Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Whit
B en Holder was adorable.
No. Not only adorable.
His surprise at the room he’d have, the fact that he’d be sharing a hotel suite with me? Not something I saw, having walked away just after pointing to his room. But I could feel it, hear his shifting as his jacket moved with his body. Thank goodness he couldn’t see my face because lots of things were happening in me at the moment, and his disarming warmth had me wanting to share them all. With him.
He was just so darn sweet . And open, too—not afraid to share his thoughts. I mean, really, who just comes out and says things like he did, but with nothing to gain?
It also embarrassed me a little that he was forced to share the suite with me and would have to any time we were in hotels, because people loved to sell stories, make a few bucks, and we’d need to make sure no one was selling the story that my devoted boyfriend and I weren’t spending nights together. We’d tip housekeeping handily to keep their end of things quiet, and since I often had a two-bedroom suite even when single, that wouldn’t automatically wave the red flag for nosey guests or employees. Add to that our careful choice of establishments based on their discretion, and we could be reasonably confident in the staff not being the cause of a leak to the press.
Whatever your perspective on all that, in the press, it meant certain doom. So Ben would be stuck with me—on the bus, backstage (especially now that I’d made sure Nikki knew I wanted him with me even when there wasn’t a photographer to catch the moment), and in the hotels.
I hopped into the shower after removing the quarter inch of goop that made up my stage makeup and felt like a new woman upon emerging. Sometimes, I liked going out after a show, but tonight, I just wanted to huddle up with Ben and talk and look at his pretty face and maybe let him trace words into my wrist if he wanted.
Do you hear yourself?
I braided my damp hair—Damon would fix it tomorrow, so I didn’t have to worry about blow-drying—and pulled on soft sweatpants and a slouchy top, then went to find Ben.
He’d left the bedroom door open with the light on, so I peeked in. “Ben?”
“Hey! One sec,” he said from the bathroom.
I heard a few things clinking around on the counter top, and then, out he came. My heart took a moment, stuttering and stopping before it remembered its one job and started beating again.
But really, I couldn’t blame it.
Because there stood sweet, all-American Ben, fingers pulling down the last few inches of his thin T-shirt, belt hanging loose and unsecured around the waist of his jeans until he grabbed it and threaded it together as he spoke.
“Sorry. I showered too—didn’t want to keep smelling the airplane on my clothes.”
He finished looping the belt together, and I swallowed, blinked away now that the blush had undoubtedly crept into my cheeks. He must’ve noticed.
“Everything okay?”
“Absolutely.” My attention remained resolutely on the rest of the room.
Not quite as spacious as mine, but otherwise exactly the same. Huge bed with pristine white linens. Dark, polished wood dresser with a large flat screen, small espresso machine, water bottles. At the far end next to the windows sat a small sitting area with bright yellow chairs and a tiny table.
“I just wanted to see if you were up for hanging out a bit, or if you’re tired.”
He ran a hand over his hair, which looked a little longer than it sometimes did on top but still close-cropped and soldierly on the sides, and then let that hand slide back again, smoothing over the hair and letting his arm drop.
If I’d ever wanted to touch something as bad as I wanted to touch his wet hair, to smooth it down and maybe wipe away the tiny drops that had fluttered onto his forehead and temples, I couldn’t think of what it was. I clasped my hands behind my back to avoid doing something crazy like reaching out and fixing it. With it smashed down to his head in the front, he looked young.
“I’m beat, but I do want to hear how things are going. Living room?” he asked, and we both turned to find spots on the couch one room over.
The suite was unnecessarily big, like they all were, but I couldn’t deny it brought a welcome change from the cramped quarters of the bus. This tour had far more hotel time and far less bus time because it was East Coast only, and things were closer together. We’d also tacked on several of the missed locations to the end of the tour and smashed one or two in at other times so I wasn’t having to move at the pace I normally did, a concert every two days—sometimes it was only a day between, but there were a few where I had more time.
I was thankful for that. This last tour had taken its toll on me by the end, and even though I loved performing, I had been ready for a break. The fall had been nice, but it had taken me all that time just to recover. I hadn’t written much at all until late in the year, and I should have been writing from the minute I’d stepped off the bus in August.
“So, how’s it going?” he asked, stretching his long legs out in front of him so his feet rested on a low ottoman.
“Really well. It’s short tour, so I shouldn’t hit burnout, and that helps me mentally at this point. I always have energy and excitement, and I love every show, but there are times when knowing how many more I have just takes it out of me, and it’s hard to imagine just going and going. But this three weeks or whatever it is, it’s a good length.” I sat on the cushion next to him and stretched my legs out, too.
“It’s hard to imagine you giving that much on stage at every show. Is it always that way for you?” His head was resting back against the couch, and he’d snuggled as much as he could into the back—not the most comfortable couch, but he had a way of making things look appealing.
I let myself lay back and scooted just a little closer to him, about eight inches apart. After wanting to have him there for so long, I yearned to be close .
