Chapter 8
Benson
It’s shortly after noon when our boots touch dirt again and we shed our climbing gear. August suggests grabbing lunch at our mother’s shop.
Not wanting to be a stick in the mud, I agree.
My brother keeps up what sounds like a running commentary of the thoughts inside his head as he drives us that way.
Remi, in the passenger seat next to him, watches August’s face to catch his words.
Most of them pass me by like brown noise.
Not unpleasant, as white noise is to me. Just…a constant, steady buzz.
At one point, Remi’s eyes ping to me in the back seat. He gives me a tiny smile before refocusing on my brother.
He does that a lot, I notice. Checks in. Like even if his attention is elsewhere, he wants me to know he hasn’t forgotten about me.
Or maybe I’m reading far too much into a smile.
I’m a little sore as I exit the vehicle, the exertion of rock climbing not something my body is used to. It feels nice, though, in a way jogging never has.
A chuckle has me glancing Remi’s way as we approach the shopfront door. “Dare I ask why you’re scowling?”
“Jogging,” I answer.
Remi lifts his chin in a nod. “Ah.”
August looks from Remi to me, perplexed. Shaking his head, he passes us by and goes through the door. It jingles, as it always does.
Our mom looks up from behind the counter, and I instinctively brace for the volume of her voice. “Three of my favorite people. To what do I owe this pleasure on a Sunday afternoon?”
“Just stopping in for lunch,” August says, his face scrunching up when our mom rounds the counter to tousle his hair.
She moves on to Remi quickly, pulling him in for a hug. Then she heads my way, beaming as she squeezes me around the middle, her head only reaching my shoulders. I belatedly wrap an arm around her, feeling awkward, as always, returning the affection.
“Where have you boys been?” she asks, stepping back behind the counter to start making us sandwiches. “You’re all bundled up.”
“We went rock climbing,” August answers.
“In this weather?” Our mom shakes her head. “Braver than me. Remi, darling, don’t think I’ve forgotten your birthday is coming up. You’ll stop by for cupcakes?”
“Sure,” Remi says with a fond smile.
Does my mom make him cupcakes every year? I haven’t a clue.
“What are you doing for the big day?” Mom asks, putting a couple sandwiches inside the panini press.
“Staying in,” Remi answers.
“Really?” I find myself asking. “You’re not celebrating?”
Remi gives me a lopsided smile. “I didn’t say that. You’ll come?”
“To…what?”
“My party,” he says around a chuckle.
My mom looks pleased as punch. August is watching me closely. And Remi, I realize, is waiting patiently for an answer.
“I… Yes?”
“Wonderful,” my mom says, passing sandwiches our way across the counter. “Aren’t you glad you’re home, Benson, honey?”
I nod somewhat stiltedly, knowing, despite all the upheaval in my life as of late and the unknowns still waiting up ahead, I am glad to be back here.
We eat at a table in the corner of the shop, my mom happy as a clam as she serves the occasional customer.
I doubt she’ll ever retire. Not until she has to.
She loves being here, chatting with the townsfolk who pass through, preparing their orders while gathering gossip like dust bunnies.
She likes being on her feet, too, as she’s told me. Keeps her active.
I can understand the latter, even as I’m not sure I’ll ever relate to the former.
We drop Remi off after lunch. I’m surprised by the pinch in my stomach as he exits the vehicle. Watching him go isn’t comfortable. Part of me wants to chalk it up to the simple fact that I’m usually the one leaving him, or this ranch, not the other way around. But I think it’s more than that.
Remi’s company has become familiar. I haven’t yet found where too much lies with him. If that line even exists.
August glances at me in the back seat, the vehicle still parked in the Darlings’ lot. “You gonna stay back there?”
“Yes?”
He huffs. “All right.”
He drives in silence for a minute, and my thoughts stray to Mouse and how she is after the morning spent alone. It’s somewhat of a surprise when August speaks.
“You know more ASL than I thought.”
It sounds like an accusation, although I can’t imagine why it would be.
I shrug. “I’ve been relearning. I did… I mean, I used it quite frequently. Back when you were younger.”
“Right,” he says, clipped. “Before you left.”
Another accusation.
