Shortcake

by Watson, Lucy

  When my vision clears, all I see is Ben’s glare. His jaw ticks in anger. I realize that the solid, quick thump pounding against my chest is his heart. He’s pissed. Really pissed. Good.

  “I win.” I mouth the words barely above a whisper. “Now put me down like a good boy.” I smirk and give his cheek a little patronizing pat.

  Okay, that might have been a bit too much…

  His nostrils flare. And I become acutely aware of his firm hands which are currently locked on either side of my not-so-firm ass, holding me up.

  Maybe I should’ve waited to gloat until my feet were back on solid ground.

  He grins, wolfishly.

  Yeah. Should’ve waited.

  His murderous eyes narrow as his grip tightens. The combination sends a thrill through me.

  “You didn’t let me finish, honey bear…” His words are saccharine sweet.

  Dear lord, what have I done.

  “What I feel for you goes beyond love,” he professes, his deep voice raised enough so our audience can hear his proclamation. “I’m downright sick with it, sweetheart.”

  If I weren’t looking into his eyes, I’d think he was sincere, but I am, so I can see the dark evil brewing in their depths.

  “What are you doing?” I whisper-growl.

  “That’s when you know it’s the kind of love that’ll last,” Mrs. Baker chimes in. “When you feel like dying, you've got something real.”

  “Oh, it’s real alright,” Ben deadpans, “Never felt more like dying in my life.” He bends his lips to my ear. “Trust me, you don’t want to play this game. I’ll win. Every. Single. Time.”

  Is that right...

  My eyes narrow.

  I bring my fingers into his hair, running my nails against his scalp, the way I know he likes, and say with an overly bright smile, “Then let’s get married this month. I don’t think I can wait another second to be yours.”

  Checkmate, asshole.

  “An April wedding. Even better!” Mrs. Baker proclaims with a loud clap of her hands.

  Ben’s strong hands move to my ass, gripping it like he owns it. Like I belong to him.

  “Sounds good, sweetheart,” he says, slow and low. His gaze holds mine in a way that makes stomach flutter.

  Mr. Crawford clear his throat. “Might I suggest not rushing into anything. After a loss, emotions tend to be heightened.”

  No shit.

  “Hodgepodge! You don’t rush into love; it rushes into you. It’s settled. An April wedding it is! I can’t wait to call Betsy! She did the Zimmer’s wedding in seventy-four, and people still talk about it. Plus, her mopey face is getting on my nerves. Don’t worry, if anyone can pull a wedding off in weeks, Betsy can.”

  My eyes flare at her words. She’s calling a wedding coordinator? Shit. Fuckity. Fuck. Fuck.

  I take in a shaky breath, my mind running through all the ways this is getting out of control…

  Sensing my waning resolve, Ben pounces. “Unless you’re having a change of heart, baby?”

  And there it is. The line that separates winners from losers, or in our case sane people from crazy ones.

  I’m sure you can imagine which category I fall into.

  “Never. I’m yours for better or worse.” I bring home the point by giving him a soft kiss on the cheek.

  Well, not technically his cheek but the part of soft skin under his eye. I draw it out, keeping my lips to his hot skin because I’m in control of this game and I want him to know it.

  I feel his muscles tense around me. And I move back to see the look on his face. He wasn’t expecting the kiss, which is evident by the dark scowl he’s wearing.

  I grin.

  Until his eyes drop to my mouth.

  My grin fades.

  He wouldn’t. He wets his lower lip. It’s a look I recognize from the pancake debacle. My breath hitches. And my gaze slices back to his black devil eyes.

  He would.

  I start to squirm. His hand moves across my back, stilling me. This is it. He’s going to kill me with a kiss. I just know in my heart, if his lips touch mine, I’m dead. And not because of whatever killer-flu-germ he’s probably still carrying.

  Mrs. Baker’s squawking-blue-jay voice breaks our moment. “Where’s the ring?” We both jerk our heads toward her as she motors to Ben’s side and demands, “Benny, put the girl down so I can see her ring.”

