4. Ben
ben
. . .
A fter the housekeeper leaves, I sit down on the couch and look around. The tile floors shine, and sunlight shines through the windows making parts of it sparkle. The coffee table gleams and reflects my silhouette. She left the windows open, and the sheer curtains blow in the breeze. The voices of people outside unloading their car are audible. Without looking out the window I know traffic is bad by the sounds of horns honking. It’s a gorgeous day and people are outside, likely skipping work and school. At another time in my life, Elle and I would’ve been doing the same, either sitting on the beach or at her parents’ house where there is more privacy. Instead, I’m sitting here, in a house too big for one person—and honestly two—hating how clean it is. When there is clutter and trash everywhere, the house doesn’t echo. Now, if I talk to myself or walk down the hall, I feel like someone answers or follows me. I’m growing a strong hatred for this house, but I can’t leave. I don’t want to.
Because she’s still here, even though she left.
I’m happy she’s gone—until I start to think about her. Once the thoughts roll into my mind, depression takes over. I’m glad my new employer allows us to work from home. If I hadn’t taken this job months ago, I’d be face-to-face with Elle right now, in some meeting. It’s nice that most of my work is remote and I can meet with clients via teleconference if needed. I don’t know what I would do if I had to see someone in person. Right now, I live in my sweats, and put on a sport coat or a nice shirt when I have a meeting. My slacks and jeans don’t fit—I’ve lost too much weight. I should go shopping, but Instacart and DoorDash won’t deliver from Macy’s and Nordstroms, and I’m afraid to use Elle’s personal shopper. The last thing I need or want is a bill or for Elle to call or show up. Her texting me all the time is hard enough.
I think about responding and asking her stop, to say more harsh words to her so she’ll get the picture. I don’t want to hear from her. I don’t want to know about her work, what’s going on in her life, or how Noah won the Superbowl. I watched it . . . by myself. It would’ve been nice to have people over, but I don’t have any friends. I have Quinn, but he was at the game. I guess I had Quinn. I’m sure Elle has told him to steer clear of me. Any friends I had from the first company I worked for, went by the wayside when I started working for Elle. Since I’ve known her, I’ve kept everyone at bay out of respect for her family. I guess I should’ve known better because now I have no one. Ending things with Elle has opened my eyes to just how much of my life was dictated by her family. The sad part is, she wasn’t doing it, I was. I thought I needed to be a hermit to protect her.
Now, I enjoy it. I like not having to shower every day or worry about people stopping by. I appreciate being able to walk outside without people staring, wondering where they’ve seen us before. When I’m on the beach, people avoid me. They give me a wide berth. I think it’s because my hair is shaggy, and the beard I’m growing looks rather scraggly. I don’t like myself much right now, but I also don’t have the energy to change things.
I turn on the television and lie down on the couch. With the guide pulled up, I scroll until I find something interesting. Deep down, I know I should turn the TV off. I don’t pay for any of the apps on there. Hell, my “half” of the expenses don’t even come close to what gets paid by Elle for us to live here . . . well for me to live here. My name may be on the deed, but I can’t afford this place. She can. She pays for the lifestyle I’m used to. Yet, here I am, mooching off her because she would never kick me out. What does that say about me? Not much. I’ve ridden her coattails for as long as I can remember, and the one time I tried to break away, I went right back to her because I’ve been in love with her most of my life. I’m still in love with her but we can’t be together. If we can’t see eye-to-eye on something as simple as setting a date for our wedding, then how can we survive the marriage? I don’t see how we could.
My phone vibrates. I ignore it. It starts moving across the table indicating someone’s calling. Still, I don’t look. It’s my day off and there isn’t anyone I need to talk to, let alone want to talk to. It’s probably Elle. Although she prefers to text; she does call occasionally. I know I can’t continue to avoid her, but I’m also not ready to sit down and hash all the details out. I should probably start looking for another place to live. It’s either that or move back to Beaumont where it’s more affordable because Malibu is so far out of my price range, it’s laughable.
The doorbell chimes and I groan. I’m intent on acting like I’m not home, but when Quinn’s voice shouts my name, I know I don’t have a choice. With a herculean effort, I get up from the couch and make my way to the front door.
“You look like hell.” Quinn steps into the doorway, forcing me to move. He has takeout and the smell of chicken lo-mien makes my stomach roll. The food is from my favorite place, but the thought of eating doesn’t appeal to me.
“Thanks. It’s good to see you too. Why don’t you come in.” Quinn doesn’t hear me because he’s already in the kitchen pulling plates out of the cabinet. I stand there for a moment, looking out the door. I fully expect Elle to come around the corner, but she doesn’t. I don’t know if I’m relieved or saddened by the fact she’s not here with Quinn. After another minute, I finally close the door and make my way toward the kitchen, only to find Quinn sitting on the couch. If his sister were here, she’d yell at him for having his feet on the coffee table and eating food while sitting on her leather couch. But she’s not here, so I don’t say anything.
“Aren’t you going to eat?” Quinn asks without taking his eyes off the television or his food. I can’t really tell.
“Yeah.” I don’t get up because I lack the energy to care. Quinn turns and looks at me for a moment. “Go eat.” It takes me a couple of seconds before I heave myself off the couch and make my way into the kitchen. He brought all my favorites, but none of it looks appetizing. Still, I take what I’d normally eat and grab a fork. I hesitate before going back into the living room, still expecting Elle to bust through the door any second and start yelling at us for eating there.
