by Watson, Lucy
“Hey,” he replies, his hand going into his pocket. He looks uncomfortable too. And I don’t like it.
Trying to break whatever’s happening, I give his shoulder a playful push and tease, “So, who’s Tinker Bell? She’s cute.” I try to keep my tone light, but it sounds heavy and forced.
“Her name’s Hope.” He shrugs. “We’ve been seeing each other for a few weeks now.”
A few weeks?
“You didn’t tell me you were seeing someone.”
“Yeah, I know. Sorry.”
The fact he didn’t tell me on purpose twists my gut.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” My forced playful tone is replaced with confusion and hurt.
“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “Things have just felt weird between us, I guess.” He runs a hand through his auburn hair with a heavy exhale.
“Things aren’t weird.”
“Maybe not to you.”
“Why are things weird to you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you mad at me?”
His eyes soften. “No.”
“Are you sure? It seems like you’re mad at me. If you just tell me what I did…”
“You didn’t do anything. I’m not mad, I just got some shit I’m working through right now.”
I hold onto his arm. “Please tell me what’s going on.”
He exhales. “Can we just leave it? I’ll be fine.”
“Promise you’re not mad?”
“Promise.” He gives me a tight smile. “Did you have a good ride? Heard you took Kingston out.”
I drop my hand from his arm. “Yeah, it was good.”
“Good.”
An awkward silence follows that makes me want to wrap my arms around his waist, to end whatever is happening between us, but instead I just wring my hands.
“Maybe we can grab lunch next week, okay?” he says, a bit of his usual light shining in his eyes.
“Okay.” I nod, but before he can leave, I add, “Love you, D.” I’ve said it a thousand times, but now it feels strange coming out of my mouth.
His eyes flash with something before he answers his usual, “Love you back, E.” Same words, but not.
And with that, he walks past me.
Do I believe he’s not mad at me? Nope.
You can’t grow up with someone and not get into fights, or go short periods without talking. Derek and I have been in a few fights, mostly about stupid stuff, or more accurately me doing stupid stuff, but we always ended up curled up on the couch, watching movies.
I take in a deep breath, reassuring myself that this is just one of those times. Next week things will be back to normal.
18
Tea Time
I rest Mara’s “emergency Kindle” on my chest and shift my body for the hundredth time trying to get comfortable on this god-forsaken new couch, while not thinking about Derek or the brooding man-child under this roof.
I didn’t even ask her why the heck she needed an emergency Kindle at work. I totally get it. Book boyfriends are the best.
So much better than real-life arrogant jerks, especially real-life arrogant jerks named Ben. So much better than real-life husband’s named Greg who bail on you when you need them the most. Let’s just say, from now on if he’s not living in a book, he doesn’t exist to me.
I end up shifting onto my side because my ass feels like the Harlem Globetrotters used it as a lay-up springboard. Next time I ride, I’m going to bubble wrap myself.
Thunderous footsteps stomping down the hallway steal my breath. My eyes flare wide.
It’s fee-fi-fo-fum-Ben. Great.
I grip the Kindle harder, scooting further against the cushions of the couch, and quietly beg Deuce—my newest book boyfriend—to step out from the Kindle pages, just this once, because I’m pretty sure he’s the only one who could take on Ben. If not, I’m sure his club brothers could lend a hand. Even their bad-ass old ladies could throw down enough to distract him while I make my escape.
I feel him move past the back of the couch. He can’t see me, but that doesn’t stop me from laying the Kindle flat against my chest, muffling the light and holding my breath until I hear him moving around in the kitchen.
And by moving around, I mean tearing shit up.
Each cupboard slamming jolts my stomach and sends a shot of anger through my heart.
Slam!
A grumble about something so low I can’t make out the words
Slam!
Grumble-grumble
Slam!
“Jesus Christ,” I curse between clenched teeth and swing my legs over the couch.
