by Watson, Lucy
There’s a weighted pause. And I wonder what look she’s giving him. What look he’s giving her.
“Yeah?”
“Sure.”
“Sounds good.” The smile in his gravelly voice sits heavy on my chest. “Where do you want me.”
“Maybe we can go to your room, so you can lie down.”
“Alright.”
Ben walks past the entryway with a curvy blonde.
I watch, unable to breathe, as they disappear toward the hall, toward my bedroom.
Ben is going to have make-out-massage-maybe-sex in my room. The realization sends a jolt of adrenaline through my body. They’re about to get busy on my bed. On my magic bed!
The hell they are!
Anger swift and fierce takes over, and before I can think about what I’m doing, I charge down the hall like I’m running with the bulls in Spain.
My shoulder knocks hard into Ben and Massage Parlor Barbie as I push past. “No, you don’t!” I growl through clenched teeth. Not caring that Ben and his date stumble into the wall.
“What the fuck?” He sounds surprised, confused even.
Yippie-ki-yay, motherfucker!
I ignore the fact that the hall starts to tilt and spin. I charge into my room and fumble to lock the door behind me. I frantically push in the button lock a few extra times, just to make sure. Then I take a few stumbling steps back. I’m breathing hard. And I can’t feel my fingers. But I’ll worry about that later.
The door knob jerks. Followed by a cracking pound on the door. I’m not gonna lie, I jump and yelp at the sound.
“Open the door.” Ben’s voice drips with acid.
He’s pissed. Really pissed.
“I won’t let you ruin my bed!”
“Open the door.”
“No.”
“Open. The. Door. Now.” Each word is a threat, a promise of a slow painful death.
“No.”
“I thought you said you were single,” Massage Parlor Barbie chimes in.
“I am.”
“Then who is she?”
“She’s a pain in my ass.”
“I’m his fiancée!” I bellow on a fake-dramatic sob. “How could you do this to me, Benny-boo! You were my everything!”
Yeah, this is a dick move. I shouldn’t be so bitchy. I shouldn’t be enjoying it. But I am.
“You’re engaged?”
“It’s not like that.”
“I’ll just call an Uber,” she says.
Then she informs me through the door, “Sorry, girl, I didn’t know he was with someone.”
“I’m not with—”
“It’s okay,” I lament on the tail end of a fake sob and sniffle.
I listen to her retreating heels echo down the hallway, feeling victorious. And maybe just a little guilty.
“Wait. I’ll take you home,” Ben calls after her.
I hold my breath, waiting for his steps to follow hers, when his deep menacing voice seeps through the door. “That was a mistake.”
His dark words fill the air around me, causing the hair on my neck to stand tall, and I’m ninety-nine percent sure he’s right.
The sound of his heavy footsteps retreating down the hallway do nothing to calm my nerves. Either does the sound of the front door slamming shut.
After fifty Mississippi’s, I take in a few settling breaths and crack open the door, listening to the fading rumble of Ben’s Bronco.
I have at least twenty minutes before he gets back. I hope.
* * *
I text Derek. Brush my teeth. Pee. Take a preventive Advil. Wash my face. Grab pajamas from the dryer and make it back behind the locked door in record time. All while not thinking about Ben and the blonde. Not thinking about what might have happened between them.
I shake away the thought and crawl under my clean sheets, that thankfully smell like lavender Downy and not musk à la Ben, feeling traces of leftover adrenaline running through my veins.
I fluff my pillow, then reach for my new book boyfriend on the nightstand. If there was ever a time I needed to escape from my disastrous life, this is it.
I crack it open and start reading. This feels good. Normal. Cozy even. I burrow deeper into my pillows. Maybe Mara’s onto something. With the tension in my body now relaxed, my eyelids grow heavy.
When I realize I’ve been reading the same paragraph for a while, I decide I’m going to have to fall in love tomorrow, because right now my body is powering off.
I close my book at the same time the front door slams shut, with such a brutal force it shakes the house.
