Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
PAIGE
The first room we’re led into is bright white. It’s twice the length of the shop, ending with a red door that immediately makes me wish I’d had the courage to visit sooner.
Evenly spaced along the walls are tables with different-colored bowls. I have no idea what they have in them or what each color means. There’s no sound except for our footsteps and breaths, nothing from outside. The room must be soundproofed.
I feel like I’ve just been given the keys to the chocolate factory.
The guide gets our attention. “This room focuses on smell and touch.”
Despite my nerves, a buzz settles under my skin.
She makes her way through the group, handing us an eye mask with the logo of the gallery on it. “One of you will put the mask on, and your partner will be in charge of guiding you around the room. The point is not to be the best guesser. This isn’t a competition.”
A few titters rumble through the room.
“Instead, I challenge you to discover something new. Focus on what your senses are telling you. Is it exciting? Uncomfortable? Does it make you hungry?”
Another chuckle.
“Whatever it inspires is for you and your partner to discover. Take your time, discuss it as you go, and I’ll be waiting in the next room when you’re ready.”
Shit. It feels selfish to ask to wear the mask since, technically, this is Benji’s date, but I really want to. No matter how nervous it makes me to put myself at his mercy. Hell, he could leave the second the mask is on, and then I’d be the one stood up.
But he doesn’t look like he wants to run off, and he doesn’t even ask who will do what. He simply places the band around my head, making sure it won’t lie uncomfortably against my ponytail. Goose bumps rush over my arms as it slips over my eyes. I’m in his hands now.
He takes my elbow, the heat of his palm curling around my skin. The rough texture of his fingers is exactly as I remember.
Fuck.
“Ready?” he asks.
No.
Shakily, I nod, and then I set my shoulders back. Because, actually, I’m not the one who should be nervous here. I’m saving his ass on this date, and coming here was my idea, and I’m not the one wearing a fanny pack.
Suddenly, I’m grateful for the eye mask.
Benji leads. He’s careful to keep me from bumping into people, even as he murmurs apologies as we go.
I guess those sorries are easier to give than the one he owes me.
The first scents are pleasantly surprising, things I’d expect Skye to concoct on her most adventurous days—rain on asphalt, forest soil, sun-warmed apple pie. All of it is complemented by the familiar base of Benji beside me. His heat. His voice.
“Hold out your hand.”
Did he just lower his voice, or am I imagining it?
Someone needs to turn the air up in here. How is everyone not sweating right now?
I don’t know what to expect when I raise my hand, palm up, but it’s definitely not Benji running his fingers along my palm.
“Fuck,” I whisper, my hand trembling.
Benji’s breathing pauses. “Paige …”
And, goddammit, why does he make my name sound like a plea? Like he’s just as affected as I am. It’s not fair.
“Don’t,” I choke out.
He must swallow whatever he was going to say because, instead, something rough is placed in my palm.
It has the texture of bark, but not the shape, perfectly round but peeling slightly, like layers of paper.
It’s odd and oddly comforting, all at the same time.
There’s something … human about it. Something recognizable, but also not.
Something that could be misunderstood without the curiosity to know more.
“You’re supposed to describe how you’re feeling,” Benji says.
Ha. Angry. Scared. Horny.
“Cold,” I lie.
I realize my mistake a second later as Benji starts to rub warmth into my arms. I should push him away, but it feels too good.
“Better?” he asks.
Worse. So much worse.
But I nod, and he lets go.
* * *
We enter through the red door.
The tour guide beams. “Welcome to the compliment corner.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
“This room is all about sight. But perception is more than what we see, and to truly know someone, you need to look deeper.”
Benji swallows, hard, his jaw clenched.
“Go ahead and take a seat,” she explains, waving at a small table with two chairs. “In front of you, there’s a card and some colored pencils.”
As Benji takes the seat across from me, it’s suddenly two weeks ago, and I’m back at speed dating again. Except this time, I have been paired with Benji, and it’s exactly as wonderful and painful as I thought it would be.
“Without looking away from your partner or raising your pencil off the page, draw their portrait. Focus on every detail you see—the slope of their nose, their cheeks, their mouth. Really look at them. Try to capture as much as you can.”
The fuck? Who designed this torture?
White-knuckling the pencil, I swallow and look up, and it’s all green, green, green. Fuck. I couldn’t look away if I tried. I forgot how beautiful his eyes were.
