by Watson, Lucy
Ben scoffs. “Didn’t you? Didn’t you tell me you wanted to stay in my family’s home for as long as you want? For forever? Wasn’t that the deal you asked for?”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Right.”
The cold, glass-hard look in his eyes turns my stomach.
“Rose was my friend. I loved her.” How did I never tell her that? How did I never say those words to her? My chest tightens at the thought.
“You knew her for six months,” he states coolly. “You didn’t love her. You barely fucking knew her.”
With that, he stalks out, pieces of my heart stuck to the bottom of his shoes.
The scent of pancakes moves in a heavy cloud around me. I turn back to the griddle and flip them.
“We’ll be right there,” Winston call after him, his voice calming.
I don’t want him to use a calming voice with Ben. Ben doesn’t deserve calm. Does he? Am I the bad guy here? I don’t even know anymore.
“Awk-ward…” I hear Nick murmur from the table. Followed by Jesse’s grunt of agreement.
“He’s been through a lot, Em,” Winston says to my back. “And then losing Mrs. C and all this estate shit. Just try not to take it personal.”
As if that’s an excuse to treat people this way. As if he’s the only person on the planet that has been through shit. Newsflash: he’s not.
I nod anyway and hurry over to the refrigerator and reach up for the paper plates because this breakfast is ruined, feeling their eyes on me. The faster I get the pancakes on a plate, the faster I can jump in the shower. The faster I can put another day behind me.
My eyes catch with Winston’s as I return to the griddle. Almost free.
He grins. “‘Why, Johnny Ringo, you look like someone just walked over your grave.’”
Deep groans sound from the table at his words.
I plate the pancakes, sneaking a glance at them, feeling my shoulders relax. The energy in the room shifts, becoming something lighter. I breathe it in, welcoming the change.
“I swear, don’t you fucking start, dude,” Nick warns Winston, shaking his head.
Jesse grunts.
Winston finds my gaze and holds it, expectantly.
I take a deep breath and give him what he wants. “‘I’m your huckleberry,’” I concede, with a whisper of a smile playing on my lips.
“That’s my girl,” he says with a wink.
Nick looks between us. “Shit. You guys are perfect for each other,” he says with a frown.
“Tried to tell you that, bro,” Winston teases, before turning back to me. “The last name is Night.”
“Night?” I ask, glancing at him while sliding pancakes onto the plates.
“Mrs. Emelia Night.” His smile brightens. “You know it sounds good.”
I can’t help but smile.
Because it does.
11
The Art of War
Things I’ve learned over the last few days:
Nick is a tattoo artist.
He specializes in colored ink.
Sometimes he’s still tempted to eat crayons.
He’s never seen blue the color of my eyes.
He took pictures of my eyeball so he could mix paint to match the color. Which was not weird, at all.
Winston is a chef. He took his first cooking class in high school because he thought it would help him with the ladies. Though, with that smile, I’m sure he didn’t need much.
He got the nickname “Winnie” when he was in second grade. It was originally Winnie the Pooh. Because he had an “accident” while playing four square at recess.
The nickname was started by Nick.
No surprise there.
Jesse is a woodworker and welder with a shop in Half Moon Bay.
He can carve anything. Make anything. Design anything.
He built the bar at Huckleberry’s which was featured in Artful Living magazine.
I learned this not from Jesse but from Nick.
Because Jesse doesn’t talk. Like at all.
Unlike Ben, who seems to talk to everyone but me. Not that I care.
I also don’t care that he hasn’t looked me in the eyes since the pancake debacle. Not even at night when we pass in the hall. Not even in the morning over coffee. Again, not that I care.
I learned Ben had a stutter as a kid. Nobody made fun of him, though. Because he also had a temper and would kick their ass.
Except for Winston. Winston made fun of him a lot and got his ass kicked a lot.
I also learned Ben is ticklish. Like really ticklish. So ticklish he accidentally elbowed a girl named Taylor in the sixth grade when she tickled him from behind and broke her nose. Nick had dared her to do it.
