28. Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Eight
LENA
C lashing light sabers, weird-ass costumes, and a mishmash of beeps, buzzers, and zippy music greet us as we enter the double doors leading to the main convention center. An imperial soldier shoots me with a Nerf gun.
“Die, rebel scum!” he shouts before rushing away.
I’m not in the mood for this.
Ruthie squeezes my hand, ballerina stepping in her bright pink boots. Her Toadette hat and pom poms bounce with her, emphasizing her excitement. “Mom, I wanna go there. And there. Where’s Adam? Do you see him yet? He’s Spiderman. Remember?”
“I remember. We’ll find him.”
“Let’s get eyes on Jaye,” Dot says. “I want her to know I’m here.”
She claps her hands together like she’s about to feast on a buffet.
Like Ruthie, she’s also made an effort with her wardrobe.
Long black jeans accent her shiny black Tims. Her Nightmare Before Christmas t-shirt is tucked in and secured by a silver-knotted belt—Dot has a waist!
Silver studs weave around her upper ears, and her black hair is artfully twisted away from her eyes with dagger bobby pins.
A smudgy black eyeliner highlights her piercing eyes, making her look vixen-like. She’s not even wearing flannel.
“I want Jaye to see my costume,” Ruthie agrees.
“Lead the way, Dot,” I say.
She eyes the event map on her phone and points down the middle lane like an air traffic controller.
Darth Vader breezes by, making Ruthie gasp in trepidation.
He’s followed by a swarm of fairies and a Batman.
We pass game tables, eclectic fan art, comic books, and a wall of Funko Pop figures, weaving through thick crowds.
My grip on Ruthie’s hand tightens to keep her close. Dot grabs her other hand as backup.
At the end of the row, the space opens. Celebrities line the back wall at tables, signing wares for fans. Hundreds wait their turn, the lines stretching and crossing into the aisles. It’s organized chaos, difficult to make our way through, let alone see where we’re going.
As we look for Jaye among the other artists, actors, and authors, Ruthie squeals and rips away.
I bolt after her, using my weaponized arm to push through the crowd, not caring about the lines I’m cutting or the complaints I hear.
Her pink-domed head bobbles in and out of sight before I catch up to her.
She plops into Jaye’s lap with a victorious, “I found her!”
I go to my knees before them both and grab Ruthie’s hands. “Never do that again, Ruthie. Never run away from me in a crowd.”
My stern voice carries, though I’m not yelling. Ruthie’s face flushes before tears fall.
“It’s my fault, Lena. I spotted her and waved her over. My bad,” Jaye explains, and my whole body slumps when Ruthie buries her face in Jaye’s expensive-looking winged shrug over her black tube top.
I pull her off Jaye’s lap and smile as I capture her teary eyes. “Ruthie, I’m sorry, but you scared me, sweetheart. It would help if you stayed with me and Dot in this place. You might lose us.”
“Sorry, Mom.” She shrugs and purses her lips.
“It’s an exciting place. I get it. But better together, right?”
I bop her nose, and her domed head bobs while she giggles. She tumbles into my arms for a reassuring hug I’m happy to give.
“There you guys are! You lost me!” Dot squeezes through the crowd.
“See?” I smirk at Ruthie, and she giggles.
Jaye rises from her seat, kissing Dot’s cheek. “Wow, you look amazing.”
Dot’s blushing face rivals the bloody designs on Jaye’s graphic novel covers. She cuts me a glance, making sure I saw that. I give her an I-told-you-so grin. Jaye smooths her slinky black one-piece as she returns to her seat and picks up her Sharpie.
“Hang out with me?” she asks Dot, who then stands, sentry-like, behind her.
Signing her next book, Jaye catches Ruthie’s eye and motions left. “Look who I found, Ruthie.”
Yards away, positioned against the wall, stands Ben. It’s a surprise to see him—he lists his shifts on the family calendar, but never where he’s assigned.
His eyes dart between us and the crowd. He looks stiff and alert, though he’s sporting his more casual class-B uniform.
A quick wave in our direction has Ruthie rushing from my arms again straight into his.
He leans down, admiring the homemade Toadette costume they made together last Halloween from felt and craft foam. That’s when I learned that Ben can sew.
“Hi,” I say unsurely. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“I knew you’d be.” He holds up his phone. “Family calendar.”
My brief smile fades fast. Things have only gotten worse between us.
I cried myself to sleep that night after learning what happened between him and Lauren. I felt— still feel —his devastation in my soul. I can’t imagine what it would’ve been like—suffering from trauma and heartbreak at once.
Now, I understand why he was nervous about me seeing him for the first time.