  “Yeah, Benny, put the girl down,” I repeat with a forced grin, still trying to shake the ghost image of his lips pressed against mine. The image fades, and my smile brightens.

  I win, sucker!

  I hold his eyes in triumph. And just as I’m about to drive the wooden stake through his Vampire-heart with a perfectly timed wink.

  He drops me.

  Drops.

  Me.

  My legs buckle as my unprepared feet hit the ground and I land on my ass with a hard thud. Before I can even register the pain radiating from my tailbone, Ben grab my upper arm.

  “Sorry, babe, let me help you up.” He hauls me up before I can refuse his help. Just as I’m about to tell him what an asshole his is, Mrs. Baker grabs my hand and starts inspecting it.

  “Where’s her ring?” she barks at Ben, accusation written in her beady gaze.

  He looks like he might walk off, so I grab his arm.

  Not so fast, buddy.

  “He said I didn’t need one.” I pout and look to my feet, shuffling the gravel a bit, mostly to hide the small smile forming.

  “Hodgepodge! You can’t promise forever-kind-of-love without a ring,” she grumbles while she rustles her old hands.

  I realize in horror that she’s taking off one of her rings.

  I gasp. My eyes go wide.

  I want to stop her, but she turns to Ben and shoves it at him so fast I don’t have the chance.

  He glares at me like he’s going to strangle me. Slowly. With his bare hands.

  “Here. It’s on loan until you get the girl a proper one. Can’t have you two starting your life together half-ass.” She jerks her hand out. “Take it.”

  Ben reluctantly takes it.

  “I can’t… uh… I’ll get her one, Mrs. B.” He looks nervous, his neck flushes as he goes to hand her back the ring.

  Mr. Wellington looks like he wants to intervene, or say something, but instead he just stands there, looking as lost as I feel.

  I realize my hands are trembling.

  This just got real fast.

  Too real. Too fast.

  “Put this one on her until you do. Can’t have a pretty girl like that walking around without your claim. Do I have to tell you how this works?”

  “No, ma’am.” His voice is soft and obedient.

  Oh, my god. He’s freaked.

  “Go on, then.” She flicks her hand at him, “Hurry up, I have calls to make.”

  He turns to me and grabs my hand, not meeting my eyes. His rough palms are sweaty. Or maybe it’s mine.

  “Do it right. A girl only gets engaged once.”

  His dark brown eyes meet mine. I’m too stunned to say anything, so I just shake my head in an emphatic, don’t do it.

  He does it. He drops to his knee. His fucking knee!

  And brings the ring to my finger.

  “You have to ask her!” Mrs. Baker exclaims and looks up to the heavens, shaking her head. “Jesus have mercy on this poor ignorant soul.”

  Ben clears his throat. His eyes locked on mine. Every which way he’s going to kill me written in them.

  “Will you marry me?”

  I should say no. Make a clean break. Be known in town as the woman who said no to Ben Crawford. That wouldn’t be so bad…

  But my mouth evidently has another idea.

  “Yes…”

  His eyes flare in disbelief.

  “What’re you deaf? She said yes. Put the ring on before she changes her mind.”

  He slides the ring on my finger. It fits. Perfectly.

  I can’t bring myself to look
at it.

  “Now seal it with a kiss, so we can be done with it.”

  Ben stands, looking like he’s in shock, bends down and quickly brushes a barely-there kiss on the corner of my mouth.

  What the hell is happening!

  “You’ll have to work on that if you want to keep her, but it’ll do for now.” Mrs. Baker brings her hands together for one loud, solid clap. And it feels like we just sold our souls to the devil.

  “Now if you’ll excuse me, Wanda’s making cornbread.” She turns her scooter around while calling out, “This is going to be the wedding of the year!”

  She honks. Meep. Meep.

  We watch, in shocked silence as her mobility scooter heads down the long driveway. The miniature American Flag sticking up from behind blows in the breeze.

  My body jolts at the sound of thunderous laughter booming from the house. I turn to see Jesse bent over, his hands on his knees, his massive body shaking as he cracks up. Next to him, Nick’s got his hand in front of his mouth, trying to suppress the high-pitched cackle escaping from between his fingers. Perched in his other hand is his iPhone and it’s pointing at us… recording. Even Winston is trying to suppress a grin when he calls out, “Congratulations!”