“Yes,” I answer. Because it’s true.
August nods, taking a turn. “Why are you hanging out with Remi?”
The question feels loaded. Another invisible landmine I have no clue how to avoid or dismantle.
“I…like him?” I finally say. “And I enjoy being at the ranch. He’s…helping me.”
“Helping you how?” August asks.
To feel less alone?
I don’t say it. Because it would imply, in some capacity, that I do feel alone around August and my mother. And that’s true in some sense. Because they still don’t know all I’ve been dealing with. And I don’t know how to tell them.
I could blurt it out now. Rip off the Band-Aid.
But I can’t get the words to leave my throat.
What I end up saying is an entirely different truth. “I don’t have a job.”
August looks at me through the rearview mirror, his brow furrowed. “You quit Dad’s company? Or…did you get fired?”
It’s not our father’s company, but I know what he means. My dad and I worked together in Salt Lake City from the time I got out of college up until recently. Same department, me and a whole bunch of others under his management.
“Quit,” I tell him.
August curses, pulling off to the side of the road before cranking up the parking brake and turning to look at me.
“You should put the hazards on,” I point out. “It’s not safe to be on the side of the road, especially when it’s snowing.”
He rolls his eyes, even as he smacks the button. “Yeah, well, you just dropped a pretty big bomb after being near-silent for months. Excuse me for needing a minute. You quit? Really?”
“Yes.”
He widens his eyes before asking, exasperatedly, “Why?”
Again, I mull over my response. “I wasn’t happy.”
My brother’s face pinches.
It’s a partial truth, but how do I explain my burnout without explaining…me? I’m not ready for that conversation. Not here on the side of the road, five minutes from our mother’s house.
August watches my face for a long time. Long enough I look out the window, my heart hammering. “Are you…happy at the ranch?”
The corner of my mouth lifts as I think about Snickerdoodle and the unruly goats who like to nibble on the bottom of my shirt if I take too long dropping their meal into their feeders.
The chickens who spend most of the winter inside, where they’re safe and warm.
The horses and the ranch hands who occasionally pass through the barn, all friendly, human and equine alike.
I think about the way my mind blanks, almost, when I’m doing physical, repetitive work. Mucking horse stalls, one after the other, as Remi works alongside me. It’s almost…meditative. Which I never would have guessed, but I find I like it quite a lot.
“Yeah,” I tell my brother. “I am happy there.”
He’s quiet for a second. A truck passes us, turning on their blinker to merge into the other lane and back. “Have you been unhappy for a long time?”
I’m not sure how to answer that. Have I been?
It’s hard to say. So much of my life has felt like I was moving on autopilot.
Doing what I thought was best for my life.
Trying to be like everybody else, not quite understanding why I never felt like everybody else.
I knew, even if I never had words for it, that I was different.
Odd. Quiet. Reserved. Cold, even.
They’re words I’ve heard numerous times, descriptors for the careful construct I built to try to blend in with those around me. How do I explain what it felt like to convince myself I was someone else? How does anyone explain that?
I’ve lived in a constant state of low-level anxiety because any slip meant losing purchase of that mask I had no clue was strapped so tightly to my face. But is that the same thing as being unhappy?
“Benson?” August asks, his voice soft. Softer than I’ve heard in some time.
How long have I been contemplating his question?
Taking a breath, I admit, “I haven’t been myself for a long time. I’m trying to change that.”
My brother doesn’t say anything in response. I don’t blame him. I wouldn’t know what to say, either.
After another minute, August turns the hazards off, checks the road, and continues home.
We split up inside the house, August heading into the living room as I go upstairs to check on Mouse.
I shut the door quietly behind me, hoping she hasn’t gotten loose from the large cardboard box I turned into her new and improved temporary home.
I breathe a sigh of relief when I see her inside, her tiny cone still in place.
Sitting on the floor beside her, I slip off the cone and offer my hand.
Mouse meanders onto my palm, moving surprisingly well for having one back leg out of commission.
I lift her out of the box and set my hand onto the floor.
After chewing on the end of my sleeve for a moment, Mouse heads off to explore within the confines of the room.
I already mouse-proofed it, sealing up any and all spaces she could try to escape.