My pulse spikes.
I do what any reasonable person would do when faced with certain death: I reopen my book to a random page, hold it up to my face, and mumble the theme song to Ghostbusters.
When Ben’s heavy footsteps draw near, I take in a steady breath and remind myself that the door is locked. That he’s Rose’s grandson. That he may be pissed, but he’s not going to hurt me. Ice shoots through my veins when I hear the doorknob jostle.
I was wrong.
He’s going to kill me.
I flash to my funeral.
It looks like a Denny’s at three am on a Tuesday.
A soft taunting knock jerks me back to this Steven King’s The Shining moment that I’m apparently trapped in.
My wild eyes flicker around the room. Even Wendy had the good sense to grab a butcher knife, attempting to escape from an ax-wielding Jack through a window.
Me? I just lie here and call out something no victim in any horror movie has ever said. Ever. “Go away. I’m sleeping.”
A suffocating silence blankets the room. The blood rushing in my ears is the only sound.
Feeling light-headed, I place my hand on my chest to make sure I’m breathing. I am. But I might as well be standing at the summit of Mount Everest with all the good it’s doing.
At least if I pass out, I won’t fall far.
His ominous voice seeps through the door and oozes around me. “Sleep tight, Shortcake. See you in the morning.”
I feel like he’s just signed my death warrant with those words. My heart crashes against my sternum. I hold my breath as I listen to his heavy footsteps retreat down the hall.
Wait. Is he freaking whistling?
At that moment, I know two things for certain: (1) I’m not going to sleep a wink. (2) Benjamin Crawford is going to kill me, probably while whistling.
15
Defcon 3
You know those mornings when the soft cloud of sleep you’re snuggled on top of drifts down from the sky until it gently touches upon the lush meadow grass of wakefulness.
Today’s not one of those mornings.
My eyes shoot open, and I spring from the bed like it’s covered in snakes. My teeth clench. My face pulls tight in a grimace as I rush to the door. Why do I look like a rabid Chihuahua? Because I’ve been holding my Olympic-pool-sized pee all night.
All. Freaking. Night.
I swing open the bedroom door, my bladder threatening to explode at any moment while I run down the hall to the bathroom.
When I see the bathroom door is closed, I think about turning around to use Rose’s bathroom, but momentum carries me forward.
I don’t care if Ben’s in there. I will throw him off the toilet if I have to. I try the door. It’s locked. “Please,” I plead.
When it doesn’t magically open, I turn and head off to Rose’s room. Ignoring the sputter in my heart at her empty room, I rush to the bathroom door. Turning the handle, I push it with my shoulder. It doesn’t budge.
Locked.
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” I exclaim.
I will not pee myself. I will not pee myself.
I repeat this mantra as I fly past the living room. I say fly, but in reality, I’m shuffling awkwardly while holding my hoo-ha.
I make it to the den and hobble to the bathroom. I know when I see the closed door. I know before I even try the knob that it’s locked.
>
“What the fuck!” I curse the door with a pound of my desperate fist.
“Something wrong, dear?”
I spin on my heels at the smooth deep voice. His eyes drift slowly down my body. His brows raised pointedly on the hand currently cupping my baby-maker.
His lips quirk. He’s clearly amused.
Bastard.
If I move my hand, I’m pretty sure I’ll pee myself, so I hold tight to my girl-part and glare at him with a look that I’m pretty sure puts Carrie to shame.
“Unlock the door.” I sound possessed.
I did earn the nickname Exorcist Emmy in eighth grade, so...
“Is it locked? How strange.”
I shuffle to the side as he casually walks up and tries the handle. “Well, look at that. It is locked.” His voice is tauntingly smooth.
Angry tears well in my eyes. “Ben.”
“Yes?”
“Please.”
“Please what?
“Please unlock the door.”
He holds my stare while I shift my weight from leg to leg.
“No,” he states. And with that, he turns and walks away, whistling a snappy tune.
Whistling. Fucking. Whistling.
