by Watson, Lucy
Hello, old friend.
I sink into its well-worn, buttery leather with the warm pizza on my lap and the cold beer pressed against my thigh. I close my eyes and feel my body relax as I breathe in the familiar smell. It’s the scent of a simpler time, and I love it.
My eyes jump open when AC/DC’s Back in Black abruptly cuts off. I see Ben slipping his phone into his pocket, his eyes on me as he wipes his hand on a blue rag.
I hold up the pizza just in case he couldn’t see the giant box sitting on my lap. “I thought you might be hungry.”
“I’m starving.” His voice sounds rough and tired. “I was just going to see if you wanted to grab something.”
“Well, here I am, and I come bearing good tidings and pizza.” I sound like a total asshole. Good tidings? What the fuck.
He nods, tossing the greasy rag into an orange bucket of other dirty rags. I’d bet the winning lottery ticket the white bucket is full of clean rags. I can’t help but flash a smile.
His dark eyes study my smile for a second. “What?” he asks, as he plops down next to me with a heavy sigh, his legs splayed in that guy way, his body relaxed.
I shrug. “You look cute.” I can’t help but grin at the confused look he gives me.
“Cute?” he repeats, his brows lifted like he’s never been called cute before. And maybe he hasn’t. I’m sure he’s heard sexy, scary, hot, gorgeous, and beautiful more times than he can count.
But cute? Probably not.
“Yep.” I feel my cheeks heat. We don’t do compliments outside of our bedroom bubble.
He gives me a small chuckle. “Whatever you say, Shortcake.” With a shake of his head, he eyes the lid of the pizza box. His gaze meets mine. “Rico’s?”
“Of course.” I give him a sly smile.
He grunts his approval as he grabs a slice and I hand him a napkin, which I was smart enough to stuff in my pocket, and takes a bite. I follow his lead, and we eat our slices in silence, sitting on the Comfy Couch, looking to the cars and motorcycles in various stages of repair.
“What are you working on?” I ask as I hand him a beer.
“Replacing the oil pump.”
“Cool.” I nod like I have a clue what he’s talking about. “My grandpa was a mechanic,” I add while twisting open my beer. “Why’d you decide to become one?”
He shrugs. “I was a mechanic in the Marines… And I like fixing shit, I guess.” He takes a pull of his beer, his eyes focused ahead.
I think of his mom.
I think about a young Benny trying to fix her and my throat tightens.
“Cool,” I say, my voice a bit strangled.
When his gaze meets mine, there’s a darkness clouding them.
“Sorry about earlier. That you got caught in the middle of that shit.” He gives me a forced grin. “My family’s all kinds of fucked-up.” He finishes his slice, his eyes back on his cars.
I do the same. My mind plays tug-of-war with the thought of sharing something personal that might make him feel better and might make me feel worse.
I take in a deep breath and let go of the rope.
And I fall.
For Ben.
“My dad’s in prison for manslaughter,” I say against the heavy silence in the background. Ben’s gaze slices to mine. “He was driving drunk and hit another car. He killed a teenage girl.”
Her name was Kelly Donnelly. She was 15. Every time I meet a Kelly, I think of her. Of what her life could’ve been. About her parents. And if they cry on her birthday.
I take a sip of my beer like the action will lessen the gravity of my words.
“Shit.”
I give him a grim smile. “I just wanted you to know that your family’s not the only fucked-up one. That your dad’s not the only one to… make mistakes.” I wipe a clammy hand on my pajamas. “My dad’s a good person who did a terrible thing.” I feel my neck warm as memories flash in my mind. “He changed so much after my mom died… Or maybe my mom changed him, and when she was gone, he went back to how he was before.” I shrug. “I don’t know.”
I slide my gaze to the label on my beer and scrape at it with my nail. “He’s never answered any of my letters.” I take in a breath despite the old wound choking me. “I went to visit him a handful of times, but he wouldn’t see me. I think he feels like I’m better off without him, or something.” I give Ben a tight-lipped smile. “I think sometimes people do the wrong thing for the right reasons.” I shake away the sadness seeping in. “Anyway, I just wanted you to know.”
