Chapter 20 #2
That was perhaps what puzzled him most. There had been no anger at the table.
No raised voices. No accusations. Just confusion and hurt and the peculiar experience of watching two people who loved each other speak entirely different languages for fifteen minutes.
By the time they’d returned to their room, both of them had apologized repeatedly while somehow explaining very little.
Rachel had eventually curled against him beneath the quilts, her body seeking him out with the unconscious certainty that sleep seemed to possess, and Ben had held her while wondering why the woman currently wrapped around him had looked so frightened by the words next year.
Not angry.
He kept coming back to that.
He wasn’t angry.
Disappointed, perhaps. A little bruised.
More confused than he cared to admit. But underneath all of that sat a strange and stubborn tenderness.
Because whatever Rachel had heard at dinner, whatever old fear had awakened and sent her retreating, he knew enough now to understand that it hadn’t really been about the inn or the wine or next year.
Those things had simply stumbled into something older.
Still, understanding that didn’t entirely spare him from the sadness.
Because he had enjoyed imagining next year.
Not marriage.
Not moving in.
Nothing dramatic.
Just this.
Another weekend. Another bottle of wine. Another ridiculous debate about music. More coffee on a porch while Rachel made fun of his interest in birds. He hadn’t realized he’d been hoping until the hope had escaped his mouth and landed in the middle of dinner.
And perhaps, he thought as he stared at the ceiling long after Rachel had fallen asleep, that was what hurt.
Not that she’d rejected anything.
That she’d been afraid.
Monday morning arrived wrapped in mist and silence.
He woke early, more from habit than rest, and slipped carefully from bed without disturbing her.
She remained curled beneath the blankets, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, her hair spread across the pillow.
Even in sleep she’d somehow migrated toward his side of the bed. It made him smile.
He dressed quietly and stepped outside with a cup of coffee while the valley below slowly emerged from the fog. The inn was still asleep. A few lights glowed in distant windows. Somewhere, a dog barked once and then apparently reconsidered the effort.
He found a walking trail behind the property and followed it without any real destination in mind. Leaves crunched beneath his boots. The air smelled of damp earth and fireplaces. And gradually, as his body moved and his mind stopped trying so hard, something began to untangle itself.
He’d gotten ahead of himself.
Not badly.
Not dangerously.
But enough.
Not because he’d been making plans. God knew he wasn’t secretly picking out engagement rings or mentally rearranging closets.
But over the course of the weekend, somewhere between the sleeping late and the walks and the rain and the astonishing amount of jam Rachel had consumed at breakfast, he’d stopped guarding his happiness.
And hope, he’d discovered, was a funny thing.
It often entered quietly.
Then one day you heard yourself saying maybe next year we could come back and realized you’d accidentally begun believing in next year.
It was human.
Because wasn’t that what people did when they were happy?
They imagined more.
Not because they demanded it.
Because they wanted it.
And there was nothing wrong with wanting.
By the time he returned to the inn nearly an hour later, Rachel sat alone on the porch wrapped in one of the blankets, her untouched coffee growing cold beside her. The relief on her face when she spotted him was so immediate and unguarded that his chest tightened.
“You’re still here.”
“Morning.”
She stood immediately.
“I woke up and you weren’t there.”
“I went for a walk.”
“I know.”
She laughed nervously.
“My brain was extremely dramatic about it.”
“Your brain and mine should meet.”
That earned the smallest smile.
Good.
They sat side by side in the rocking chairs while the valley slowly brightened around them.
Neither seemed especially eager to revisit the previous evening, and perhaps that was why they eventually found themselves there anyway.
Because relationships, Ben was discovering, had an annoying tendency to lead directly toward the thing you’d hoped to avoid.
Rachel stared into her coffee.
“I’m sorry.”
Ben laughed softly.
“We really need another phrase.”
Her smile appeared.
“I know.”
“No, seriously.” He shook his head. “At some point we’re going to wear that one out.”