  I glance over to Ben.

  His eyes are on me.

  He’s not happy.

  Not one bit.

  I’m pretty sure in an alternative universe, he’s inmate number 81433 sitting on death-row for my murder.

  12

  Army of One

  The rest of the day passes in a quiet blur of awkwardness that ends with Ben and his boys on one side of the house and me on the other, which is just fine.

  Ben hasn’t said one word or glanced my way since the dumpster debacle, which is also fine with me.

  Except for Nick’s occasional smirk, neither have his boys, which as much as I hate to admit it, totally sucks.

  Everything sucks.

  Especially with Mrs. Baker’s ring on my finger. A ring I have to give back to her with an explanation. Too bad I don’t know how to explain any of this shit.

  By the time the movers arrive with the new furniture, Winston and Nick have left, Ben has gone to the garage with Jesse, and I stand in uncomfortable silence with Mr. Wellington, watching as the team sets everything up.

  I want to ask Mr. Wellington why Rose would give away everything she held so dear to strangers. I want to ask him a million other things too, but I don’t. Partly because I want—no, need—to believe there is some grand design to it all. I need to believe there is a reason why she did what she did. I need to pretend. Pretend she wasn’t losing it. Pretend that I didn’t somehow take advantage of her.

  If I hadn’t binged-watched Fixer Upper with Rose, I wouldn’t believe it was possible for a house to change so much in such a short period of time.

  New furniture. New smell. New house.

  Just like that.

  I’m surprised Rose didn’t pick out something in shades of mauve, her favorite color, or a floral print like her last living room set, but there isn’t a patch of mauve or flower to be found. Instead, the furniture is contemporary and soft-looking in dark woods, creams, grays, and light blues. Something I would’ve picked out, which is probably why it feels oddly familiar.

  I’ve read that feelings of déjà vu mean you’re on the path to fulfilling your destiny. If this is my destiny, I’m screwed.

  As much as I try to wrap my mind around why Rose would do any of this, I can’t.

  * * *

  When the last mover leaves, followed by Mr. Wellington, it’s almost eight o’clock, and my body feels like it’s been hit by a bus. Repeatedly.

  A bus driven by Benjamin Crawford.

  I groan, shaking the unwanted memory of him looking up at me from bended knee from my mind and pull my phone out of my back pocket to text Derek that I’m too tired for dinner tonight. I know if I see him I’ll end up crying about everything that happened today and he’ll end up trying to make it right, which will just make it worse.

  I walk into my room and take in the new furniture as I kick off my shoes. It’s rustic. Masculine but elegant. And I freaking love it. I don’t want to love it. I don’t want to love anything about this house anymore. But the heart wants what the heart wants.

  I slip the phone in my back pocket and grab my favorite pair of slate-gray yoga leggings and a random T-shirt from the top of the pile of clothes, clothes I’d shoved in the closet earlier.

  Tucked far under the pile is my purple passion perpetrator.

  Yet another thing Ben has ruined.

  My back-pocket chimes with a text.

  Derek: You sure? Hoping we’d hit up Jack’s.

  My stomach growls and my mouth waters at the thought of sinking my teeth into one of Jack’s Western Burgers with a tangy barbecue sauce, crispy onion rings, thick-cut applewood bacon, smothered with melted pepper Jack.

  Me: We’ll see how I feel after my bath. ;)

  Derek: Set the alarm on your phone.

  Me: I’m not going to fall asleep, weirdo.

  Derek: Not if you set the alarm.

  Me: Fine.

  Me: I’m rolling my eyes right now, just so you know.

  Derek: And that’s different, how? ;)

  A smile breaks free as I slip my phone back into my pocket.

  But then as I open the bathroom door, I catch a glimpse at the vintage diamond-and-sapphire ring perched on my finger. Smile gone.

  I flip on the light. Taking in a deep breath, I look at it. Really look. Something I’ve managed to avoid doing all day.

  It’s simple. Beautiful. Delicate. Perfect.