I want to tell him that maybe his dad’s one of those people, but it’s not my place.
His hand goes to my thigh. “Fuck, babe. I’m so sorry. That sucks.”
I force a smile, feeling embarrassed and insecure, having shared such personal stuff.
“It’s okay. I’m sorry about your dad too.”
Ben’s gaze moves to his beer.
I know he’s uncomfortable, but I still have to ask, “Are you doing okay?”
He exhales. “Yeah, just a lot of shit to work out.”
I nod, trying for a reassuring smile. “My life may be a total mess, but I promise I give good advice. If you ever need any, I’m your girl.” I end with a cheesy-politician’s thumb point at my chest. Yeah. I did that.
“Thanks.” He gives me a sealed smile that says he won’t be taking me up on my offer anytime soon but that he appreciates it.
I return his smile. “Here’s a free tip: when life gets messy, listen to the ‘Pina Colada Song.’ It’ll make everything better,” I say, grabbing another slice, trying to lighten the mood.
I take a mini bite, having lost my appetite.
“The what?”
I swallow. “‘The Pina Colada Song’… You know, Pina Coladas,” I clarify by singing off-key like a dork. “You know it?”
“Yeah, I know it,” he grins, crinkling his eyes around the edges.
“It’s a scientific fact that song is a cure for even the worst days. It’s like a shot of happy juice.”
I’m hit with a flashback of me in my scrubs dancing with Darlene in the lounge to our happy song when we’d reached our limit of tired and heartache.
“Scientific fact, huh?” He cocks his brows like I’m full of shit.
“I see you’re a non-believer.” I give him a sneaky smile. “Give me your phone.” I wipe my greasy fingers on my napkin and hold out my hand.
He chuckles. “Alright. Let’s hear your happy-juice song.”
He pulls his phone from his pocket and hands it to me with a look that makes my chest swell.
I Spotify the “Pina Colada Song” and hit play on his bluetooth. The song blasts from speakers somewhere in the garage, sending a pulse of energy through me.
Do I know every single word? You bet.
Do I stand from the couch and start to mouth them dramatically into his phone while dancing like the 70s dude in the video, complete with a few heartfelt hip-thrusts?
Yep, I do that too.
Ben chuckles softly and shoots me a white-toothed smile that says I look like a drugged-out subway performer at three in the morning, but watching the darkness in Ben’s eyes lift, I’ve never felt more like a rock star in all my life.
“Come on.” I hold out my hand for him to take with the world’s cheesiest smile spread across my face. “Come on. Please,” I plead.
My cheeks are flushed, and I feel giddy with a happiness that has more to do with Ben smiling than the song. More to do with his happiness than my own. His rough, grease-stained hand engulfs mine as he gives a resigned shake of his head. He stands from the couch, and murmurs, “Pain in my ass.”
I take a few fancy dance steps back to keep eye contact and slip his phone into my back pocket in case he wants to have a dance-off. The uninterested look on his face as I swing his heavy hand to the rhythm of the song says that’s probably not gonna happen.
He looks like he’d rather be at the dentist. And it’s so freaking adorable I can’t resist t
he urge to tease him.
“Is that all you got?” I challenge with a forward shimmy that I’m sure looks as goofy as it feels.
He gives a deep chuckle. His grin widens, his brows raise. Then he tugs me to him. His warm hand rests against my lower back as his hips smoothly move us to the rhythm.
Of course, he’s a good dancer.
He tucks my hand against his chest. I tilt my head back to see his face, and he gives me a smile that slays me.
I’m going to miss you so fucking much.
As if he’s reading my mind, his smile fades around the edges, and his hand on my lower back pulls me closer to him. Our movements slow, so it’s more like we’re hugging than dancing.
I press my cheek to his chest as we slow dance to my happy song, closing my eyes against the pain forming in my throat.