I’m starting to see a trend with Nick… Under that angel-face is a crayon-eating Diablo in the flesh.
I also learned that Ben’s friends are the kind that show up. The kind that come together to help one of their own.
Today, I make my way down the hall to my bedroom, listening to Winston and Nick fight over the last egg roll in the living room.
Voices travel fast in a near-empty house.
It’s been close to three hours since the last of the moving trucks pulled away. Leaving a big-ass debris dumpster in its place, that somehow we’ve almost filled. Maybe it’s a good thing things seem to be moving at warp speed. No time to feel.
In two days, I’ve watched with detached awareness as they hauled Rose’s life away. Piece by piece. Her living room furniture. Gone. Her kitchen table. Gone. Her walnut desk that Mark used to chew on when he was a toddler. Gone. The furniture in the Den. Gone. Furniture in the other rooms. Gone.
Lastly, the Comfy Couch I’ve been sleeping on. Gone.
I realized then, standing amongst the boxes of pictures, papers, and knickknacks, that what I loved most about this house were the stories that came with it. Ben’s right, those stories never belonged to me. They belong to him, to his family. I hate the fact I’m beginning to wonder if Ben was also right and that Rose was losing it at the end.
Walking past her room, I keep my eyes pointed straight ahead.
Feeling the frozen chill of loss whip at my face, I wrap the blanket of denial tighter around me. I can’t look at her empty room.
Not yet.
I’m about to step into my room when I’m met with Ben’s hard chest. He takes a step back, and I see my magic mattress—which I convinced Wellington would have to stay—on the floor with my clothes scattered around it. I’m sure the mess is driving him crazy.
“Anything you want to keep, throw in the closet. Anything not in the closet gets dumped,” Ben mutters, holding a black garbage bag.
He goes to walk past, but I move to block him, my eyes on the mystery bag.
“What’s in there?” I ask, pointing to the bag.
“Stuff,” he clips out.
“What stuff?”
“My stuff.”
“I want to see,” I say, putting my hands on my jean-clad hips.
“It’s garbage, hence the bag,” he states, clearly frustrated.
“Then you shouldn’t have a problem showing me.”
He takes a step forward, crowding my space. I tilt my head back and stand my ground.
“Move,” he grinds out.
Not this time, bucko.
“Not until you show me what’s in the bag. There could be something of mine in there.”
“There’s nothing of yours in this bag.” His words are slow and heavy.
“Why do you have to be so difficult? Just open the bag. Easy peasy.”
“You got to the count of three to move your ass from this doorway… One—”
“Or what?” I challenge. Seriously, who the hell does he think he is?
“Two…” His eyes darken, and I think about moving, but before I can get my body onboard, I’m lifted, hoisted into the air, and thrown over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
Thrown. Over. His. Shoulder
!
My world tilts. The feeling of blood rushing to my head and his strong arm pinning my thighs to his chest happen at once, and so fast it short-circuits my brain.
“What the hell!” I yell, pounding on his back as he carries me down the hall. Not in a fireman’s carry, but the other kind. The kind reserved for Neanderthal-jerks. “You didn’t say three!”
“It’s implied.”
“It can’t be implied! It’s a count-off for Christsake! Let me down!” I continue my assault. And when that doesn’t work, I push myself up on his back, trying to gain enough leverage to wiggle free.
“I drop you, it’ll hurt.”
I keep wiggling, willing to take my chances with the hard floor.
“I’m sooo going to kick your ass.” I’m out of breath from trying to budge from his iron grip, so it doesn’t sound as threatening as I’d hoped.
“You do that, Shortcake.” I hear the grin in his voice.
Prick.
I know it’s a girly move, but I’ve got no other cards to play, so I gather air in my lung and yell, “Winston! Help me! Help!”
Almost immediately I hear heavy footfalls running our way. I try to swing my body so I can see around Ben’s waist.
No luck.
