8. Ben
BEN
Saturday night settles cold and clear over the mountains.
I kill the engine on my truck and the rumble dies, replaced by the low thrum of music and a chorus of voices.
Pickup trucks line the dirt road leading to the bonfire clearing, their tailgates down, their beds holding coolers and blankets.
I grab the bundle of split pine from my own truck bed and head toward the glow.
The air is sharp with the scent of woodsmoke, damp leaves, and the sweet smell of marshmallows already beginning to char over the flames.
Strings of paper lanterns sway between the tall pines, casting a warm, dancing light over the crowd.
I add my logs to the stack near the main pit, the heat a welcome blast against my face.
My eyes scan the familiar faces, the knots of people laughing and drinking from red plastic cups.
And then I see her. Chasity stands near the largest bonfire, wrapped in a red and black flannel that swallows her small frame.
I recognize the shirt. It’s one of Lachlan’s.
Her cheeks are flushed a deep pink from the cold and from the laughter that spills out of her.
It’s a different color on her, this happiness.
It’s not the pale, frantic blush of anxiety I first saw on her face.
For the first time since she crashed her car on the edge of my world, she doesn’t look like she is bracing for a blow.
She doesn’t look like a runaway. She looks like a part of the scenery.
I watch her from across the clearing, leaning against the cool metal of someone’s truck fender.
She moves through the circle of people with an ease she didn't have a week ago, accepting a beer from Taven without apologizing for the space she takes up.
Rosa corners her, gesturing wildly with a half-eaten s'more, and Chasity doesn't shrink.
She just laughs, a real, open sound that gets carried away by the smoke.
I watch the tight line of her shoulders soften each time someone pulls her into a story or hands her a skewer, including her without the careful hesitation the town first showed her.
They just see her now. And for some reason, that makes something in my own chest settle.
Lachlan spends most of the evening orbiting her with the effortless confidence of a planet pulling a moon into its sway.
He keeps stealing Chasity away into ridiculous conversations, balancing paper plates of barbecue in one hand while dramatically reenacting the “Great Possum Rescue Incident” for an amused crowd.
“And then—BAM! The headlights catch them. A whole possum platoon, frozen in time!” He throws his arms out, nearly losing a pile of coleslaw.
Chasity doubles over, her laugh swallowed by the crackle of the fire.
She stumbles, leaning into Lachlan’s side for balance, her hand gripping his flannel-clad arm.
A sharp, hot wire pulls tight in my gut.
I look down at the condensation beading on my beer bottle and trace a line through it with my thumb, scraping away the moisture until the glass is clear.
My gaze lifts, against my will, and lands on them again.
She’s still smiling, her face tipped up toward his, caught in the easy gravity of his charm.
Taven, meanwhile, never strays far from her chair.
He hangs back, pretending to be caught up in a conversation about the high school baseball team’s chances this season, but his attention is a tether connected to her.
When her cup empties, another appears in her hand before she can stand up, Taven placing it there with a low murmur I can’t hear.
Later, when the crowd shifts to make room for more firewood, he wordlessly steers her from a muddy patch near the coolers.
His hand settles on the small of her back, a brief, firm pressure that guides her to drier ground.
The gesture is so quiet, so assured, that it feels more private than any of Lachlan’s loud jokes.
It’s a silent claim, a gesture that says I’m watching over you.
Watching them both circle her unsettles me, a feeling like a rock dropped into a still pond, the ripples spreading wider than they should.
I don’t want to look too closely at the source of the disturbance.
I stay put, nursing the same beer until the cold from the bottle seeps into my palm.
The fire dwindles to a bed of glowing embers, casting long shadows that swallow the edges of the clearing.
People drift away in twos and threes, their laughter fading into the dark.
Eventually, she finds her way over to the stacked logs near my truck, sinking down with a sigh that seems to carry the weight of the last week.
She holds a cup, the smell of whiskey sharp on the cool air between us.
“I think I’m officially a small-town cliche,” she murmurs, staring into the pulsing heart of the fire. “The city girl who finally sees the stars.”