That earned a real laugh.
And God, he’d missed that.
Not because she’d disappeared.
She hadn’t.
But because laughter relaxed her. It returned color to her face. It brought her back to herself.
“I think I got ahead of myself,” he said quietly.
Rachel frowned immediately.
“You didn’t.”
“I did.”
“No.”
“Sweetheart.” He smiled. “I know me.”
“But you weren’t asking for anything.”
“I know.”
He looked out over the valley.
“I had a really nice weekend.”
Her expression softened.
“Me too.”
“And I think I stopped thinking and just started hoping.”
He shrugged lightly.
“I liked this. I liked us. I liked sleeping late and listening to you complain about the jam selection and watching you pretend not to steal my bacon.”
“I had one piece.”
“A crime in any country.”
She smiled.
“Somewhere along the way, I guess I imagined doing it again.”
The tears that filled her eyes weren’t sad.
They looked almost relieved.
“Oh.”
And suddenly he understood.
Because that was what she’d heard.
Not hope.
Expectation.
“Rachel, I wasn’t asking you for anything.”
“I know.”
“No.”
He smiled gently.
“I don’t think you do.”
Fresh tears slipped down her cheeks.
“I heard pressure.”
“I know.”
“And you weren’t pressuring me.”
“No.”
“I know that now.”
Her voice trembled slightly.
“I think I got scared.”
He nodded.
“Okay.”
“I think I heard forever when you were just talking about next October.”
That made him smile.
“Probably September, actually. Better weather.”
She laughed unexpectedly.
And some of the tension broke.
“I thought you were asking me to promise something.”
“No.”
“I thought you needed me to know.”
“No.”
“I thought…”
She sighed.
“Honestly, I don’t even know what I thought.”
“That’s alright.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“It is.”
She looked over at him.
“How are you so calm?”
Ben laughed.
“I’m not calm.”
“No?”
“No. I was hurt.”
The honesty surprised her.
And perhaps surprised him a little too.
“But I wasn’t hurt because I thought you wanted less.”
He smiled softly.
“Because I know you don’t.”
Rachel blinked.
And suddenly she laughed.
Not because anything was funny.
Because it wasn’t.
Because somehow they’d spent the last twelve hours frightened by entirely different things.
“You thought I wanted less?”
“Maybe.”
“I thought you wanted more.”
“I do want more.”
“I do too.”
They stopped.
And then stared at one another.
And then, to Ben’s immense relief, Rachel began laughing.
Deep, helpless laughter that brought tears to her eyes. He joined her a second later, and soon they sat together in the morning sunlight laughing like fools while a couple carrying coffee glanced at them with mild concern.
Eventually Rachel wiped her eyes.
“We’re ridiculous.”
“Apparently.”
“I spent all night thinking I’d hurt you.”
“You did.”
Her face fell.
Ben smiled.
“And I spent all night thinking I’d scared you.”
“You did.”
They considered that.
Then Rachel laughed again.
“Healthy relationships are exhausting.”
“I think we’re doing it wrong.”
“No.”
She shook her head and smiled.
“I think we’re doing it.”
And something about those words settled over him with unexpected peace.
Because she was right.
This wasn’t a fairy tale.
Nobody had stormed off.
Nobody had threatened to leave.
Nobody had declared dramatic ultimatums.
They’d simply frightened each other.
And then found their way back.
He reached for her hand and felt her fingers immediately intertwine with his.
Neither of them wanted less.
That was the absurdity of it all.
The truth was far more inconvenient.
They wanted more.
They were simply old enough to understand that wanting more meant risking loss, and vulnerable enough to admit that hope could sometimes feel terrifying.
Still, as Rachel rested her head against his shoulder and the valley below slowly came to life, Ben found himself smiling.
Because if this was what their first real disagreement looked like, he thought they were going to be alright.
And next year — whenever it came — would take care of itself.