Chapter 5
April
I rip off my jacket, toss it onto the bed, and stare down the mess of clothes piling up across my bed.
Nothing fits right. Every dress or top feels wrong, they are either too clingy or too boring.
I finger the edge of the bandage, and a smile sneaks through.
Lilyes. Real, beautiful, and not the punchline my Debora and Branda were expecting.
My heart does this weird little lurch just thinking about it. About Ben.
Dress, April. Focus.
I yank hangers off the rod, trying not to destroy the few things I actually like.
Jeans aren’t happening, not tonight, anyway.
They aren’t sexy enough. I settle on the black A-line dress I keep near the back of my closet.
The one I wore to my mom’s memorial dinner when I was fifteen because it was the only thing I owned that made me look like I belonged.
Thank God, it still fits. Well, sort of.
I guess you could say it’s the right kind of small.
It hugs my curves just right, flaring out in a way that makes my hips look curvy instead of awkward.
I pair it with my favorite cardigan. It's the softest thing I own, even if the sleeves have a tiny hole at the wrist. I add black tights, mostly to keep warm, but because my knees look weird bare.
I check the mirror, sucking in, turning so I can see the line of my waist. When I reach down to smooth the fabric over my hip, it doesn’t even hurt. The Lilyes are there, a secret just for me. And I can’t help but smile wider.
Hair next.
I brush it out, letting it fall in soft waves, hiding the puffy redness from my earlier meltdown.
I pin one side back, because loose is nice but not like I just-rolled-out-of-bed-loose.
Then makeup. My hands shake so bad from nerves, I almost jab myself in the eye with the eyeliner pencil.
I have to put it down twice just to get a grip.
Thankfully, the mascara goes on with no casualties.
I dust foundation over my cheeks, swipe a little gloss across my lips, and stare at myself, practicing a smile that looks casual, and not terrified.
It’s almost time.
My phone buzzes, vibrating across the whole damn dresser. I snatch it up before anyone else can race upstairs and read it first.
9:15.
Ben will be here in fifteen minutes.
My stomach jumps with that weird pulse under my ribs.
He texted.
See you soon. Can’t wait.
I read it three times, thinking the words will vanish if I blink.
There’s a knock on the door frame. Instinctively, I tense.
My stepmother leans in, not even bothering to hide the way her eyes sweep over me, searching up and down for something to criticize.
I brace myself. Here we go.
She’s wearing pearls, a sharp suit jacket, her makeup flawless. All the armor she needs to rip me to pieces with just a sentence.
She purses her lips. “You’re going out? With a tattoo artist? April, really. You think this is going to impress anyone? Don’t get your hopes up. Men like him don’t stick around for girls like you.”
It lands exactly like she wants. Cold, mean, and with the intent to shatter.
My heart sinks, but I don’t let it show. I stare at a spot over her shoulder. I imagine Ben’s voice instead, soft and warm, calling me beautiful. And it’s enough.
I square my shoulders and look her right in the eyes.
She waits for a reaction, but I don’t give her one. I grab my bag, check my reflection one last time, and slide past her.
All the way down the hall, I feel her staring at me, raking imaginary claws down my back. But she doesn’t say another word.
Downstairs, it’s quiet. The living room’s dark and empty, except for the glow of some reality show on mute.
Everything smells like lemon cleaner and fake vanilla.
There are no family photos on the wall; all those disappeared when my mom died.
I step carefully, not wanting to leave footprints in their world.
But tonight, I’m not apologizing for taking up space.
Outside, the night is cold enough that my breath shows. The edge of the sidewalk is bathed in orange light from the streetlamp. No sign of Ben yet, but I pull the door shut behind me, refusing to look back.
I force my legs to keep moving, step after step, down the path and onto the sidewalk. My nerves are fried, but excitement keeps my chin up.
I made it. I’m doing this.
Not for anyone except the girl in the mirror, dress fluttering around her knees, with a secret garden blooming on her hip.
Tonight, I’m choosing myself.
I wait, pretending I’m not counting every headlight that crawls down the street. My hands are already freezing, but I don’t dare go back inside. I’d rather turn into a popsicle than deal with another “pep talk” from my stepmonster.
Then I see it.
Ben’s truck.
Big and dark, engine purring as it eases to the curb. He kills the headlights. Then the door opens and he climbs out.
