Chapter 9 Ben
Ben
The crying didn't stop all at once.
Olivia just... ran out of fuel.
One minute she was shaking against me, a small, violent vibration that rattled through the canvas of my work jacket, and the next, the tension simply left her body. She went slack.
"Olivia?"
My voice sounded too loud in the empty kitchen.
She didn't answer. Her forehead was pressed against my shoulder, her breathing hitching in small, shallow uneven rhythms. She had passed out.
I stayed frozen for a long moment, afraid that if I moved, the reality of the last hour would crash back down on her. I could feel the cold radiating off the tile floor, seeping through my jeans, but she felt fever-hot against me.
"Liv," I whispered.
Nothing.
I couldn't leave her here. But touching her—really touching her, not just offering a shoulder to cry on—felt like a violation of a treaty I’d signed with Ryan fifteen years ago. A brother’s wife. Off limits. Sacred ground.
But Ryan wasn't here, was he? Ryan had burned the treaty.
I shifted my weight, sliding one arm under her knees and the other behind her back. I braced myself to lift, expecting the dead weight of grief, but when I stood up, she felt terrifyingly light. Frail, almost. Like the last week had hollowed her bones out.
Her head lolled back against my chest, her hair brushing against my chin. It smelled like vanilla and something clean and soft that cut right through the smell of drywall dust and whiskey.
I carried her out of the kitchen.
The hallway was a tunnel of shadows. My boots were heavy on the hardwood—thud, thud, thud—a clumsy sound in her quiet house. I tried to walk softer, but I was a bull in a china shop, carrying the most fragile thing in the world.
I stepped inside the bedroom and paused. It smelled like them. Laundry detergent, old cologne, and that faint, stale scent of sleep. The bed was made with hospital corners, the duvet smoothed flat. It looked like a museum exhibit.
I moved to the side that wasn't Ryan's.
I lowered Olivia down slowly, afraid she would wake up and realize who was holding her. But she just murmured something unintelligible and curled onto her side, pulling her knees to her chest.
I stood there, my hands hovering uselessly in the air. She was still wearing her shoes—loafers, sensible and neat.
I knelt at the foot of the bed, and my thick, calloused fingers felt clumsy as I untied the laces. I slipped the shoes off, one then the other, and set them side-by-side on the rug. Then I pulled the comforter up, tucking it around her shoulders.
She looked so small in the expanse of that mattress.
I remembered the day they bought this bed. Ryan had texted me a picture of it, joking about the thread count. King size, Benny. I’m living like a monarch.
I backed out of the room, pulling the door until it was just a sliver of darkness.
The silence in the hallway was oppressive, like the vacuum left after an explosion.
In the kitchen, the scene was a still life of disaster: the open whiskey bottle, the two mugs, the puddle of amber on the granite where she’d spilled. And Ryan’s phone, sitting there like a loaded gun.
I needed to leave, to get out of this house before the walls started talking.
But I couldn't leave the mess. Olivia would wake up in the morning, and the first thing she’d see would be the whiskey and the dust I’d tracked in. She didn’t need to wake up to this.
I walked to the sink and turned on the tap. The water ran hot, steaming in the cold air.
I rinsed the mugs, my hands moving automatically.
The hot water stung my split knuckles, scrubbing away the white drywall dust until the water swirling down the drain turned milky.
I washed the mugs until they squeaked, then dried them and put them away in the cabinet.
I wiped the spilled whiskey off the counter, then finished cleaning the Pyrex sitting by the sink.
I wasn’t doing much, I knew that, but what else could I do?
I paused at the thermostat in the hall. It read sixty-two degrees. I cranked it up to seventy-two, and the furnace kicked on in the basement with a low, reassuring rumble, blowing warm air into the vents.
There was a notepad on the fridge. It was magnetic, advertising a local plumber. Steve’s Drain Cleaning. It was covered in Ryan’s handwriting.
Milk. Eggs. Call Mom.
I stared at the scrawl. It looked so normal. So alive.
Without thinking, I ripped the page off, crumpled it, and shoved it in my pocket. I couldn't leave a note on top of Ryan's handwriting.
I found a clean sheet and uncapped a Sharpie.
Liv,
Didn't want to wake you. Heat is on. Doors are locked.
Call me when you're up. Doesn't matter what time.
— Ben
I left the note on the counter, weighing it down with the whiskey bottle so the draft wouldn't take it.
Before leaving, I took one last look toward the hallway and thought about the last time I’d seen her happy.
Really happy. It was a barbecue last April.
Ryan was manning the grill, telling some exaggerated story, and Olivia was laughing, her head thrown back, a bottle of beer in her hand.
I remembered watching her from across the yard and thinking, Ryan, you lucky bastard.
I hadn't been jealous. I had just been... glad. Glad that the good guys won.
I opened the front door and stepped out into the night.
The winter air hit me like a physical blow, freezing the sweat on the back of my neck. I pulled the door shut, hearing the latch click, but I didn't walk away yet.
I crouched down by the heavy ceramic planter next to the frame. It was filled with dead winter ivy, the soil frozen solid. I dug my fingers into the dirt near the rim, feeling for the small plastic rock that didn't belong.
Ryan had showed me the spot the day they moved in. In case of emergencies, he’d said. Or in case I lock myself out getting the paper.
My fingers were clumsy with cold as I popped the plastic bottom off and shook the silver key into my palm.
I stood up and slid the key into the deadbolt. It turned with a smooth, heavy mechanical resistance.
Thunk.
Locked. Safe.
I put the key back in its plastic shell and buried it back in the dirt, smoothing the frozen ivy over the top so no one would know I’d been there.
My boots crunched the frozen gravel as I made my way back to the truck. I climbed into the cab and sat there for a minute, staring at the dark windows of the house.
I thought about the man I’d buried days ago.
I thought about the diner, and the way his hand had shaken when he picked up his coffee. God, the way he looked at me, begging for absolution I wouldn't give him.
Figure it out, Ryan. Fix it.
I had pushed him. I had told him to end it.
And he had listened.
I started the engine, the truck rumbling to life beneath me, vibrating through the seat. I put it in reverse and backed out of the driveway, leaving Olivia alone in the warm, locked house with her ghosts.
But as I turned onto the main road, checking my rearview mirror one last time, I knew this wasn't over. I had cleaned the kitchen, but the mess was just beginning.