Chapter 3-Benji #2
That dangerous kind of stillness where pain and rage freeze over so cold they stop looking like either one.
“You never listened to a word I said back then, but I never cheated on you, Benjamin,” she says, each word clipped and measured and controlled within an inch of its life.
“And I am goddamned tired of defending myself. Honestly? I don’t even care what you think anymore.
I just need this to be over with so I can get on with my life! ”
“Yeah?” I step up onto the porch, boots ringing against the wood. “That’s funny, because from where I’m standing, you never had a problem getting anything on! In fact, I recall you spending a whole lot of time getting it on with another man while I was deployed.”
“You’re the one who made him come around the house! Paul was your friend, not mine!” she shoots back instantly. “YOURS! I didn’t even know he felt that way—”
“Didn’t know?” I bark out a laugh that tastes like old poison. “He had you as his fucking wallpaper, Esme.”
That lands.
Her eyes widen, really widen, and whatever I expected to see there—guilt, annoyance, some slick, well-practiced lie—I don’t.
I see shock.
Real shock.
“I never knew that,” she says, softer now.
“Yeah?” I take another step closer. “Well, he told me you were with him. That you had an affair while I was gone. He sent me clips and that fucking video.”
“That’s all a lie—”
“He showed me the goddamn video! Not to mention a FUCKING SEX TAPE!” I roar.
That one finally cracks the whole moment open.
She freezes.
Not because she’s caught.
Because she’s confused.
“You think I did that? That I made a-a sex tape with your best friend?” she asks, and now her voice is barely above a whisper.
My chest tightens in a way I do not appreciate.
“That one doesn’t even bother me as much as the birthday one,” I snap, lying through my teeth.
Honestly, they both fucking gutted me.
I can still see it now.
Esme all prettied up, singing happy birthday to my best friend.
“The way you made yourself up for him—sang to him.”
Her whole expression changes.
Confusion first.
Then dawning horror.
“What?” she says. “No—that wasn’t—oh my God! You’re wrong!”
She starts digging for her phone with shaking hands, nearly dropping her bag in the process.
“What are you doing?” I demand.
“Looking for it,” she mutters, panic rising. “I didn’t sing that song for him! That was your birthday gift. I-I sang it to you. I said your name, Benji. I made it for you,” she says, and it sounds like she’s pleading.
“What? No, I saw it.”
“No! What you saw was wrong. I made that video for you,” she says again, louder this time.
Like if she says it enough maybe it’ll rewrite the last three years.
She unlocks her phone, swipes, finds something, then shoves it at me.
“Look.”
I don’t want to take it.
I really, really don’t want to take it.
Because what if she’s lying and I look like an idiot?
And what if she’s not?
Still, I take the phone.
The clip starts.
Same angle.
Same lighting.
Same room.
Same her.
At first she sits there, then she angles the camera and smiles—so sweet and shy.
Her hair is glossy, hanging over one shoulder.
She’s wearing a sexy as fuck little nightie that hugs her curves, leaving little glimpses of plump flesh I happen to know is sweeter than candy.
Then, she opens her mouth and her voice—fuck—it’s soft and intimate and warm enough to put a knife between my ribs.
Only this time—I hear it.
“Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday, my sweet Benji,” she sings all sexy and breathy, like a modern day Marilyn.
My name.
Clear as day.
Not his.
Mine.
My whole body goes cold.
I replay the line in my head even after the clip moves on.
Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday, my sweet Benji…
Not Paul.
Not him.
Not anyone else.
Me. She sang this to me.
She says Benji.
My hand tightens around the phone.
“That’s not what I saw,” I say, but the conviction’s gone thin.
“Because he cut it,” she says, voice rising with every word. “He edited it. He took what he wanted and twisted it into something else.”
I shove the phone back at her harder than I mean to. I shake my head.
“Pretty nifty edit. You do that online?”
Her face crumples for one flash of a second.
Hurt.
Raw and ugly, and plain as day before she can hide it.
Then it hardens again, and she squares her shoulders.
“Why would I? I didn’t even know he sent you that. But you can have a pro look at it for edits if you want. I’m done trying to get you to listen,” she replies.
And honestly. I have to admire her grit. If she hadn’t already ripped my heart out of my chest once, I’d tell her so.
But I can’t go there.
Not with her.
“You slept with him,” I accuse.
I say it out loud—and I ignore the gasps of Sawyer, Bit, Angie, and I think Micah.
He must’ve arrived sometime after the others.
I say it even after watching and hearing her supposedly unedited video.
Because if I let go of that belief, I don’t know what fills the space it leaves behind.
