Chapter 24
24
Olivia
“I can’t believe you’ve never been,” Ben repeats himself, unable to comprehend that I haven’t been to a particular museum . Of all the things I’ve learned about Ben over the past few weeks, his appreciation for fine art has been the most enlightening.
“I have been… but on like a class trip in the sixth grade. Pretty sure Lily and I snuck away as soon as we could to try the menthol slims she stole from her grandma.” I smile to myself at the memory, in awe that we were so bold at twelve years old. I feel his eyes go wide, his shock real.
“Okay, Beckett,” he laughs, shaking his head as he turns into the parking lot.
“I know. We were quite the delinquents,” I shrug, mocking the rebellious intentions of my younger self. “Our fixation only lasted a few weeks. The aftertaste was nauseating. When did you have your first cigarette?” I turn in my seat as Ben makes another loop around the lot.
“I’ve never had one.” He says this like it’s obvious, like in no universe would he have ever been tempted to try a cigarette, and I think I must have misunderstood him.
“No, not like a menthol, but any cigarette.” He’s shaking his head, confirming my initial conclusion. “Wow, okay. Did you not have friends…?” His laugh is lighthearted, my sarcastic jab at his social life not at all misunderstood, and I think about how nice it is to be able to do this.
“Plenty,” he replies with a wink that spurs a whirl of jealousy in me. “But more importantly, I had a Daniel Chapman. Cigarette smoke would never have gotten past him. Someone probably offered it at a party in high school— not when I was twelve —” he glances at me out of the corner of his eye, smirking, “but it didn't seem worth it to me. Dan was intense, but I’m also an athlete so it was pretty easy to say no.”
Will never talked about his dad, so hearing Ben bring him up so casually is completely new to me. The way we rarely spoke about his family seemed so commonplace to me at the time, but I realize now that beyond feeling offended that it seemed they didn’t want to know me, I didn’t actually care to know how Will felt about them.
The urge to know everything about Ben rests in my bones like the urge to breathe, the need I have to understand him almost overwhelming. It feels like there will never be enough time to memorize him completely, and that feeling didn’t exist with Will.
I recall the only thing Will did tell me about his father. “He played for Astor, didn’t he?”
Ben sighs, like the topic is cumbersome, and I wait for him to evade my question.
“Yeah,” he replies instead, and contentment unfurls in my chest. “He got injured in his senior year and couldn’t participate in the draft like he planned. Lucky for him, he got me when he married my mom, and then along came Will.” Bitterness laces his voice.
“I take it you’re not a fan?” I ask, gingerly.
“Of Dan? No,” he scoffs. “I’ve had a long time to unpack the shit he put me through, make my peace with it, but I’m his step son so I can kind of rationalize how easy it was for him to be who he was with me. But Will… that’s his son. I can’t really forgive him for that.”
I tilt my head, silently urging him to tell me more, my heart already breaking for the both of them.
“Just a lot of emotional abuse…” he ponders for a moment, I assume to consider how much he should share. “I’m sure you can tell Will and I don’t have the best relationship. Dan kind of used rivalry as his chief parenting tactic. He really pitted us against each other, to the point that he wouldn’t step in when things escalated into violence.”
“Your mom didn’t do anything?”
He sighs again, his demeanor shifting slightly.
“She couldn’t, really. It’s complicated… my mom loves us but she, like the rest of us, has her shit too,” he shrugs like it isn’t a big deal, obviously trying to bring some levity back to the conversation, and I let him, humming in agreement.
“I guess we all do, don’t we?” I throw him an understanding smile, but the looks he gives me back I can’t interpret. “What?”
He shakes his head, unbuckling his seatbelt. “Nothing, Beckett.” It doesn’t feel like nothing, but I let it go, shutting the car door before walking around to the driver’s side to join him. He grabs my hand, claiming it, his grip slightly tighter than usual, so I rub my thumb over his in reassurance. And I know it registers, because I catch him smiling to himself out of the corner of my eye as we walk toward the museum.