I’m so outraged that for a brief moment the urge to pee takes backstage to my anger.
Taking advantage of the temporary reprieve, I violently push past Ben, ignoring the husky laugh that follows me as I run out of the den at a break-neck pace. I haven’t moved this fast since we played against LaSalle High for the championship. We won, by the way.
I leap out of the backdoor off the living room, and frantically scan the yard for privacy. Spotting a low bush, I make a dash for it. The closer I get, the more it resembles an anemic shrub.
But beggars can’t be choosers and all that…
My hands are already at the waist of my flannel pajamas as I skid to a stop behind it. I pull them down and tuck them out of the way as I pop a squat. Closing my eyes, I moan in relief.
Just as I start to worry my feet will end up in a pee-puddle, my Niagara stream trickles to a drip.
Drip dry, it is. I choose not to judge myself for what I’m doing and just go with it.
The chill morning breeze actually feels sort of nice against my bare bum. The air is crisp and fresh. The birds are singing. In the far distance, I can hear cars driving along the road.
I take in a deep cleansing breath through my nose, feeling like a new woman. Peeing outside might actually be the best way to start the day. Maybe I should start a movement. I’ll call it free-range peeing. It could totally be a thing.
I smile at the thought and slowly open my eyes… And stare right into the eyes of a group of old ladies, looking at me from the kitchen window, their bright Fixodent-and-forget-it smiles shining a spotlight on my current situation.
A lady with well-coiffed silver hair waves, excitedly. Then in unison they all wave. They continue to wave as I continue to squat, except Mrs. Baker who’s holding a napkin under her chin as she shovels some form of food into her waiting mouth.
My eyes lift to the shadow lurking behind them. Ben. He waves, wearing the biggest most asshole smirk I’ve ever seen.
Then he winks. And I feel it. Feel it. His smirk fades, and his lips purse, causing my breath to catch. If he fucking blows me a kiss, I swear to God… But then I realize it’s worse. Much worse. Because I’m pretty sure he’s fucking whistling.
Remember when I said I couldn’t hate Ben now that I know about his heartbreak?
I was wrong.
Forcing a bright smile, I maneuver my pajamas up with one hand while picking at dead leaves with the other. Because picking dead leaves off of an already dead bush is less weird than peeing outside, right?
Taking a deep breath, I stand and give a small wave back to my audience.
I take my first step away from my bush toward bedlam when something catches my eye over the back door. I peer closer. It’s a black bubble security camera pointed in my direction.
Fuck my life.
* * *
Blueberry crumb cake.
That’s what Mrs. Baker is chomping on as she introduces me to the group like she’s Charlie and this is her octogenarian team of Angels.
Ada, the fake-wedding cake baker.
Josie, the fake-wedding florist.
Betsy, the fake-wedding planner.
And, Sam, the real Redi-Wheels driver who my fake-fiancé is currently handing a mug of coffee to. Like he’s a nice guy. Like he just didn’t try to murder me via bladder explosion, which is rare but can totally happen.
I will not notice the way the dark blue Henley hugs his biceps, or the way his jeans mold to his muscular thighs.
My eyes turn back to the smiling ladies before I don’t notice anything else about him. If they think it’s odd for someone to trim dead bushes in the morning while barefoot and in pajamas, they don’t show it.
“Nice to meet you all.” I force a smile with a small wave, feeling exposed under their microscope. Some people love to have all eyes on them. I’m not one of them. Especially not wearing pajamas and bedhead.
Just as I’m about to excuse myself to run and put on some clothes or hide under my bed for the next fifty years, Ada, a plump woman with a shock of silver coils and beautiful mocha skin, charges my way with an electric smile zapping everything in her path.
“Aren’t you just as cute as a button!” she exclaims while giving my cheek a firm pinch. Moving her hand to my chin, she squishes my lips together like a fish and looks over her shoulder. “You didn’t say she was so adorable, Ben.”
I follow her line of sight to see him leaning against the counter, an evil grin tugging at the corner of his lips.
