Chapter 17 Benson #2
After leaving Saturday night, he had come by with groceries and somehow turned that into dinner.
He had slept in the guest room the first night and Benson’s bed the second, though very little sleeping had been involved and even that had felt less like a decision than an acknowledgment.
He had not once tried to force Benson into naming what any of it meant.
And Benson, who had once lost Liam because he could not imagine a future messy enough to contain their truth, found himself thinking with a kind of stunned clarity that perhaps a future had been standing in his kitchen all week, opening his fridge and drinking his beer and waiting for him to catch up.
Liam leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
Benson considered lying, but he was too tired for it.
“I’m thinking,” he said, “that if this does not work with Eden…”
Liam’s face blanched, just slightly.
“If it does not, I’m still not interested in losing you again.”
Liam didn’t gasp or smile or launch into one of the impulsive declarations Benson would’ve mocked six years ago while tucking it away for his private thoughts. He only went very still, his attention so absolute that Benson could feel it like a hand at the back of his neck.
“That’s a hell of a thing to say on a Thursday night,” Liam said.
Benson almost smiled. “It’s Wednesday.”
“Worse, then.” But his voice was rougher now, the humor thinner.
“And I am thinking,” Benson added, because he did not enjoy feeling naked for longer than necessary, “that you were right.”
“About?”
“Women.”
Liam grinned. “You’ll have to narrow that down.”
“We need one.” Benson went on before he could stop himself, because once the truth had begun coming tonight, it seemed intent on making a spectacle of him.
“Not any one. Her, obviously. But you were right that the arrangement itself was never the problem. It was my fear of it. My assumption that wanting more would lead to losing what I already had.”
Liam cleared his throat.
“I know,” Benson said, interrupting him. “You don’t have to look so pleased.”
“I’m not pleased.”
“You’re insufferable, then.”
“I’m trying very hard not to leap across this coffee table and smack you on the arm.”
That startled a laugh out of Benson before he could help it. “Well, don’t.”
“Because you’re tired?”
“Because I’m trying to have a serious conversation.”
“That has never stopped either of us before.”
And there they were again, balanced on that edge they knew too well. Humor and heat, history and ache. The peculiar intimacy of two men who had once known each other so completely before going their separate ways. Now, it was like those five years never happened.
Liam got up and went to the windows. He shoved one hand into his pocket and looked out over the city. “Okay,” he said after a moment. “So. We agree she needs to feel like she’s choosing us without sacrificing herself.”
“Yes.”
“She needs to feel… expanded. Not consumed.” He snorted. “Not beyond that way. And that means the thing next weekend can’t just be a treat. It has to be about her.” Liam glanced back over his shoulder. “About the part of her that’s still scared we don’t really understand her.”
Benson walked toward the mantle, where the invitation from that morning now sat propped beside the clock. He picked it up before holding it out.
Liam took it. “New York,” he said.
“Yes.”
“That club.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And you think this is the answer.”
“I think,” Benson said, “it may be the beginning of one.”
Liam opened the card and read, eyes moving quickly.
Benson watched him do it and thought, with an abrupt, strange affection, that Liam had not changed in some ways.
He still looked most alive when some impossible puzzle was set before him.
It’s how he makes his money, I guess. Instinct and experience.
“This could work,” Liam muttered.
“It will work only if it is done properly.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning we do not simply parade her through a room full of strangers and congratulate ourselves for being broad-minded.”
That made Liam laugh. “Agreed.”
“She has to understand what we’re offering.”
“And what are we offering?”
Benson took his time answering. “A life,” he said at last, “in which being with us does not mean being owned by us.”
Liam came back toward the sofa, invitation in hand, all brightness gone from him now. What remained was something Benson trusted far more. Thoughtfulness.
“If we do this,” Liam said, “then it has to feel like her fantasy. She needs to feel wanted in a way that doesn’t completely sexualize her too much to be loved by two freaks like us, but also lets her get her own freak on.” When Benson said nothing, Liam said, “Then we start there.”
He sat again, spreading the invitation flat on the coffee table between them. And Benson, finally feeling the day loosen its grip on him in favor of something far more exciting, sat down opposite him and began to plan.
“Let’s go through a million ideas,” he said, wanting another drink.
“Yes, go on.”
Benson grunted. “And obliterate my mind because tax season is finally fucking over.” God knew he couldn’t think about anything else until he had a hot bath. But maybe he’d have some dinner first. And dessert. Maybe in that order.