This— anticipating what he might need and feeling like I can comfort or reassure him— is new to me. It’s not the way I operate, not usually. But there’s something about the way he is with me, the way he parses together what I might want to ask for but for whatever reason won’t, that makes me feel like I can be that for him. Like when he stayed well past the time he would’ve liked to stay at that Halloween party, just to keep me company from a distance. It’s foreign and refreshing and feels so good . I take him in, admiring the way his tousled hair is blown by the breeze. He notices me doing so, pressing a soft kiss against my cheek. This time, it’s my turn to smile.
As we walk through the lobby and out to the courtyard, I internally admit that Ben might be onto something with these museums. The Venetian architecture is so incredible, I forget we’re even in Boston.
We’ve only been to one other museum, and this already feels more my speed. We walk through the rooms, pausing without speaking at every other piece. And we can do this— just exist with each other, melting into our collective silence, not feeling the need to fill it with anything but us. I’ve lost count of how many dates we’ve been on now, but each one has only reinforced how right this feels.
I’m older than I was when I met Will, and that counts for something, but I’ve never been pursued the way Ben is pursuing me. When he told me there would be no one else, for him or for me, that was it. I was sold, convinced, ready to dive into this with him, but there is something so validating about how intentional he is being. Like he wants me to know that he doesn’t take me for granted. I could lie and say I don’t need that kind of validation, but I guess I do. There’s a part of me that feels like the other shoe is going to drop here, that there’s something coming I need to brace for.
I guess I have our status as a “secret relationship” to blame for that. Of course I agreed to keeping this private until we feel that Will can handle it, but the resentment is still there. It feels like I’m finally happy, finally secure about something, and the universe is telling me to hold my horses. And that would be the wiser way to approach my relationship with Ben, but instead, I’m swept away. Our on-campus abstinence only makes me want him more, only makes every private moment I have with him feel like an oxygen tank that I can’t inhale fast enough. The most alarming feeling is realizing that until now, I hadn’t really been feeling at all.
I pause in front of a painting, entranced by the way the statue seems to come to life as a man kisses her. “So this is why you love it so much,” I say to Ben, tilting my head toward him but still studying the painting, but I feel his brows rise in question. “Museums,” I clarify.
“Mm,” he hums in acknowledgement. “Feeling something, are we?” His voice caresses my neck, and I realize he’s standing so close behind me it’s almost indecent.
I bite my lip to stifle my grin, looking over my shoulder to meet his gaze. “Maybe.”
“If you like this, you have to come look at something else,” he says, a suggestive twinkle in his eye. He takes my hand in his and leads me down a winding staircase; when we reach the bottom, I’m met by a janitorial closet to my left, but a sprawling library to my right. The stacks are close together, interrupted only by a few tables with bankers lamps. To my surprise though, it’s not dark, and when I look up the most intricate stained glass mosaic filters the sunlight into shades of pink, yellow, and orange.
“How?” I ask, in awe. “We went down the stairs…?”
“I’ll show you when we leave, but this doesn’t sit directly beneath the rest of the museum.” His smile is adoring, like it’s cute that I didn’t figure that out, and I nod like I would have come to that conclusion anyway. “The woman who started the original collection here had this imported from Italy. She imagined it as a cafe, but eventually it became the room that collects books.”
I make my way through the stacks, appreciating the warm hues that seem to bleed across the aging book spines. I find an early edition of one of my favorites, Wuthering Heights, and make a note to call about purchasing it later. Turning around to investigate the stack behind me, I find Ben leaning against said stack, his warm gaze on me.
“Hi,” I sigh, contentment washing over me as I return the attention. It feels like we’re the only people in this hidden library, like a single soul couldn’t exist outside of ours. “Thank you for taking me here.”
“I had a feeling it would make you happy.” He worries his bottom lip as he gives me a once over, his eyes heating in that way I’ve become so familiar with.
“Mm,” I hum, smirking at him, feeling bold. “I could think of a few ways you could make me even happier.” He pretends to look around the corner before pushing off the stack and closing the distance between us, his hand threading its way up the nape of my neck and through my hair.
“Does the museum library meet your standards?” He’s grinning at me, his lips mere inches from mine, and I relish in the anticipation.
“The museum library meets my standards,” I confirm, biting my lip as a sly smile forms on my lips.