“Didn’t I?” He takes a sip of his coffee while stifling a laugh, his eyes locked on mine. Yesterday’s Eskimo Kiss moment playing between us.
It’s hard to shoot him a death glare with my face scrunched like this, but I give it all I’ve got. I know I missed my mark when a burst of deep laughter sounds from his chest.
Wiping coffee dribble from his shirt, he shakes his head with a soft chuckle, eyes locked on mine. “She’s adorable all right.” He says adorable, but his tone says idiot.
By the way, evil people shouldn’t have sexy laughs. They should all sound like Lord Voldemort when he thought he killed Harry Potter. They should all look like him too, a gray noseless creature with rotting flesh. Not like sexy man-candy.
“She’s a Gypsy.” Mrs. Baker chimes in. “All Gypsy’s are cute. That’s how they get you.” She stuffs something else in her mouth and talks around it. “Elizabeth Taylor was a Gypsy.”
“I’m not a Gypsy,” I mumble, begging the universe’s forgiveness. I don’t know which is worse: responding to the offensive word or sounding defensive that it applies to me.
“That’s what they all say,” she counters.
Ada pats my cheek with a placating smile. “There’s nothing wrong with being a Gypsy.” Her smile widens. “God doesn’t make mistakes.”
Ben’s soft chuckle fills the background. I mentally flip him off as my eyes flash to Betsy who’s heading my way with a bright smile creasing her crepe paper skin.
“Don’t hog her, Ada,” Betsy says, elbowing her way to me.
There are some people who you know are inherently good people. They have this fuzzy good-people aura that you can feel. And Betsy is one of them.
She takes both of my cold hands in her warm ones, her personal oxygen tank secure at her side, the plastic nasal cannula barely noticeable against her skin.
“Thank you so much for trusting me with your special day, dear.” Her voice sounds frail, but her eyes sparkle with life. “I can’t tell you how much joy this brings to my heart.” Her smile dulls around the edges. “After my George passed… I wasn’t sure how I’d go on.” She shakes away the thought. The cloud of sadness lifts and her smile returns. “I’m just so happy to be a part of this. I’m afraid I just don’t have the right words to tell you h
ow much this means to me.”
The heartache and hope etched in her round grandmotherly face absolutely slays me. Slays me.
“Me too,” I manage to squeak out around the glass shards of emotions stabbing my throat.
Betsy has unknowingly become the worst sort of collateral damage. I realize then, that I’m not the good guy in this story. I may actually be the villain.
“I won’t let you down, dear. I promise.” She gives my hands an earnest squeeze with a watery-eyed smile before letting go.
I feel like the lowest of the low. The cigarette butt stuck in gum stuck to the bottom of a shoe low.
“Thank you.” Is all I can think to say as my brain scrambles to figure out how to fix this.
My heart rate spikes as anger rushes through my veins. Ben could’ve cleaned this mess up yesterday. He could’ve saved these sweet ladies the trouble of coming over here, expecting to plan a wedding, but he didn’t.
“You waiting for a round of applause or something?” Mrs. Baker calls at me from the kitchen table. “Go on and put yourself together. We’ve got a busy day ahead.”
Josie, wearing thick glasses that take up most of her face and a pink-and-brown floral print shirt straight out of a 1970s Sears catalogue, catches my eyes.
“The stores don’t open for an hour, so take your time,” she says softly with a pleasant smile. “Nothing good ever came from rushing.”
I decide I like Josie.
“Nothing good ever came from being late either. Look at what happened to the Titanic.”
I don’t like Mrs. Baker.
“It hit an iceberg, Dottie,” Ada chimes in on a here-we-go exhale.
I can’t help but wonder why these women would voluntarily spend time with Mrs. Baker.
“Because it was running late.”
“I’ll go ahead and wait for youse guys in the van,” Sam mumbles with a thick Boston accent, their banter clearly giving him a headache. “Thanks,” he says with a nod to Ben as he sets the coffee cup down on the counter.