“It is. Not quite as much if I’m sick, and of course, there are some shows where the vibe or energy feels different. If I’m in a bad mood, or low energy, or distracted. But ultimately, those people paid a lot of money for me to get up there and do my best and deliver that to them, so whether I feel like it or not, I do it and try to give it all I’ve got while I’m on stage.” My hands dropped to either side of my body, my bones getting heavy.
“You’re relentless.”
He picked up my hand and pulled it across his chest—he’d stretched out so much, he was essentially lying down. He held my hand with one of his, and much to my fluttery heart’s delight, started tracing the veins in my wrist, the lines in my palm, the length of my fingers.
“It’s the job,” I said.
“I’m not like that with my job. I never feel that way—like I want to give everything to it, like it’s an offering I’m giving.”
I tilted my head to study him and watched as he kept his eyes focused on his fingers sliding along my skin.
I thought about that, about why that might be and what it meant. “Do you think that’s because your job asks so much of you?”
His fingers stopped for a moment, then continued. “Maybe. I usually feel like I’ve given it all I ever want to.”
“Tell me what you mean.” My voice came out soft so he’d know he didn’t have to if it was asking too much.
I felt his gaze on me and looked up—his blue eyes were remarkably sad, and in that moment, the drum beat of my heart urging me to kiss away the pain there resonated loudly in my whole being.
“I lost a friend. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever been through, or I thought it would be, until I got back and couldn’t figure out how to function again. And the last year and a half since then has been the biggest thing I’ve ever done.”
“What’s that?”
“Figure out how to want to wake up every day, and do it.”
He stopped moving his touch over my skin, instead letting his fingers encircle my wrist and hold it gently, like he was bracing himself with my arm, steadying himself.
I searched his face, looking for the shadows and misery I’d seen when I’d spoken to him at a moment that had to be the beginning of his lowest days on Earth if I’d pieced together the timing correctly. It’d likely been within a few weeks of his return from Afghanistan.
“I’m so glad you did,” I said, letting my free hand come to rest on his.
He smiled just barely, though not regretfully. “I am, too. But I think that’s why I don’t want to give any more to the Army. I haven’t got it in me.”
“I can see why. So what will you do?”
He laughed, something amused and a pinch despairing. “I have no idea. I majored in history, minored in military science, and the only job I’ve ever had is the Army. I have no idea what I want to do, much less what I can do.”
I pulled my hand away, regretting it instantly because I loved being connected to him, I was finding. As soon as I did, he gently set my arm back at my side and folded his hands over his chest.
“You’ll find something. You don’t have to stay in just because you don’t know what you’d do if you got out.”
A little more back and forth, and soon, nothing but his slow, quiet breathing remained in the room—he’d passed out. I wasn’t sure what time he’d started traveling, but instead of feeling irritated, I let my eyes close, too.
Hours later, I startled awake and found him in the same position he’d been in. I checked my phone—three hours had passed. His arms were crossed, hands tucked under his arms, face peaceful. I admired the stubble dusting up his neck and onto his jaw and cheeks. My hand ached to smooth its touch over that face, explore it with my fingers and then my lips.
Instead, I settled for a hand on the warm curve of his bicep. “Ben, wake up.”
His eyes shot straight open, and he sat up.
“Sorry. I’m so sorry I fell asleep,” he said, his voice delectably rocky and low.
“Don’t worry. Let’s go to bed.” After standing up, I grabbed my phone and moved around the ottoman one way so he could go the other.
He stood there looking completely disoriented, his eyes searching the couch, the floor, the coffee table.
“Are you okay?”
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he said, looking at me with tired eyes.
I hid the smile, but reached for his hand and guided him past the ottoman and toward the door to his room.
He followed obediently, shuffling along as if still asleep. He must have been just partly awake, because he appeared confused. “This is your room, too?”
“No, honey. This is your room. I’m helping you get to bed so you don’t get lost,” I said, letting out the small chuckle I couldn’t hold back.
“That’s nice. You’re so nice.” He slumped onto the bed then inched up to set his head on the pillow, his eyes closed the whole time. He tucked one arm under the pillow. The other, he pulled in to his chest.
“Do you want to put on pajamas?” I asked, no longer able to stifle my laughing at his delirious state.
He cracked one eye open, then the other. He blinked like he was trying to clear his vision, or to see me better. I sat down next to him on the edge of the bed.
“You okay?” I asked quietly, the late hour making everything feel slow and silent.
He reached out a hand and touched my ear, ran his fingertips over my shoulder and down my arm.
“ Mercy , you’re beautiful.”
His arm fell still, his eyes closing before I could respond, and his chest rose and fell with the deep breathing of sleep.
I gritted my teeth against the regret that this was all becoming too much, the longing for it to be more, and a thin tendril of hope that it could be what my heart seemed to know it wanted swirled in my mind as I got up from the bed. But no way could I not to return the sentiment, even if he was already asleep.
“You are, too.”