20. Ben
TWENTY
Ben
I wanted to be alone in here, but it can't be helped if one of the guests wants to come in. This isn't my space. Sucks though. I have a plan, and it’s personal. I’m set on utilizing the wood boards they paint on for one of the retreat’s activities. Some slabs leaning against the wall have been painted over many times, always with permission by the previous guests, the repaint intended as a form of recycling when someone wasn't happy with their board. That's the thing about paint, you can start over.
I want a fresh start, so I grab a blank plank of wood and place it on one of the rectangular tables. Grabbing a bottle of white, and a paint brush fit for writing, I inspect my canvas, tilting my head. Needs to be sanded down a bit. Grabbing a rough slice of sandpaper, I go to work smoothing its top inch by inch. It's not long before I have the expected company. Dax, dressed all in black, approaches me with a cup of coffee for each of us. "Didn't know if you wanted one."
"Good call. Thanks." I take it, and sip.
Checking out my wooden slab, Dax says, "I was gonna go back upstairs and grab a canvas that I brought with me but this is cool."
"They use these to write affirmations.”
Silence as Dax grabs one and places it across the table from mine, heading for the paint next, grabbing five bottles — magenta, red, violet, yellow, and black. Next, the coffee is downed in one long series of gulps. Impressive.
"There's more sandpaper on the third shelf."
"I like it rough." Opening the bottles, Dax snags an aluminum pie dish and squeezes violet paint onto a section of it. "Just like you."
From under my brow, I look up. It takes me only two seconds to understand what they meant. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"Why don't you tell me."
"Do you have a problem with me?” I straighten, sizing them up. Their demeanor was casual and friendly when they walked in but now I sense open hostility, and that pointed question about Shelby isn't lost on me. Dax’s chest puffs up like they want to fight, but born female, their body is slight, arms feminine. Can’t be taller than five-four. If they're trying to pick a fight, it's never going to happen. We Cockers don't shy away from a battle, but there's no way I would take the bait for a physical one from this tiny human, no matter how they identify. And no matter what they say.
"I didn't like how you dragged your wife out of here. There had to be another way.“
I stare at them. It dawns on me that there's something behind the anger in their eyes. Pain? Yes, that’s it. There’s a personal reason they’re angry. I relax, “You're right."
Staring back at me for a very long time, Dax finally blinks, “What?"
"You're right. There had to be a better way. I should've waited until I thought of one."
Dax frowns. “Right.” Their shoulders slump a little. "Okay.” They pick up the red paint and put a dollop of it in a separate section on the aluminum.
Getting back to business, I squeeze a controllable amount of white onto my wood and start carefully painting a capital letter I until Dax says, “What about Willow?"
My hand freezes, and I stare at the my immovable paint brush. "What about her?"
"I'm trying to figure out if you can be trusted."
"You two are friends?"
Dax colors in the corner of the wood. "Yes."
Curious, I ask, “Did you come together?"
"We met on the way here. We’re roommates.”
I return to painting, moving onto the capital letter T. "What are you asking me exactly?"
Dax abandons the subject with a grunted, “Nothing,” then out of the blue, “Bitches man, right? "
My paint brush freezes. And I stare at it again. “Are you trying to relate to me? Because I think you have me all wrong. I don't talk about women like that.”
"I just thought because of the cowboy hat you were wearing…"
With a sarcastic laugh I shoot their stereotyping down. “No. Just no."
We paint in silence for a long while until Dax asks, “You like her?”
"I like her."
"Like?"
“You just said like when you asked!” My gaze slams onto Dax as they mix red, violet, and magenta in an abstract manner. " Look, I'm not one to share my personal life, but under the circumstances it's been shared more than I can take back. I’m guessing Willow said something to you when she went back to her room last night?"
"Nope."
"So this is just about me and my ex-wife?"
" Is she your ex-wife?" Dax meets my eyes.
"Yes!”
"Divorce papers signed?"
I answer with a growl, “Soon."
"That's what I thought."
“Now what's that supposed to mean?"
"You know what it means."
The door opens and in walks Willow, still in her PJs, looking drop-dead adorable. She reads the room correctly and asks, point blank, “Are you guys talking about me?"
"No," I answer, but Dax says, at the same time, “Yes."
"That's what I thought,” Willow sighs. “What are you saying? I deserve to know.”
I pick up my slab of wood, paint brush and white paint, with what I’ve started facing my body and hidden from view. “Dax was just being a good friend." Walking past Willow, I walk into the main room, see some of the other guests, nod goodbye to them as I head for the front door and open it with a passion, forgetting Mom, Sylvia, and Laura were on the porch. Mom sees my face and stands up. "Ben, what's wrong?"
"Going home." Jerking my chin toward the supplies I ask, "Okay if I take these with me?"
"Of course, let me walk with you."
"No, Mom." I head off on my own. Sometimes a man needs a minute to think.