He’d almost methodically worked up to it—first telling me about the IED, then his concerns about his hearing and his future, and even giving me a heads-up about his scars before I saw them.
Ben needed me to know what I was getting into so I wouldn’t hurt him like she did. Oh, Ben.
I hate that he thinks I’ll pull a Lauren (that’s my mental phrase for it now) one day, but I understand his fears. It’s just like me when I didn’t believe he could truly love me until shit happened and my trust grew. It should be a milestone for us—his beautiful vulnerability.
But Ben has a real problem with vulnerability.
He’s embarrassed, angry, and avoidant. He doesn’t want me to see him like this, the same way I felt ashamed of my roof leaks, unemployment, panic attacks, sudden onset crying, and scrounging for money in couch cushions five years ago.
It’s his turn for a shitstorm, and he’s struggling to hold onto his umbrella—me.
That night, I didn’t harp on it or ask questions. I only thanked him for telling me and reiterated how much I love him. Simple. Easy. No pressure.
Even so, the last few days haze together like a weird nightmare.
Waking up to a cold, half-made bed the morning after he opened up to me.
Him telling Dr. Reese that he needs to be seen alone.
Ben keeping his distance like I’m the new fucking Covid. An irony since the pandemic brought us together.
I’ve tried to be there for him in the gentlest way, but he’s not ready yet.
Knowing we’d be here, it’s a wonder he accepted this assignment. Our interactions have been reduced to run-ins at the coffeemaker and brief family dinners that’d be quiet if not for Ruthie. Like I told Dr. Reese, I no longer know what to do. A feeling she validated when she advised patience.
Now, he holds Ruthie’s attention. “Mom’s right about not running off. It’s unsafe and inconsiderate.”
She nods. “Sorry, Dad.”
His attention returns to me, and there’s a smile there like he’s happy to see me.
My return smile twinges with concern when I notice his shaded green eyes. “Feeling okay?”
He rubs the scarred side of his forehead. “I have a meal break soon. Maybe we could—”
Ben’s eyes turn stony at something over my shoulder. Before I can ask what’s wrong, his hand wraps my waist, pushing me aside. “Stay behind me.”
I scoop Ruthie into my arms as Ben’s tall, wall-like frame moves between us and the crowd. His head tilts briefly to the walkie clipped to his shirt.
He intercepts a lanky, clean-cut teenager in khakis and button-downs, reaching nervously into a backpack as he approaches Jaye’s table.
“Stop!” Ben yells as the boy extracts a glass jar, flinging it.
“Repent! Repent!” he yells as the glass shatters against the cinderblock wall near Jaye’s head.
Screams. Shuffling feet. The crowd shifts like a wave, amassing. Holding Ruthie to my chest, I cower against the wall. Peeking over Ruthie’s head, I see Dot shielding Jaye behind the table.
Ben hooks the offender around his chest and yanks him to the ground—a decisive move that happens so fast my brain barely registers it. Holding the perpetrator down, Ben shoves the backpack aside and unholsters his taser.
“Don’t move,” he warns, and the assailant complies. Ben’s voice breaks through the crowd’s distress, silencing even them.
“Daddy!” Ruthie screams, her voice shaking with fear, and her legs latched tightly to my torso.
“It’s okay, baby. We’re all safe,” I whisper, rocking her gently.
Ben side-glances us, ensuring that we’re okay.
Officers surround the scene and take the suspect into custody.
“Holy shit! That was fucking awesome!” Dot cheers, hooting and clapping. The crowd joins in, none louder than Jaye. Ruthie shimmies down and rushes to Dot, probably to scold her for her bad words. Onlookers praise and applaud Ben while recording with their phones.
Relief and pride overwhelm me when our eyes meet.
Of course, he’s a great cop—his calm but strong demeanor assures it—but I’ve rarely seen Ben in action and never like this.
I long for An Officer and a Gentleman moment, him scooping me up and carrying me away for fun, sexy times—I’ve missed our closeness so much lately.
Instead, he retreats to my side, looking sheepish and uncomfortable.
“You okay?”
“Hell, yes! That was amazing!” I’m a flushing, grinning idiot over him, and his light smile assures me he likes it.
He gives a manly, one-shoulder shrug. “All in a day.”
“How’d you see it coming?”
He shrugs. “Jaye’s received some distressing hate mail. When I noticed the religious icons on his bag and how nervous he was, I suspected—” He blinks a few times before wobbling. He catches my shoulder to steady himself while my arm slips around him.
“Ben! You okay?”
“Dizzy.”
“Dot, take care of Ruthie. Ruthie, don’t leave Dot’s side,” I order, locking eyes with them as Ben leans against me. They salute me almost in unison. I curl under Ben’s arm. “Let me take you somewhere quiet.”