His mouth comes down on mine with an urgency that reminds me we’re in public, not in my bedroom, and the thought heightens everything about his touch. His grip on my hair tightens ever so slightly and I welcome it, digging my fingers into his shoulder. His arm winds around my back, pulling us closer, and I take advantage of our proximity, pressing my chest against his. Breaking our kiss, his lips trail my neck first, then continue lower before my logic intercepts my arousal.
“We don’t have time,” I remind him, remembering we’re in the back of this underground library at a very public museum. “Anyone could walk by.”
He looks up at me, his eyes molten chocolate, swirling with unbridled desire that almost makes me take it back. “Or you could let me do this now… and we can finish the rest later.” He licks his lips before rolling them together, but it does nothing to suppress the eagerness rolling off him. I know he sees the moment I let myself have this, have him, because he stops stifling his smile, holding my gaze as his hand slips up my dress.
I try to calm the flush that is still on my cheeks, sipping my ice water with a vengeance. The heat still radiates there, just like I still feel the intensity of the orgasm Ben just gave me in a library. A library . I suppress the giggle that almost escapes as I remember the “Sh!” I heard just after I finished, and now I’m blushing. Again. I glance up at Ben as he reaches for a fry, popping it into his mouth with amusement.
“Remind me to shock you more often, Beckett.” He smiles smugly, his cockiness surprisingly charming to me at this moment. Not surprisingly , I think to myself. Not surprising at all. I love him .
The thought comes but doesn’t go, and I know worry must be etched in my expression because concern is etched in his.
“What happened, Liv?”
I shake my head vigorously, unwilling to open that can of worms. That thought was intrusive and orgasm induced. I know better than to pay it any mind.
“Just remembered I need to call my mom,” I offer, and it’s not a complete lie. I do need to call her, even if she can’t make the time to call me. He nods, understanding crossing his face, and I feel bad for not being honest. There’s a part of me that feels like he deserves every unbridled truth I have. It’s the same part that thinks I love him.
“The mom who’s never really around?” he recalls our conversation at his favorite diner, and I give him a curt smile.
“The one and only,” I sigh. “It’s not as sad as you think it is. I don’t miss having a present mom because I never had one.” I shrug, hoping my explanation suffices. My mother takes up so little of my mental energy, just as I’m sure I take up very little of hers.
“You don’t think you might have… missed out on something?” His question is cautious, like he still can’t place my attitude toward her.
“I mean, I probably did. It isn’t a love thing… I know she loves me. But I think she felt like she had to have me? And then she did and it was kind of a disappointment. Not me— I could disappoint no one.” I sarcastically roll my eyes, hoping to lighten what I’ve just shared. “Just the whole motherhood thing. She’s there when she needs to be, but otherwise it’s just me and my dad.” He hums in acknowledgement, and I know he’s done pressing.
“Our mom was kind of like that but… the opposite. Like motherhood happened to her and it overwhelmed her. Instead of getting ahead of it or out of it, she kind of just drowned.” He’s looking just past me, a haunted look taking root in his eyes.
“Will never really talked about your parents. I kind of assumed it was because they were perfect.” I scoff at my misguided notions about their family, wondering how different my life would be if I had considered they were anything but.
“Yeah well, he really got the short end of the stick.” He leans back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. “I was so young when she had Will, but I remember how dark it was. How she barely held him, how the nanny would pace up and down trying to calm him down and she would be sitting on our balcony, just staring into the forest. I see it for what it was— depression. But I also wasn’t the kid who got that version of her, for whatever reason. It had nothing to do with Will, it was just chance.”
I think about a young Will, trying to connect with a mother battling her own demons, a mother still learning how to be this new person and effectively being ignored. It breaks my heart all over again.
“I’m so sorry. I never knew.”
“You can’t know something no one ever shared,” he tells me. “Besides, as soon as she was medicated, she tried her best to make it up to him. He can’t always see it; he thinks she’s being overdramatic or overbearing but… she’s just trying to show him she cares.”
“She sounds like a good mother,” I say, because she does, and because I can hear in his voice his need to defend her.