“Dude, what the fuck are you doing?” Winston snaps. His voice sounds equal parts surprised and pissed. “Put her down.”
Emelia Night…. Yep, I’m starting to like the sound of that.
“Yeah, put me down! You jerk!” I bark, wiggling dramatically for effect.
Ben circles his strong hand around the back of my upper thigh and squeezes. Hard. My body stills. I’d like to say the jolt that runs through me is one hundred percent anger. But it’s not.
“Sara Johnson.” The name rolls off Ben’s tongue like it’s some kind of a proclamation.
“Yeah?” Winston says, his voice is suddenly soft.
“I’m calling it in.”
“You’re what?”
“You heard me.”
“What’s going on?” I hear Nick ask.
“He called in Sara Johnson,” Winston states, his voice edged with anger.
“No shit?” A deep voice sounds that I think belongs to Jesse.
“Yep,” Nick answers.
“You fucking suck,” Winston curses.
I feel Ben shrug his shoulders.
“Didn’t see that one coming,” Jesse mutters.
Why are they talking about calling Sara Johnson! Who gives a shit about Sara Johnson!
“Please, somebody help me. I’m going to pass out.” My emotional Academy Award-winning plea is met with silence.
Ben starts to walk away, his grip a little tighter. Did I say walk? Let me correct that. He’s not walking. He’s fucking sauntering like he’s out on a Sunday stroll and I’m hanging over his shoulder like a well-worn church jacket.
“Winston?!” I choke out.
Pushing up on Ben’s back, I strain my neck up to see Nick, Jesse, and Winston staring at me with wide eyes, watching as Ben hauls me off. Watching. Not helping. Watching.
“Sorry,” Winston apologizes.
Nick and Jesse snicker.
Winston turns to them and mutters something harsh beneath his breath before he stomps off. He’s gone before I can tell him that I’m no longer having his babies. I’m not having any of their babies.
Ben carries me out the front door.
“Have you lost your freaking mind?” I screech. It’s a legitimate question given our present situation.
“Yup,” he answers with a casual ease that sets my nerves on fire.
My body jostles as he takes the stairs. And I’m glad I didn’t have any of Uncle Yen’s greasy goodness.
I wait until we clear the steps, fully realizing this is a bad idea, and I reach under his shirt, taking the sensitive skin of his side between my fingers…
His fingers dig into my thigh.
“Don’t do it, woman,” he growls in warning.
I do it.
I pinch.
Hard.
Harder than I’ve ever pinched anything in my life. Hard enough to clench my jaw. Hard enough that I might’ve even growled a little.
I hear his sharp intake of breath.
He stops.
Drops the bag.
My jaw relaxes, and I exhale with the sweet taste of victory on my tongue. Now, he’ll know not to mess with—Thwack!
A stinging pain explodes on my right ass cheek. I cry out in shock. He slapped my ass. Hard. Really fucking hard.
“You smacked me!” I exclaim, in disbelief. My ass cheek is on fire with a million hot needles digging their way to the bone.
He picks up the bag and continues his Sunday stroll.
“You can’t do that! You can’t just slap my ass!”
“Just did.”
My tired arms give out, and I’m left looking at the gravel crunching beneath his feet my body swaying with his steps.
I have a pretty good idea where we’re going, and what he’s going to do to me when we get there.
Let’s just say, I’m ninety-five percent sure the bag he’s carrying, and I will be spending some time in the same place: The dumpster.
And I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let that happen.
I only have one weapon left. I know it’s dangerous, but if I’m going down, I’m going down fighting.
I dig my fingers into his sides and tickle him like my life depends on it. Nothing.
I try a different spot.
Nothing.
Readjust my fingers…
Nothing.
What the fuck?
“I thought you were ticklish?”
“I was.”
I don’t have long to think about his answer, or how a person can just ‘stop’ being ticklish because in the next breath a familiar voice slices through my thoughts.
“Mr. Crawford? What are you doing?” I hear Mr. Wellington ask.