Her cast needs to come off first.
As she scampers under the bed, I pull out my phone. My finger hovers over my text thread with Remi before I click it.
Me: What do I need to know about this party?
Remi’s response takes a couple minutes at most. I preoccupy myself with refilling Mouse’s food bowl and changing the scrap-paper bedding on the bottom of her box while I wait.
Remington Darling: It’ll be at the ranch house with my brothers, their partners, and Auggie, of course. Maybe a couple other friends. We’ll have snacks and hang out. Nothing fancy.
I ease out a breath.
Me: Should I bring anything?
Remington Darling: No, Ben. You don’t have to bring anything.
I can practically hear the smile in his voice, even though I can’t hear him at all. There’s nothing else I need to know, but I don’t set down my phone.
Me: Thanks for taking me climbing.
Hastily, I add…
Me: Mountain climbing.
I cringe as I stare at that second text. That was obvious, right? What else would I have been talking about?
Remi doesn’t give me any time to worry over how he took the unnecessary clarification. His response comes through quickly.
Remington Darling: I’m happy to go anytime. I happen to be a big fan of climbing mountains.
He adds a winking emoji.
I falter, trying to work out why that necessitated a wink. Luckily, Remi texts again.
Remington Darling: What are you doing with the rest of your weekend?
Me: Nothing exciting.
Remington Darling: I think you already covered exciting with this morning’s mountain climb. Do you like to read? Watch TV?
Me: You’ll laugh.
There’s a pause.
Remington Darling: Promise I won’t.
I sigh before typing out an answer.
Me: I’ll probably build Mouse a maze and watch Antiques Roadshow.
There’s another pause, longer this time. My pulse beats heavily as I stare at my phone screen, Mouse passing by near my leg. Finally a response comes through.
Remington Darling: I want you to know I’m not laughing when I say this. But holy shit, Benson Harper. You are OLD.
I huff, my lips twitching into a smile.
Me: The next time I see you, can you teach me how to sign ‘asshole?’
Remington Darling: Oh good god, you’re trying to kill me.
Remington Darling: There’s more than one way, but here…
A video comes through. It’s Remi lying on his bed, only a portion of him visible during the three-second clip in which he demonstrates the sign. I watch it twice, a third time, my pulse beating quickly as I stare at the small slip of stomach below the hem of Remi’s shirt.
Jesus, it’s just a stomach.
I force myself to exit out of the video. After a long minute of deliberation, I turn my camera on. I send Remi a video of me repeating the motion. My fingers tap against my leg as I wait for his response, back and forth, back and forth.
Remington Darling: Perfect. You’ve successfully called me an asshole.
My laugh comes out on an exhale. I look at his message—at that perfect—for a long while, trying to put a name to the pressure in my stomach. It’s not an uncomfortable feeling, but it is a new one where Remi is concerned.
Has anyone else ever called something I’ve done perfect? Told me I did a good job? When it comes to finances and figures, sure. But a quick acknowledgement at work never felt like much of an accomplishment. Not when it was my responsibility to be good at examining numbers from every angle.
Now? Here?
Helping out at the ranch isn’t my responsibility, only something I enjoy. And relearning ASL has nothing to do with have to and everything to do with want to. With what feels right.
I sign the word pride to myself, but even that doesn’t fully explain the feeling in my stomach.
Satisfaction, maybe? Need?
Christ.
I can’t need reassurance like that. Not from Remi. Not from anyone.
Putting down my phone, I check for Mouse. She’s exploring a shoe inside the closet. A loafer from my other life.
Is it wrong to wish she’d pee in it so I’d have an excuse to throw it away?
Shaking my head, I grab another of the flattened cardboard boxes I stowed under the bed. I’ll make Mouse a maze. Something to keep her engaged and happy while she’s stuck inside this room.
See? Animals are simple. Easy wants and needs and requirements.
People are so much more complicated. All the unsaid rules and expectations and emotions. Take birthdays, for example. Gifts aren’t always required, but they sure are if you’re invited to the party.
What do I even get for a man I barely know? A man who’s bright and often happy and who has beauty marks on his face that make him more interesting to look at than anyone else?
What could I possibly find that he doesn’t already have in his life?