“I mean, like I said, we all have our shit, but she is. We summer in the Hamptons, which Will thinks is just some family tradition, but we only started doing it when I was seven, so he can’t remember a time we didn’t when we were kids,” he’s smiling to himself, a memory playing in his mind. “She would take us crab hunting at night. We’d be scared shitless until we finally caught one. We’d get ice cream sundaes on the boardwalk for breakfast and she’d make us promise not to mention a word to Dan.” He laughs, the fondness of those summers evident in the way his shoulders relax the more he talks. “As we got older, the mother-son outings kind of petered out, except for Albert’s. It’s her favorite place on the boardwalk and Will’s too, so I guess it just kind of stuck.” His eyes gleam with a distant, childlike happiness, and I think he’s right that I missed out on something.
“Having one magical summer is a gift, but having a whole childhood full of them? It’s really beautiful that she gave you guys that.” At my insight his shoulders sag.
“I haven’t been since before I left. Haven’t really seen her, either. Just on the occasional holiday.”
I place my hand over his on our table, tilting my head to the side. “That’s the great thing about a tradition. It doesn’t just disappear when you stop honoring it; it sits there, just waiting for you to come back to it.”
His eyes squint at me, his mouth turning up at the corners. “Where’d you get this wisdom from, Beckett?”
“Definitely not my mother.” The laugh that escapes me surprises even myself, the realization that we’re sharing such heavy parts of ourselves with each other filling my heart with joy.
“So do you guys have a lot of traditions?”
“Not really. Thanksgiving with me and my dad is the big one, but even Christmas is inconsistent. Sometimes my mom’s side wants to see us, sometimes my dad’s does. But the idea of a tradition makes me feel cozy inside, so I just started making some for myself.”
“Like?” Curiosity and amusement sparkle in eyes as he regards me, his hand resting on his chin.
“Like… on the first day of fall I sit outside with a cup of tea and start Dracula ,” I inform him, raising my eyebrows for dramatic effect.
“ Dracula ?”
“Ben. I’m obviously a vampire girl, please don’t pretend to be shocked.”
“I guess your first words to me were pretty venomous,” he smirks, his eyes pools of laughter, and I roll my eyes with a smirk of my own.
“In December, I usually pick one Saturday where I’m not obligated to be anywhere, and I go to the holiday market by myself. I always get a countdown calendar, and I almost always have to open the first ten boxes and eat them as soon as I get home because the month’s already started.”
“Is the ‘by yourself’ part of the tradition, or is that flexible?”
I sigh, pretending his question is inconvenient and not heartwarming. “I guess I can make room for you. But you have to get your own countdown calendar,” I warn him.
“Noted. In return, I’ll let you summer with me in the Hamptons until we’re gray and old.”
The thought of summering in the Hamptons reminds me of Lily, and it feels like a rain cloud attempts to settle above me, but it’s cleared away by the thought of Ben and I, old and happy, strolling along the shoreline.
“Who says I can’t just summer there on my own?” I ask him, a silent challenge in my eyes. He’s saying more than I could hope for, and still, I demand this validation from him, but I can’t help myself.
“Do you want to be alone, Olivia?” His gaze rests on me intently as he throws the ball back in my court. Instead of blind validation, he’s giving me space to choose, and I don’t know why I’m surprised.
Contentment floods me once more as I answer him. “No, I don’t think I do.”
“Good. Because I was already adding museum sex to our growing list of traditions.” Leaning back to avoid the playful smack I’m attempting to plant on his arm, he throws me a subtle wink.
“What am I going to do with you, Ben Cabot?” I shake my head, my nose wrinkling as I try to hide my flustered smile.
“I keep asking myself the same question.”
I bite my lip at his answer and say nothing else; I just look at him and wonder if this is what it feels like when you’ve met your soulmate.
Is it this easy? Do you feel like you’ve known them your whole life but there still won’t ever be enough time to know them completely? Does it feel like your entire self is being pulled under, and instead of suffocating angst you feel relief? Like you’re coming back to a place you’ve been before, the feeling so familiar but you can’t put your finger on why?
It must be what this feels like, because every instinct in my body is telling me yes: I’ve never felt this way before for a reason.