Living with a broody Ben is one thing, living with this tantrum throwing man-child Ben is something else. Something, which, if the anger simmering in my gut is any indication, I’ve reached my limit of.
My teeth clench as angry steps carry me into the kitchen. He’s not the only one who can stomp.
I stand at the entryway with my arms crossed over my long-lost favorite sweatshirt (amazing the things you can find when you clean) and watch him tear through the cupboards like a wild animal scenting blood, his predatory movements sharp and aggressive.
He’s wearing his usual black sweats that hang perfectly on his narrow hips and a ratty T-shirt that clings to the ridges and bumps of his back and arms.
I hate that T-shirt and those sweats.
As soon as he takes them off, I’m going to burn them both.
I clear my throat. The exaggerated sound fills the space between us. Nothing. Not even a glance my way.
“Is there something I can help you find?” I say in a clipped voice. “Because you seem to be having a hard time finding whatever the hell it is you’re looking for.”
When he ignores me again, I take in a cleansing breath through my nose, even adding a little Kumbaya for good measure.
It doesn’t work.
Slam!
The loud sound blows the lid right off of my Mount Vesuvius-sized volcano. “Would you just freaking stop already! Jesus!”
This earns me an over-the-shoulder glare that I’m pretty sure is considered a felony assault in forty-eight states.
It’s the first time he’s met my eyes since he ripped the lunch bill from my hand when I went to pay. His glare then said not to argue, so I didn’t, not wanting to make a scene. This glare says he wants a fight, and it looks like he’s going to get his way, yet again.
“You moved everything.” His snarl drips with such venom it sends a shiver through my body.
He slices his gaze back to the cupboards and continues to rifle through them, deciding to empty the contents onto the counter as he goes.
I haven’t moved a single thing in this kitchen.
Not one single freaking thing.
“Here’s an idea: Why don’t you stop going all MMA on shit and tell me what you’re looking for. And maybe I can help you find it.” I want to finish with asshole or prick or jerk or a combination of the three, but I don’t.
There’s a heavy pause. His already tense muscles seem to grow tighter pushing, against his T-shirt. If he starts to turn Hulk-green, I’m oughta here.
If you ever encounter a predatory animal in your kitchen, stop what you’re doing. Identify yourself by speaking in a calm, appeasing tone. Back away slowly, preferably in the direction you came. Walk, don't run, and keep calm. And whatever you do don’t tell them to stop going MMA on shit. It turns out they don’t like that very much.
“Go back to bed,” he barks in what I imagine is his Marine voice.
I will not picture him in his rugged combat camo. I will not picture him wearing only dog tags in the shower with water cascading down his tight muscles.
“I’m on the couch remember?” I counter, snottily.
“Never told you to sleep on the fucking couch,” he growls.
“What’s your problem?” I want to mention our kiss so he can just say out loud what his actions have already screamed in my face for the last two days. I don’t like you
. I regret our kiss. I want you gone from my life. From my house.
He mumbles something that I can’t make out as he continues to rummage through shit, nearly emptying the overstuffed cabinets completely onto the counters.
“Jesus Christ, Ben! Just tell me what you’re looking for already!” I storm into the kitchen and start to shove the barrage of mostly expired cans Rose kept “just in case” and boxes of expired Rice-a-Roni and Hamburger Helper back into the open cupboards.
“Stop.”
The one word is spoken with such authority that my hand instantly stills, which adds fuel to my growing rage. “Stop what? Cleaning up your mess?” I bite back.
“You’re putting shit back wrong,” he snaps.
“Am I?” I say, raising my brows while blindingly shoving a can of string beans into the cupboard to punctuate just how little I care.
I turn my eyes to the counter and grab a silver can missing a label when his large hand engulfs mine.
“You’re starting to piss me off.” His deep, frustrated voice fills the space around me.
I’m pissing him off?
My gaze jumps to his face to see sharp brows pulled tight over eyes lit with fire. He’s pissed. At me. Who hasn’t done a damn thing for the last two days but mind my own fucking business.