“That’s a lie, Benjamin,” she says, and her voice isn’t loud—it’s steady.
Controlled.
Worse than if she’d screamed right away.
“I never touched him. I haven’t touched anyone since the day I met you.”
My jaw tightens so hard, it aches.
“Bullshit.”
It comes out automatic. Defensive.
Like if I say it fast enough, hard enough, it’ll still be true.
Her composure snaps.
“It’s the truth, goddamn it!” she shouts, chest heaving now, eyes bright and blazing—and Christ, I hate how much I recognize this version of her. This is the Esme I knew. The one who fought. The one who didn’t shut down and walk away.
The one who stayed.
“But think whatever you want,” she goes on, voice breaking now, emotion cracking through whether she wants it to or not. “I know who I am, and I am not a cheater.”
That last word splinters.
And something in my chest shifts.
Just a fraction.
The silence that follows feels like standing in an open field with a storm rolling in—air heavy, pressure building, lightning waiting to strike.
Behind me, nobody says a damn thing.
Sawyer’s too smart to step into this.
Bit’s too stunned.
Angie’s already clocked that this is old pain, deep pain, the kind you don’t air out in front of strangers.
Micah? He’s quiet—but I can feel him watching. Processing. Filing it away like the tech-head he is.
Esme exhales hard, like she’s wrung out, like she’s done fighting for something I already decided wasn’t worth believing.
“Forget it,” she mutters, shaking her head. “Just have your lawyer review the papers and sign them. I—I can rent a hotel nearby—”
She says it like she’s already halfway gone.
Like this doesn’t matter.
Like I don’t matter.
Bit cuts in before I can even process the punch that lands low in my gut.
“You’ll do no such thing,” she announces, stepping forward like she’s got a personal stake in this. “You can stay here.”
“Lil Bit,” Sawyer murmurs, low, warning in his tone.
But Bit just narrows her eyes at him, stubborn as hell, and keeps going.
“Look, she’s my friend, sort of,” she clarifies, but doesn’t back down.
“How?” Sawyer asks.
“I’ve been following Esme for years,” she says, gesturing like this should explain everything. “This is my chance to actually get to know her. The main house is kinda crowded, but there’s a spare bed in the bunkhouse. Real mattress. Sheets. Bathroom. You’ll be fine.”
For a second, I have no idea what the hell she’s talking about.
None.
Esme blinks, clearly thrown too, then gives a small, unsure smile.
“Well, I mean, I appreciate that,” she says to Bit. “But I don’t want to impose. Maybe I can just stay in the van and use the facilities, if that’s okay? It’d be nice to stretch my legs and just stand still for a minute without looking over my shoulder,” she whispers that last part, but I clock it.
My brain finally catches up on one word.
Van.
“What do you mean, stay in the van?” I ask, my voice dropping.
Bit turns to me like I’m the idiot in the room.
“Don’t you know?” she says. “Your wife is famous. She’s Plus Size Life with Esme and a Van. She’s got millions of followers across her platforms.”
I stare at her.
“What?”
“Shit,” Micah mutters behind me, already on his phone. “She’s not lying. Damn.”
I turn just in time to see him scrolling fast, eyes flicking back and forth as whatever he’s pulling up confirms it.
My stomach drops.
My wife.
The woman I thought ran off and disappeared.
The woman I’ve been pissed at, mourning, hating, missing for three years—has been out there. On the web. On social media.
Surviving in a van.
Living her life.
Building something.
With millions of people watching.
“What the fuck are you talking about? And what do you mean about looking over your shoulder?” I growl.
My head spins.
Images slam into me—her laughing into a camera, strangers commenting on her life, people knowing her in ways I didn’t anymore.
Because I wasn’t there.
I wasn’t part of any of it.
I cut her off. Cut her out.
And now, she’s like a stranger.
Someone I used to know.
Then she turns.
Like none of this matters.
Like she can just walk away now that she said her piece.
Like she didn’t just drop a bomb in the middle of my life and expect me to stand there and take it.
Something in me snaps.
“Someone tell me what the fuck is going on!” I bark.
“It’s not that hard to follow, Benji,” Esme fires back instantly, spinning to face me again. “You didn’t resign the lease, and when you do that, they tend to kick you the fuck out of military housing. You didn’t call or warn me. You sure as shit didn’t come home. I had no time and nowhere to go.”
The words hit like a punch.
“So I took the old van my uncle left me,” she continues, voice shaking but strong, “and I lived in it. I had no choice.”
Everything inside me just stutters.
“W—what?” The word scrapes out of me.
She lived in a van?
My throat tightens.
My stomach turns.