I’m not sure if I want to hold onto this moment forever or wake up with no memory of it.
“You think I should call my dad?” His rumbly voice is so soft I almost don’t hear it.
I move my head back and look up at him, his dark eyes lock with mine. “I do,” I say, hoping he can somehow feel how much I mean those two words.
He gives me a quick nod and we resume our dance-hug position.
When I feel his strong arm tighten around me, and his lips press against the top of my head in a gentle kiss, I know with one hundred percent certainty that this is the last time I’ll ever play this song. The last time I’ll ever fit this perfectly in someone’s arms. The last time I’ll ever feel this way.
I decide that I’m going to hold onto this moment. And put it on my shelf of forever things.
Because it’s perfect…
Until it wasn’t.
Turns out, if you ever want to ruin a garage moment with “Pina Colada” possibilities, just look up at the man you’re dancing with and say the following words: I’m going to miss this… you…us.
The moment will be ruined so fast you’ll wonder if it was ever there to begin with. You’ll wonder if you imagined the sweet kiss on the top of your head. Imagined that he held you like he never wanted to let go. Imagined that you fit perfectly together.
The flash in his eyes at my confession made my neck and ears prickle with regret. He searched my face while I tried to forget his. It looked like he was going to say something, but instead, he eased back from my arms, dropped his gaze to the concrete floor, and mumbled something while running a hand through his hair. Then he motioned to the Bronco, told me he better get back to work, and thanked me for the pizza.
And that’s when I decided I’m going to live my best life in the Canadian tundra as an ice road trucker.
I handed him back his phone with a brittle smile.
Gave a quick nod goodbye to the Comfy Couch, and left with my battered heart and shredded self-esteem dragging in a mangled heap behind me.
I wanted to flip Ben off as I walked to the door, but I didn’t. I wanted to yell at him for making love to me like he cared. For holding me like I mattered. For kissing me like I held his next breath. But I didn’t do that either. None of this was his fault. He didn’t ask for that shit with Catherine. He didn’t ask me to come to the garage. Didn’t ask me to dance.
Didn’t ask me to fall in love with him.
I have only one person to blame for all this.
Me.
And maybe Matthew Macfadyen.
Along the way, I’d somehow convinced myself that Ben was my broody Mr. Darcy who I would eventually bewitch body and soul. And then he would love only me.
Newsflash: I’m no Elizabeth Bennet.
And knowing is half the battle, so…
25
Benedict Cumberbatch
Sometimes you can dread something so much that when it actually happens, you can’t help but laugh because you realize that you totally blew it out of proportion, and it’s not nearly as bad as you thought it would be.
This is not one of those times.
Not even close.
So far, I woke up with PMS from hell.
Had every single person in the house feel that it was their appointed duty to remind me that today’s the “big day.”
Had Nick blast “Hello” by Lionel Richie from his phone whenever Ben and I ended up in the same room, which thankfully wasn’t often.
Had Derek text me that he wasn’t coming to the wedding. Not that he couldn’t make it because of an emergency. But that he wasn’t coming. I didn’t text him back.
Had the Wedding Brigade pull me aside and gift me something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue. They did this with tears in their eyes. They did this with love in their hearts. Even Mrs. Baker pulled me in for a hug. She smelled like gingerbread. And that’s when the impossible happened: I realized I’m going to miss Dottie freaking Baker.
The wedding hasn’t even started yet, and I’m officially done.
Done.
I roll my stiff neck from sleeping on the non-comfy couch and tilt my head back, letting the hot water cascade down my face, trying to wash away the chaos going on inside and around me. Wash away the thought of Mara helping her stylist-friend Jacob set up his station so he can transform me into someone worthy of a goddess wedding dress.
Last night, I fell asleep to an Ice Road Truckers marathon—getting tips on my future best life—while not waiting to hear Ben come home. The night before I fell asleep listening to Mary Berry on The Great British Baking Show. Both mornings I woke with Rose’s crochet blanket covering me and my laptop put away on the table. It was sweet of him, which just pissed me off.
