Kate.
I curl up with my laptop and settle in.
Few things make me feel as happy as being under a mound of comfy covers, my head propped up by soft pillows as I watch movies while shoveling buttery-salty-delicious popcorn into my mouth.
And when I say shoveling, I mean shoveling.
If you ever see a short brunette in a movie theater buying a bucket of popcorn for the road, it’s me.
I move the now-empty bowl of popcorn to my nightstand as the ending credits for Reality Bites scroll, the third movie on my long binge list. I set the laptop aside and stand up to stretch, groaning at the pain from my tight muscles, which are even sorer than earlier. Tomorrow’s gonna be a bitch.
I should probably take this as a sign to start working out. I glance down to the exposed skin of my belly, my gray camisole stopping short of my flannel pajamas. My hand travels to the small popcorn-pooch. I suck it in until my hand lies flat. There. Problem solved.
Now on to dessert.
My poochy-stomach and I jump when the front door slams shut. I hold my breath listening as heavy footsteps move past my room. The familiar creak of the bathroom door sounds before it slams shut.
He’s home.
I glance over at the clock; it’s not even eleven o’clock. I can’t imagine Winston and his friends are the “early to bed, early to rise types.” At least not the early-to-bed-to-sleep type.
I wonder if Ben brought someone home. Maybe Kate. Mr. Wellington didn’t say we couldn’t have people spend the night.
I’m relieved tonight’s my night with the bed. The thought of him getting it on under my sheets… umm, let’s just say it doesn’t sit well. To be honest, the idea of Ben getting it on while I’m in the house doesn’t sit well either. Am I jealous? Absolutely not. Envious? Perhaps.
I listen for more footsteps, but nothing.
Just as I’m about stop another movie from auto-playing, a violent retching sound echoes through the walls. Is he throwing up? More retching.
He’s sick.
My feet carry me toward the bedroom door, but I drop my hand before I turn the knob and take a step back. This is a job for Kate if she’s here. I hold my breath, waiting for the sound of her angel-like steps.
Nothing.
Maybe she floats…
Another retching hack.
Maybe he drank too much. And given what a dick he is sober, there’s a very good chance he’s an angry drunk so…
A painful groan seeps through the walls, followed by a loud, hollow dry-heave. Ouch.
What if he has food poisoning?
What if he got in an accident and has a concussion?
What if it’s the flu? This year’s strain is still going strong…
My agitated steps carry me out of my bedroom to the bathroom door where I hesitate for a breath before knocking.
“You okay?” I call through the door.
The toilet flushes, then a gravelly voice mumbles something I can’t quite make out. But I’m pretty sure it’s some form of fuck off.
The sink turns on, and I hear another low groan beneath the running water.
“I’m coming in!” I warn before pushing open the door. I’m met with the sight of a half-naked Ben.
He’s hunched over the sink, letting the water cascade over his dark head, his forearms braced on either side, veins popped over tensed muscle. His jeans are unbuttoned and slung low, resting on the black boxer-brief-covered bubble of his butt.
“Are you okay?” I repeat, trying to keep my voice neutral sounding as I pull a towel free from the rack. He moves his head from under the steady stream but doesn’t straighten.
“I’m fine.”
“Yeah, you look great,” I deadpan.
“Go away.”
“Did you drink too much?”
He gives me a heated side-glare that sends a cold shiver through my body before he yanks the towel from my grip and stands up.
I take a quick step back.
“I’m not drunk,” he growls, shutting off the water. He takes a step toward me, invading my space while he half-ass dries his hair.
“Move,” he orders, his cheeks noticeably flushed.
I reach up before I can think better of it, to touch the back of my hand to his forehead, but he jerks his head from my reach.
“What are you doing?” he asks gruffly.
Good question.
I drop my hand, feeling foolish, but hold m
y ground. “You look like you have a fever.”
“I’m fine.” He turns the faucet back on, taking a handful water into his mouth, swishing it around, then spits it out.
He turns the water off, hangs his head, and braces he hands on the sink like he’s trying not to throw up again.
Fine, my ass.
“Go lie down. I’ll get a thermometer.”
Not waiting for some smart-ass reply, I turn and walk out—vaguely hearing him mutter something at my back.
I make my way to Rose’s nightstand and pull out the second drawer, grab the thermometer case, along with some Advil and a few odds and ends.
I start toward the guest room, where Ben should be sleeping, but there’s a good chance he’s not there, so juggling all this stuff in my arms, I step into my room.
Thanks to the soft light coming from the laptop, I see him lying in bed. He’s kicked off his shoes and has moved down his jeans a bit, like he wanted to take them off but didn’t have the energy. His eyes are closed and his head is resting on my stack of comfy pillows.
I think about turning on the light, but I’m pretty sure he’d throw something at me, so I leave the switch alone and make my way to him.
Guess I’ll be sleeping on the couch tonight.
I unload everything onto the foot of the bed and pull out the digital thermometer from its case.
Clicking it on, I walk to his side of the bed and hold it out for him to take. “Here,” I say when I see his eyes are closed.
He ignores me. Like I have nothing better to do with my life than to stand here staring at him. Anger starts to bubble, and I think about walking out and letting him die from whatever killer virus he’s got.
But instead, my feet stay rooted. “Jesus, Ben, I’m a nurse. Let me help you.” My voice sounds as frustrated as I feel.
He cracks open his glossy eyes, sees the thermometer, and opens his mouth expectantly. It takes me a second to realize he’s waiting for me to put it in. It’s almost cute, this hulking man lying there like a helpless baby bird waiting for food. I feel a little of my irritation seep away.