I turn to face him, my eyes narrow as my neck tilts back to maintain eye contact. Our hands still locked together on the mystery can. You’ll have to pry this can out of my dead cold hand before I give it up.
“I’m pissing you off? Are you serious, right now? You’re the one who’s been acting like a total dick since the Bathroom of Doom incident. Not me, buddy.”
Did I really just say Bathroom of Doom out loud? Yep, sure did. Heat pinpricks up my neck as embarrassment bum-rushes my anger, knocking it clear off the stage.
Right now, I wouldn’t mind being one of the Departed in The Leftovers, wherever they went, it’s got to be better than this.
“Bathroom of doom,” he says slowly, his eyes and voice darker than a moment ago. His firm grip flexes over mine, scrambling my senses.
It’s like when you touch something so hot you feel a flash of icy cold just before you realize that it’s burning you. That’s what Ben does to me.
“Our… kiss.” My voice sounds small, but I keep hold of his penetrating gaze. “It happened. It was stupid. It was… nothing. Okay?” The lie tastes bitter on my tongue, knowing his kiss is forever branded on my soul.
I’m pretty sure that years from now, when my hair has turned white and the bitterness of youth has evaporated, leaving only the sweetest memories, I’ll gaze out the window of my senior home and smile, thinking about the time a man took my breath away in a restaurant bathroom. I may not remember his name, or mine, but I’ll never forget the way he felt.
Ben’s jaw ticks as his eyes search mine, and I fight the urge to turn my gaze down, afraid he might see the truth.
“Yeah, it was fucking stupid,” he states in his deep rumbly voice. His eyes flick to my lips, sending a spark through me. “It was a lot of things.”
I feel suspended in this moment with him. His warm hand on mine. Just him. Me. And a mystery can.
I open my mouth to ask him to define a lot of things. But fear that his things aren’t the same as my things keep my words put.
I give him a small nod.
We hold eyes for a breath longer. My heart beats wildly in my chest. I’m not sure what to make of this moment, of Ben’s words.
He sighs, releasing my hand. “I’m looking for tea.” He takes a step back, running a sharp hand through his hair, causing it to stick up in places.
Wait. What? He’s plowing through the kitchen for tea?
It takes a second for his words to penetrate.
After watching him devour two mountain-sized slices of chocolate cake if he’d said chocolate, I wouldn’t have raised a brow.
But tea?
Nope. Never would’ve thought of that one.
“You’re looking for tea?” There’s no denying the surprise in my voice as I set down the can.
He grunts yes, before walking to open the last of the untouched cabinets. His sharp movements from before having lost their edge, like he’s just figured out he’s been acting like a complete ass.
A complete ass who thinks our kiss was a lot of things.
As much as I try to stoke the glowing embers of anger, I feel it die out, I watch this textbook definition of perfect physical masculinity rummage through a cupboard looking for tea. Tea.
I pull it together and ask, “What kind of tea?”
“Special tea,” he grumbles so low I almost don’t hear him.
A sharp pain in my chest steels my breath. Go lie down, dear, I’ll bring you some special tea that’ll fix you right up.
My throat tightens around my next breath. He’s looking for the special tea. Rose’s special tea. The tea she would make me when I couldn’t sleep, or if I was feeling down or anxious, or if I just had a bad day. Her special tea that made everything better.
I take in a steady breath, and when I feel like my voice won’t betray my tender-to-the-touch heart, I move a few steps toward him.
“How about I make us some while you put this stuff away, okay?” My voice sounds soft, but hopefully not too soft, because I’m pretty sure Ben doesn’t want soft from me.
His dark eyes slice to mine, flashing with something I can’t name, his body pulled tight.
“Just forget it,” he says on an exhale, stepping back from the counter. His eyes cast down as he runs a hand down his face and releases another heavy breath.
He seems lost, which makes my chest ache. I’ve spent the last few years feeling like he looks. Lost and alone, even in a room full of people—even with Derek.