Our eyes lock, and holding the pencil between his teeth, he smiles, detonating a series of explosions somewhere south of my ribs.
Keep. It. Together.
I race through the task, tracing the lines of his face—his strong nose, his square jaw, the plush curve of his wildly seductive mouth. It’s the longest I’ve allowed myself to look at him since he came back.
“Pencils down,” the guide says.
Thank God. I’m definitely ready for the next room.
“Now, take turns telling your partner your favorite feature of theirs. It doesn’t have to be physical; it can be their laugh or something about their personality.
Then share a secret. Something you haven’t told them before.
Again, don’t rush through it. This is only for you and your partner.
There are no wrong answers. When you’re done, take the yellow door at the back of the room to go to the silent disco. ”
Oh God. Secrets? Why wasn’t that on the website?
I shouldn’t be here. Who the hell saves their ex from being stood up because they felt bad? I could be in my apartment, crying over a laundry commercial instead.
“Um …”
“Something wrong?” he asks, and, yes, there is absolutely something wrong.
The problem is, I can think of a hundred of my favorite things about Benji.
The problem is, I don’t know if I can handle hearing Benji compliment me.
The problem is, if he doesn’t, I might die.
I say nothing, but he doesn’t push. Instead, he starts cleaning up—picking up each pencil, flipping it so the sharpened point is in the air, and sliding it back into place in the center of the table.
“I’ll go first then,” he says. “I like everything about you.”
The teenagers at the next table start giggling over their portraits. Most of the room is having fun, and I’m here while Benji is determined to plunge his hand straight into my chest for a second time.
“You can’t say that. You’re supposed to pick one thing. Your favorite, if you have one.”
“That’s right,” he says, as if I’m not understanding him. “And that’s my answer.”
My heart flutters and kicks. “Benji …”
“Why don’t you believe me?”
“Because that’s ridiculous.” And it’s so nice that it hurts.
“I think it’s ridiculous that you don’t believe me.”
“Fine, whatever. I’ll go.”
“Please do.”
I should tell him there’s nothing I like about him. It’s only fair. But it wouldn’t be the truth.
“Your hands,” I tell him. “I’ve always liked your hands.
” And I guess the dam is open now because the rest tumbles out like it’s been waiting for this very moment to free itself.
“They’re kind of rough, but you look after them.
Your nails are always clipped short, buffed.
And you’re tactile, even when you’re not working, like you can’t help finding the edges and imperfections and wanting to sand them down.
You always tap your fingers when you’re thinking, and when you really don’t want to answer a question, you’ll scratch behind your ear.
But mostly, I like them because of what they can create.
I know you hate getting compliments, but, God, Benji, your work …
you put so much into every piece, no matter how small it is or who it’s for.
I once watched you spend an hour re-carving a single corner because it wasn’t symmetrical. ”
He’s staring with the look of a man who just discovered something incredible. I’ve missed that look. Every time I imagine falling in love, that look is all I picture. How dare he?!
“We can skip the next part.”
Benji jolts like I struck him, hurt straining his features. “Why do you say that?”
He’s really asking me why?
“Because”—I can’t believe he doesn’t get it—“I want to take this seriously, Benji, and getting to know you takes three different types of dynamite and spy-level skills I don’t possess.”
“It’s only two types of dynamite,” he jokes. I stand, and he catches my wrist. “Hold up. I want to take this seriously too.”
He caresses my pulse point with his thumb, and my eyes flutter closed. I wish I hated him more.
Pulling my wrist free, I sit back down. “I’m still mad at you.”
“That’s okay. At least you aren’t trying to kill me,” he says.
“Not yet.”
“I deserve that.” He holds my gaze. “I need you to know how sorry I am. I hurt you, and that was the last thing I’d ever wanted to do.”
“You keep saying you’re sorry, but you haven’t explained why.” An apology is good, necessary, but doesn’t he see that he’s still holding back? Unless anything has changed, saying sorry doesn’t fix anything. “Tell me, please”—just put me out of my misery—“why did you leave?”
He takes a deep breath, and I’m expecting him to deflect, but I have to know. Have to hear him tell me he didn’t want me anymore before I drive myself insane with it. It’s the only way I can get over him.
He drags a palm over his mouth once, twice. Struggling. I fight back the urge to let him off the hook, to take back the question and ask something simpler. Easier.
I wait him out.