He looks amazing. Faded black tee under a leather jacket, jeans that fit just right, and those hands…
strong, inked, a little dangerous. Dark hair, just long enough on top to run his fingers through, falls messily across his forehead.
His eyes, deep and expressive, are almost black in the streetlight.
They lock onto mine as he stands in front of me, staring, like he’s never seen a female before in his life.
For a second, he just stands there staring, drinking me in. Not saying a word.
His voice is rough when it finally comes out. “You look… wow.”
Like he can’t find any other words.
My cheeks heat instantly. I smile up at him, unable to hide how much that means.
“Thanks. You clean up nice yourself.”
He smirks, still staring. For once, the attention doesn’t make my skin crawl.
He steps toward me slowly, never breaking eye contact. When he’s close enough to touch me, his hand brushes my elbow in a gentle but confident way.
“Ready?” he asks.
I nod, hoping I don’t sound as nervous as I feel. “Yeah. Totally ready.”
Ben opens the passenger door, shielding me from the wind with his whole body. When I get inside, the seat’s still warm.
I watch as he walks around…shoulders broad, jaw set, like he’s ready to fight off anyone who crosses his path.
When he climbs in, he glances over, and I catch him checking me out again. This time, he doesn’t bother to hide it. I bat my lashes, all shy like, and tuck my hair behind my ear.
He turns the key and the engine rumbles to life, then glances at the dash and over at me.
“Is it too cold? I can turn the heat up.” He puts it on full blast before I even answer, and the vents start putting out warm air.
“Music, okay?” he asks, flipping through a playlist. “Or do you want something else?”
I shake my head. “It’s good. I like it.”
He finally settles on something mellow, the kind of music that fills in the silence and makes everything feel easy.
The streetlights glare across the windshield, turning him gold, then shadowed, then gold again. I can’t stop watching him. He glances up, feeling my eyes on him, and gives this tiny smile that makes my stomach drop straight down.
“So. You’re a student?” he asks, looking at me like he actually cares about the answer.
I nod, relaxing back into the seat. “Art history and psychology. Both equally useless, according to everyone in my house.”
He snorts, shooting me a knowing look. “Well, everyone in your house can get fucked. That’s cool as hell.”
I bite back a laugh. “You’re probably the first person to ever say that. Most people just nod and pretend to understand what I’m talking about.”
Ben’s hand rests on the gearshift, fingers flexing. His knuckles are scattered with faded lines of old ink. “Yeah, well. I have a soft spot for anyone who actually gives a shit about what they do. Don’t let them make you small.”
The words shoot straight through me, like medicine and a punch at the same time.
We fall into easy conversation of him asking about my favorite classes, me deflecting with a dumb story about a professor who looked like a retired pirate. He laughs, the sound low and real, and I swear the whole truck heats up two degrees.
Ben keeps glancing over, making sure I’m comfortable. He adjusts the vents again when he catches me rubbing my hands together. The truck hits a pothole and his arm shoots out, steadying me with a hand on my knee. He leaves it there a second longer than necessary before pulling back.
The whole time, I’m hyper aware of how close he is. How he keeps his speed low, checking the mirror like he’s guarding me from the world. The way he opens doors, touches the small of my back, never too pushy.
My heart is a mess, raw and exposed. Craving every drop of attention.
All I can think about is how I wish my first time had been with someone like him. Someone who makes me feel wanted, chosen. Not just a thing to be used, but something to hold. To protect.
He catches me staring and raises an eyebrow. “What?”
I scramble for an answer. “Just thinking how much I like hanging out with you. You make it easy.”
He bites his lip, watching the road, but I catch the flush on his cheeks even in the dark.
“Yeah,” he says in a soft voice. “Me too, April.”
We’re quiet for a few moments, but it’s the good kind. The kind that says I could do this forever and not get bored.
We pull into the restaurant parking lot, Ben circles around, parking as close to the door as possible. He steps out first, coming around to open my door like it’s second nature.
His hand rests on the small of my back until we reach the entrance. When the wind blows, he tugs me in a bit closer, using his body to shield me from the cold. I breathe him in, all cologne, leather, and a hint of soap. All of it is so real and intoxicating it makes my head swim.
For once, I let my guard down and let myself want this.
I deserve it.
Inside, the host lights up when he sees Ben. He lets us know our table will be ready soon, asking if we want to wait at the bar.