I don’t want him sweet.
My shoulders slump as I turn off the now lukewarm water and grab the towel hanging over the top of the shower door with a heavy sigh. I have a better chance of surviving the Australian Outback with half a ham sandwich and a bottle of tequila than surviving this wedding.
On the flip side, if I do survive the day, I’m pretty sure I’m qualified to give a TED talk on something. So, there’s that.
I give my body a half-ass pat, then wrap the towel around me, slide open the shower door, and step onto the cool tile.
Only about 4,000 more steps to go…
3,999
3,998
My gaze jumps to the door as it swings open. My stomach lodges in my throat, trapping my breath as Ben storms in.
His heated gaze meets mine like a collision.
He slams the door behind him, his gaze fixed on mine. His white undershirt is pulled tight against his tensed arms.
He looks pissed. Really pissed.
“What are you doing?!” I exclaim, gripping my towel tighter to my chest, feeling my heart pound against my knuckles, trying to figure out what could have possibly happened to put that look in his eyes.
“What. The. Fuck. Is This?” He barks each word like it’s an independent curse, his deep voice ricocheting off the walls like bullets.
He holds up a piece of paper, the edges crinkled in his death grip. It takes me a few seconds longer than it should to process what I’m looking at.
Mr. Wellington seemed surprised and disappointed at my admission about the wedding and Ben. He then spent over an hour trying to convince me to reconsider transferring all the assets of the estate to Ben. Nothing he said would change my mind. As much as I loved Rose, and appreciate her kindness, the cost of her gift is just too high.
“It’s for—”
“Why?”
“What do you mean, why?”
“Told you to take whatever you want.” His rumbly voice is low and even, but the skin around his collar is turning red, which isn’t a good sign.
“And I told you I don’t want any of it.”
“Bullshit. You fucking love this house. You’re keeping it. And whatever the fuck else I give you. Period.”
Period? You picked the wrong day to try that shit on me, buddy. The wrong freaking day.
My cheeks heat. “This house doesn’t belong to me. It belongs to you and your family. And I don�
�t want anything from you, Ben. Period. I’m going back home.”
He studies me for a moment. His jaw ticks, his nostrils flare.
“No,” he states evenly, the vein in his forehead making an appearance.
“No?”
“No.” He holds up the paper with both hands and slowly rips it down the middle, then lets it fall to the floor, making his point, his heated gaze fixed on mine.
My pulse takes off like a jet engine. Anger that’s been simmering since he stole my happy song takes flight. He feels guilty for all the shit he accused me of with Rose, and now that he sees he was wrong, he wants to be the good guy. Too late.
“That’s just a copy. So, rip away. Have at it.” I throw my free hand in the air and take a few steps toward him. “Now, if you’ll excuse me I have a fake wedding to get ready for. Then I have a plane to catch.” Do I really have a plane to catch? No. Do I say stupid shit? Yes.
A dark cloud filled with Armageddon promises passes over his eyes, sending an icy chill through my body. Or it could be because I’m standing here in a thin towel with my hair dripping wet.
I brush past him to the door, ignoring the crackling energy nipping at my lower back, and reach for the fluffy white robe hanging on the hook. A gift from Josie. She embroidered Bride on it herself.
I clumsily slip it on over the towel with a defeated sigh and face Ben, my fingers clutching the top of the robe together.
“A plane to catch?” His voice drops an octave, and his eyes narrow into evil slits.
“Yes, Ben, I’m going home.” Technically, not for four days, but he doesn’t need to know that right now. I hold my hand up in a mock-hushing motion. “You don’t have to say anything. I know how much you’ll miss me. You made that perfectly clear.” I give him a poison-laced smile, my sarcasm masking the hurt of my words.
If looks could kill, next spring I’d be pushing daisies. I move my hand to my chest to make sure my heart’s still beating.