  And it shines like a lighthouse beacon of my stupidity.

  I read once that the ancient Chinese used death by a thousand cuts as their favored method of torture. It’s a slow and agonizing death, taking days or sometimes weeks. They knew torture isn’t the cold heat of the blade as it slices through skin, but the slow death of hope that follows each drop of blood.

  The soul can’t breathe without hope.

  Torture is to keep living after your soul has died.

  I turn on the bath water, squeezing shampoo into the hot stream, watching bubbles grow under the waterfall. I stand and redo my ponytail to a topknot, filling my lungs with the moist air, tasting Pantene on my tongue.

  I strip from my clothes, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My pasty-ass needs a spray tan. Big time. I hate that Greg was the last man to see me naked. I hate even more that I want him to see that the curves he loved are back.

  I step out of my Amazon-purchased pink panties, that border on Bridget Jones’s sensible underwear. In my defense, they looked really cute in the online pic.

  I unhook my bra, letting out a deep moan as it falls to the floor, savoring the feeling of freedom. I know there are things in this life that feel better than taking off your bra, but right now I can’t think of a single one.

  I step into the hot water, lie back with a moan, letting the mix of almost too-hot water and bubbles lick at my skin. I close my eyes, feeling the tension in my body relax for the first time in weeks.

  I make a mental note to take baths more often and turn off the water with my toes. Toes in need of a serious pedicure.

  The echo of my relaxed breaths mixing with the ping of dripping water and the staticky sound of the bubbles losing their shape are the only sounds.

  I realize then how much I need this sort of quiet.

  Maybe I should become a monk.

  I picture myself with a shaved head, wrapped in a saffron robe, sitting peacefully on a cliff looking out over the vast turquoise sea moving gently against the shore, sandwiched between the Dalia Lama and Alicia Keys.

  The sound of heavy footsteps drawing near snaps me back to reality. Don’t worry, nobody just walks into a bathroom. The door swings open. And Ben walks in, a bottle of beer dangling from his fingers.

  “Jesus!” I yelp, scrambling to slide the glass shower door shut. “I’m ta
king a bath!” I bark, stating the obvious while cursing the glass for not having a bevel in sight.

  Not even a little frost. Nothing. I hate this shower door.

  He ignores me and sets the bottle down on the sink counter and lifts the toilet seat. Is he seriously going to pee? The sound of his heavy stream answers the question. I watch his wide shoulders relax as he rolls his neck.

  “Are you serious, right now?” I hiss.

  The toilet flushes. Then he rinses his hands, taking his ever-loving sweet time.

  Is he whistling?

  He turns off the water, wipes his hands on his jeans, then grabs his beer from the sink counter and faces me, leaning back casually against it, like watching me take a bath is an everyday thing.

  I cross my arms, shielding my chest and quickly looking to the thin layer of Pantene bubbles covering the rest of me, then slice back to the evil bastard. My eyes narrow as he brings the beer to his lips with his devil eyes studying mine as he finishes it off in a quick series of gulps.

  “Are you drunk?”

  “Not yet,” he says with a smirk and motions his bottle toward the door. “But Jesse is, so he’s crashing here tonight.”

  Before I can decide how I feel about sleeping in the same house as a drunk Jesse, my phone chimes with a text, drawing my attention to my pile of clothes. My pink parachute panties among them. My cheeks heat.

  I watch a small grin play on Ben’s lips.

  “Alright, just go,” I rush out, no denying the underlined plea in my tone.

  I know my mistake by the sudden dark glint in his eyes. I broke the first rule of Sun Tzu’s Art of War: Never let your enemy know your weakness. Appear strong where you are weak and weak where you are strong.

  Well, I fucked that shit right up.

  “You shouldn’t leave your clothes here.” He cocks his brow and continues in a relaxed voice, “They’ll get wet.”

  “They’re fine,” I growl.

  He trades the beer for my jeans and folds them, casually setting them on the sink counter next to my yoga pants and T-shirt.

  Panic tingles up my spine. I don’t want him to touch my stuff, but especially not the bra and grandma panties I’ve been working and sweating in all day.