Relief floods me. I’ve never been so happy to hear a voice in all my life. Until that voice is followed by the whining electric sound of Mrs. Baker’s mobility scooter. The gravel crunching beneath her wheels says she’s closing in. Fast.
Darth Vader’s Imperial March sounds in my mind.
I groan, knowing in about twenty minutes the whole town’s gonna hear about how she found Ben Crawford with me slung over his shoulder like a rag doll. Not that I really know anyone outside of the senior center, but still.
“… Excuse me,” Mr. Wellington says, his voice is shaky as he tries to keep up with Ben’s long stride. I know how that feels. Poor guy.
I get glimpses of his burgundy sweater and tan loafers. The wheels of Mrs. Baker’s scooter are not too far behind.
“Mr. Crawford… Umm… Can you please stop.” His face moves into my space. “Ms. Anderson, are you alright?”
“Do I look alright?!” I yell, throwing my hands outward for effect.
“She’s fine,” Ben says as he swings the bag into the dumpster.
My arms fly around his front, and I grip my hands to his solid chest, my face flush against his back, knowing I’m next.
“Mr. Crawford…” Mr. Wellington clears his throat, “I ask that you please put Ms. Anderson down.” His voice is firm and demanding. “Immediately.”
“No.”
“Excuse me?”
“This doesn’t concern you.”
“I think it does, sir.”
Ben’s other hand, now free from the bag, moves to my other leg.
“He’s going to throw me in!” I screech.
“I’m not gonna throw—”
“When’s the wedding?” Mrs. Baker’s grating voice cuts through the air. The question’s so unexpected my hands loosen their grip. What?
“What?” Ben says, echoing my thoughts.
Mrs. Baker motors up to him until I can see her white orthopedic shoes and tan pantyhose peeking out under black slacks.
“Benjamin Crawford. Where I’m from a man throws a woman over his s
houlder for one of two reasons: there’s a wild boar coming, or he’s figured out she’s the woman he’s gonna marry. Since I don’t see a boar. I’ll ask you again, when’s the wedding?”
Where the hell is she from?
“I hardly think they’re getting married, ma’am,” Mr. Wellington softly interjects, like he’s placating a delusional person, because she is.
“Of course they are. Look at them… have you ever seen two people more in love?”
Yep. Delusional.
Ben’s death grip on my leg loosens at her words. I realize then that Mrs. Baker’s not delusional, she’s a freaking genius. She’s just handed me a way out, and I’m taking it.
“Nothing gets past you, Mrs. Baker. We’re madly in love. Hoping for a June wedding. Isn’t that right, cupcake?”
“The hell we are—”
“Ooh. I love a June wedding!” she exclaims, looking almost happy, which adds to my freaked-outness because Mrs. Baker never looks happy. Never. “June weddings bring baby girls. Unless your wedding cake is chocolate, then you’ll have a boy. Just ask Maxine Briggs.”
“There’s no wedding,” Ben growls.
I lovingly pat his stomach from behind, ignoring how solid it is. “But, baby, I thought we decided not to elope because you wanted to show the world our love.” I coo at him like he’s the air I breathe, then continue, turning my chin to Mrs. Baker. “He’s always saying sweet things like that.”
“Well this is unexpected,” Mr. Wellington mutters, obviously trying to wrap his mind around it all.
“Love is always unexpected,” Mrs. Baker states.
“I don’t love her,” Ben snaps.
There’s my window. And I’m jumping through it. Geronimo!
I take in a sharp, mock-hurt breath. “If that’s true, Benny Boo, put me down right now!” I’m not sure at what point in all this I decided on a faint Southern drawl, but there it is, so I’m going with it.
One second I’m looking at a rusted bottle cap in the gravel, the next I’m catching bits of trees and blue sky until the blood rushes from my head so fast it steals my vision. Ben’s strong hands move under my butt to keep me from sliding down the front of his body. On instinct, I grab onto his shoulders, my short nails digging in.