“Too late. I want some too, so start cleaning up,” I order gently with Rose’s voice echoing in my ear.
His eyes flash back to mine, and it looks like he wants to argue, but instead, he turns and starts to put things meticulously back into the cupboards, one item at a time, labels facing out.
I squash the sudden feeling I have to wrap my arms around his trim waist, hugging him from behind like a spider monkey. I shake away the thought and walk to the freezer.
Opening it, I reach for the plastic cool whip container wedged sideways amongst Rose’s graveyard of frozen delectables that I couldn’t bring myself to toss. Putting it all back into the new fridge, which earned me a few curious looks from Jesse. Looks that I ignored because if I want to save a dozen Ziploc bags full of Rose’s half-eaten liverwurst sandwiches, that’s my business.
I set down the cool whip container on the counter, feeling Ben’s steady gaze burn like a laser between my shoulder blades.
I’m not gonna lie, it feels good to know something about Rose that Ben doesn’t. Even if that something is that she keeps her special tea in the freezer, stored in a cool whip container from the eighties.
I pull back the plastic lid and breathe in the faint fruity tea smell, stepping into the cozy memories it conjures up.
Rose’s recipe consisted of hibiscus tea, a blue plastic measuring spoon of sugar, a dollop and stream of honey, and one dash of brandy. They’re simple ingredients, but when she put them together it created something special. Something I’m not sure I have the right amount of goodness in me to mimic.
I gather up the ingredients anyway, listening to Ben clean up the mess he’s made. He does this without slamming a single cupboard, thank the Lord.
I pull the whistling tea kettle off the burner, drop in a small basket of the loose tea inside, and replace the lid at the same time I hear the chair scrape against the floor. I glance over my shoulder to see him taking a seat at the table.
My eyes run over the spotless counters before looking back to the blue and white porcelain teapot. There’s no doubt that if I open the cupboards, all the cans and boxes will have their labels facing out, probably in alphabetical order too. For some reason, the image squeezes my chest.
&
nbsp; Even though he’s made it pretty freaking clear that he doesn’t want me as a friend, or to have me in his life, I’m going to try anyway. Because Rose’s Sweet Benny needs her special tea and she’s not here to make it. I am. She’s not here to find out why he’s rummaging like a madman through the kitchen at ten o’clock at night. I am.
I sneak a glimpse at Ben while I pull down the good turquoise teacups and saucers from the cupboard, setting them on the tray next to the other ingredients. He’s sitting forward with his elbows on the table and his hands steepled, his chin resting on his thumbs, his gaze fixed on the moonlit kitchen window.
I lift the heavy tray and start to carry it to the table. I’m not going to lie, I have butterflies in my stomach, my knees are weak, and my steps are unsteady. So basically, there’s a sixty-three percent chance I’m going to face plant before I make it to the table. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be the first time.
Ben’s dark eyes meet mine, flicking to the tray, while mine slide over his stoic features, remembering the way his smile transformed his features into something breathtaking.
I shoot him a tight smile, he doesn’t return, but at least he doesn’t look like he wants to kill me, so that’s something.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the window. I mentally make a note that hair pulled into a giant fluffy topknot, is not a good look. At all.
I picture Kumiko from Karate Kid 2 with her silky upswept hair, wispy strands blowing in the Japanese breeze as she performed the tea ceremony for Daniel. My eight-year-old-self thought it was the most romantic thing ever. I was convinced that someday I’d make tea for my very own forever-love. Fast forward twenty years… Surprise. No forever love. Just a broody Ben.
The thought sends a hollow chuckle from my throat which ends on a snort. Are snorting laughs contagious? If so, I blame Mara and Coco.
“What?” His brows raise. He slumps back in his chair, crossing his arms over his wide chest.
I set the tray down, not noticing his biceps, and ask, “Have you ever seen The Karate Kid where he goes to Japan?” I slide the tray away from the edge, trying to block out the image of me straddling him in that chair.