“Missed you at the game,” Quinn says when I sit down.
“Yeah, sorry. Some friends showed up unexpectedly.”
Quinn removes his feet from the table and sets his plate down. He doesn’t look at me and keeps his focus on the television. “Thought you had to work?”
Shit . So, Elle told her family I had to work and not that we’ve broken up. I suppose if I returned one of her million text messages, I would know this. We could at least be on the same page, but no, I’m left hanging on a lie, and I’m to blame.
Quinn sets this fork down and sighs. “Wanna tell me what’s going on?”
I shake my head and move the food on my plate around to make it look like I’m eating. Looking over at Quinn is a mistake. His gaze bores a hole into my facade.
“My sister is acting weird and so are you. Spill and eat. You look like you’ve lost a ton of weight.”
“There’s nothing to say,” I mumble.
“Clearly, there is.” He stands and takes his plate into the kitchen. The silence is nice, but I know it’s temporary. Quinn returns with another full plate and two bottles of beer. He sticks one in my face, and I reluctantly take it.
“Drink up.”
“Getting me drunk isn’t going to make me open up.”
He chuckles and takes a sip of his. “Look Ben, you missed Christmas and that was a huge red flag, worse than missing the Super Bowl. Elle hasn’t said boo. She has the same excuse, ‘you’re working’ which is clearly a lie, so you can either get drunk and tell me everything or you can do it sober. In my experience, liquid courage is nice. It softens the emotions.”
He’s probably right. I lift the bottle and take a sip, and then another until half of it is gone.
“So, what did my sister do this time? I know she can be bratty and headstrong, especially when it comes to work. I also know she hides her emotions, but when it comes to you, she’s genuine.”
I hang my head, mostly in shame. She didn’t really do anything, other than want to spend Christmas with her family, and was not willing to set a date to get married when I demanded she do so.
“It’s not really something she did,” I tell him. “I don’t even remember how it all started, except I asked that we set a wedding date and she said we would, but not until after she got these new bands off the ground and your tour started.” I shrug and take another drink. “I pushed the issue. I told her I didn’t want to be like your parents. She took offense, which she had every right to do because Harrison and Katelyn have made it work for a long time. Anyone would be lucky to have a relationship like theirs. Except, I want more, and I told her so. I pushed and pushed until I said some things I can’t take back.”
Quinn is quiet and when I look over at him, he’s staring at the ground. He finally inhales and reaches over to pat me on the back. “Elle loves you, Ben. I’m sure you can work this out.”
I shake my head. “I don’t want to work things out, Quinn. I want our relationship to be a priority and it never will be, not with her career. And the things I said needed to be said, and part of me isn’t sorry I finally said them.” I relax against the couch, fully expecting Quinn to get up and leave. He’d never turn against his sister, and I can’t ask him to take sides.
“I told her I was done, and I meant it,” I say without him asking. “It was the hardest and yet, easiest thing I’ve ever said to her. My heart is broken, but I know I’m better off.”
Quinn sighs. “What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. Right now, I’m mooching off Elle and I need to stop. I can’t expect her to continue to support me. I don’t deserve her kindness. I need to find a place to live, and it’s probably not going to be in California. This place is too expensive.”
“You can come stay with Nola and me. We have the space, and you can keep Nola company while I’m on tour.”
“She’s not going with you?”
“She’s going to come to a few of the shows, but she’s going to start working on her master’s degree.”
“Does it bother you that she won’t go on tour with you?”
Quinn laughs. “No. No one wants to spend hours upon hours traveling by bus or living with other people. The rooms are small, the bus smells after the third day, and we spend more time sleeping than anything. I don’t blame her one bit. I’ll miss her but seeing her when she is there will be worth it. Besides, she’s her own person and doesn’t need to be at my side all the time.”
“Maybe that’s why Elle never asked me to come along.”
“Maybe,” he says. “But you’ve been on tour before, you know what it’s like. I hate it after a few days.”
“Tell me about the Super Bowl.”
Quinn goes into everything I missed, and how people asked about me. He tells me about Oliver and how cute he is, and how Katelyn and Harrison are hoping to adopt him. Quinn hands me his phone and tells me to scroll through the photos. I do, pausing when I get to a picture of Oliver and Elle. Elle beams in each photo and it makes me wonder if she misses me at all. Are the text messages she’s sending business related or is she telling me to get the hell out of her house? This entire time I thought the messages were her telling me she missed me. By the looks of these photos, she’s not missing me at all.
Quinn stays for a couple of hours and when he leaves, he tells me he’ll be over this weekend to watch the basketball game, something we’ve done for years. I want to think he’s not going anywhere, but the truth is, I’ve closed the door on this part of my life and he’s going to eventually side with his sister. Eventually, Elle will move on and being friends with the ex will be frowned upon.
It's been days since I’ve showered and know if I’m going to start healing, I need to take care of myself. I finally drag my ass into the guest bathroom and turn the water on. I hate this bathroom, but it has zero memories of Elle, of us together. It doesn’t smell like her shampoo or show me the things she’s left behind. It’s easier to be in here.
The hot water rushes over my skin, burning my flesh. I welcome the pain. It’s easier to let this type of hurt wash over me versus the heartache I feel constantly. When the water temperature starts to change, I wash my hair and lather my hands with soap. Every inch of my body hurts from the water burn, but suddenly I don’t care because there’s something on my body that shouldn’t be there.
It's a lump and it’s hard.