“Nothing wrong with the stars.”
A small, weary smile touches her lips. She swirls the contents of her cup.
“It’s just… quiet. My old life wasn't quiet. It was a timetable. Get up, commute, answer emails, plan the seating chart, approve the caterer, nod when I was supposed to nod. I was just surviving it, you know? Getting through the day so I could get to the next one.” Her voice is low, roughened by the smoke and the whiskey.
“I spent so much time making sure everyone else’s schedules ran smoothly, I think I forgot to schedule myself. ”
Her words hit me like a blow to the sternum.
That feeling. The endless cycle of fixing things for other people—engines, deadlines, broken hearts—until you look up and realize your own hands are empty and your own tank is dry.
I remember the months after Sadie left, the hollow echo in my own house, the realization that I’d built my entire world around her happiness and had forgotten to leave any room for my own.
Just as the silence between us stretches into something comfortable, the speakers crackle back to life. A fast, thumping beat cuts through the quiet. Rosa, flushed and giddy, grabs Chasity’s hand. “No more moping, Possum Princess! Dance with me!”
“Oh, no, I can’t.” Chasity laughs, a breathless, protesting sound as Rosa pulls her toward the makeshift dance floor. She stumbles, trying to plant her feet, but Rosa is a force of nature.
Under the swaying lanterns, Chasity gives in. The tight coil of her posture unwinds. She throws her head back, her long hair catching the firelight as she spins, a blur of red flannel and pure, unburdened motion. For the first time, she isn’t thinking. She’s just moving.
That’s when I see them. Two guys I don’t recognize, their jackets bearing the logo of a ski resort from the next county over. They slide into the circle, their movements too slick, their eyes fixed on Chasity with a predatory focus. One gets too close, his hand hovering near her waist.
An invisible signal passes through the night.
I push off the truck. Across the fire, Lachlan stops mid-sentence, his charming smile hardening at the edges.
Near the speakers, Taven turns, his body angling to create a solid wall between the tourists and Chasity’s unguarded joy.
Without a word, we close the gaps, a silent, three-pronged fence built of denim and flannel and crossed arms.
Lachlan slides in smoothly, offering one of the unwelcome tourists a fresh drink with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "You guys look lost. The all-you-can-drink special at the lodge ended an hour ago." His voice is light, but it carries a steel edge that cuts through the music. The guy’s hand drops from Chasity’s arm. His friend glances from Lachlan’s breezy confidence to Taven’s unmoving stillness, then at me leaning against the truck, and makes a smart decision.
They murmur an excuse and vanish back into the shadows.
The entire exchange lasts less than ten seconds.
Chasity, caught in the music’s momentum, barely notices the shift in the atmosphere.
Rosa pulls her into another wild spin, and her laughter rings out, completely innocent of the silent, territorial display that just unfolded around her.
She doesn’t see the way Taven’s jaw remains locked, or how Lachlan's easy charm now looks like a carefully maintained mask.
But I see it. I feel the echo of it in my own chest, a fierce, irrational spike of adrenaline that has nowhere to go.
Later, the quiet of my truck on the ride home is a sharp contrast to the bonfire’s noise.
My headlights cut a lonely path through the thick pine forest. The pale glow of the dashboard illuminates my hands gripping the steering wheel, my knuckles raised and white from a pressure the winding road doesn’t demand.
The scene replays in my head: the tourist’s casual touch, the immediate, unspoken reaction.
We didn’t consult each other. There was no nod, no signal.
We just moved, a three-man perimeter forming out of instinct.
A single, heavy truth lands in the pit of my stomach.
This feeling, this possessive thrum in my veins, isn’t just mine.
I saw it on Taven’s face, and I heard it in Lachlan’s voice.
This is no longer simple curiosity about the town’s newest resident.
The concern has morphed into something sharper, something with teeth.
We’re not looking at her like she’s a guest anymore, a runaway bride who’ll be gone as soon as her car is fixed.
We’re looking at her like she belongs here, and that thought alone changes everything.