Chapter 11
Remi
Benson and I are the only two people inside Bob’s Antiques on Sunday afternoon. Apart from Bob himself, that is.
When we arrived, I let Benson know I’d be keeping my CI off. He nodded and gave me a small smile before his eyes skittered away. We’re making our way down the aisles now, Benson moving slowly and methodically.
I imagine he’s just as focused when he’s watching Antiques Roadshow, a thought that has me smiling to myself.
Benson points out an old scythe on the wall, the blade half-rusted, before he signs, ‘Aren’t you glad you don’t harvest your own hay?
’ His motions are somewhat stilted, and he still resorts to fingerspelling certain signs he doesn’t know, but he’s improved drastically in the weeks he’s been using ASL again.
I show him the proper sign for harvest, which he repeats. I’m about to answer that yes, yes I am glad, when a tiny nose pops out of his pocket.
“Benson,” I hiss, slapping his arm before my hands cut through the air. ‘You brought Mouse?’
His cheeks flush an endearing shade of pink, even as he brings his finger to his lips in a shh gesture.
I huff a laugh, shaking my head. ‘You’re a rebel.’
His chest rises as if he snorts. ‘I’m really not.’
‘Then explain the tiny rodent you smuggled onto your person in a public space.’
His lips twitch, his eyes running over a case of jewelry before he signs, loose and questioning, ‘Emotional support mouse?’
Before I can tease him further, his expression shifts into a subtle frown. He brings a finger to Mouse’s head, patting her gently and letting her chew on his fingernail. He’s attached to her already. But his frown tells me he knows he shouldn’t be.
Not when he’ll be releasing Mouse back into the wild once she’s healed.
Wanting to help distract him, I tap his arm and ask, ‘What are we here for? Anything in particular?’
He looks almost sheepish as he answers, ‘Teeth animals.’
My eyebrows pop up. ‘Teeth?’ I repeat.
Benson frowns slightly, spelling out, ‘Porcelain.’
My grin is wide. “Hard materials, like glass, porcelain, and ceramic are signed like this,” I say before tapping in front of my teeth, demonstrating the sign he was going for. Hands in the air, I add, ‘But spelling is more specific and helpful in this case.’
He nods, heaving out a breath. ‘Sorry.’
‘What for?’
When Benson can’t seem to figure out an answer, I shoot him a reassuring smile.
‘Exactly,’ I sign emphatically, keeping my movements slow enough that he can keep up. ‘People mess up words all the time. It’s nothing to apologize for. So these teeth animals? You collect them?’
Benson laughs at the purposeful mis-sign before nodding.
‘Why am I not surprised?’ I ask, more to myself than anything. The man clearly loves animals, even if he followed a career path in finance. ‘Are they worth a lot?’
He pinches his fingers in a no. ‘Couple dollars. Little more if rare.’
I whistle, and Benson’s lips twitch. ‘Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s go hunting.’
‘You distracted me,’ Benson accuses, continuing down an aisle.
I scoff lightly, and he glances my way. ‘You’re the one who invited me, remember?’
‘Oops,’ he signs with zero facial inflection.
I bark a laugh that has Benson smiling to himself. As we browse the eclectic offerings at the antiques market, Mouse occasionally peeks out of Benson’s pocket. She doesn’t try to escape, merely glances around before disappearing again.
I’m fairly certain if I’d told myself even half a year ago that I’d one day be trailing Benson Harper around as a mouse plays peekaboo from his shirt like the cutest sidekick ever, I’d assume I was dreaming.
As is, I’m not quite sure how this is reality.
It’s one thing to like someone from afar as more of a theoretical concept than anything. It’s another entirely to find out who someone is and realize your intuition was spot on.
I do like Benson. Not just because he’s smokin’ in a way that’s real and somewhat rough, especially now that he’s not trying to live up to some societal concept of a perfect ten.
This Benson with his beard and his casual clothes is far more appealing to me than the slicked-back businessman.
And not because I think courting Benson will be particularly easy.
He’s not the type of person to act impulsively but rather think over every angle before making a choice.
So I could say it’s only lust driving me, but that’d be a lie.
I like Benson because he’s kind and patient, and I think he feels more deeply than he lets on.
I like the fact that he looks comfortable at the ranch and the creases beside his eyes when he allows himself to smile.
I like the fact that he trusted me enough to tell me something so personal he hadn’t even shared it with his family yet.
He’s committed to using ASL, even when it slows him down.
He keeps waking up early to meet me at the petting farm, despite having no obligation to.
And when I told him that yes, I’d very much like to kiss him again, he didn’t shoot me down.
If I wanted quick or easy, I could find it elsewhere. But I know without a doubt Benson Harper will be worth the wait.
Benson catches me smiling at him and looks immediately away before back again. His mouth opens, forming a word, before he shakes his head and signs, ‘What?’
‘Just like looking at you,’ I admit.
He flushes deeply at that, this man twelve years my senior.
‘You’re not used to compliments,’ I note, the two of us stopping beside a collection of vintage kitchenware.
His response is measured, almost reluctant. ‘People don’t always mean what they say.’ After a second, he adds, ‘I think you do.’
I let loose a breath. ‘And that makes you…nervous?’
‘Anything real makes me nervous,’ he signs without looking at me. ‘It involves…’
“Being vulnerable?” I ask softly.
He nods in a jerk, his fingers rolling over a piece of blue pottery.
“Being scared of that means you care, Ben. That’s not a bad thing.”
He swallows hard, seeming to force himself to look my way.
‘Not a bad thing,’ I repeat with sure movements.
‘You’re too young to be so…’
‘Wise?’ I offer.
He rolls his eyes toward the ceiling before nodding his fist in a yes. ‘Probably too young for me.’
“No,” I say around a chuckle, flicking my hands in a quick, ‘Definitely not.’
The simple fact that he’s even contemplating a him and me has my chest feeling light.
Making sure I have his attention, I add, ‘And you don’t think I’m too young for you, either. Otherwise it would have been an immediate no.’
He doesn’t refute it, not exactly. ‘When I was your age, you were only eighteen.’
‘So? I didn’t ask you to kiss me then.’
His face screws up, and I laugh under my breath.
‘I’m not a kid anymore,’ I reassure him needlessly.
He shakes his head, fingers moving in a, ‘No,’ of agreement as he avoids my gaze.
Spotting some toys in the row across from us, including a bunch of tiny animal figurines, I swat Benson’s arm and point.
‘Wrong kind,’ he tells me, the two of us heading that way regardless. Benson picks up a small elephant, examining it before setting it back down. ‘Look for…smooth. Subtle colors.’
I send him a salute that has his shoulders shaking in a chuckle as we move on.
We find the most random items on our treasure hunt.
An old sail sans boat. A butter churn I briefly consider buying for Ash as a joke.
Even a set of jewel-encrusted poached-egg cups that look far too fancy to have ever been used.
When Benson pauses in his perusal, his eyes locked on a case up ahead, I know he’s spotted gold.
I follow as he heads that way, carefully opening the unlocked case to get a better view of the porcelain animals inside.
They’re glossy smooth as he said and only an inch or two in size.
They’re painted to look real. Or as real as animal figurines can look.
Earthy colors, many only one hue but multidimensional thanks to their detailing and the glaze making them shine.
Benson looks over the lot carefully before letting out a small breath I would have missed had I not been looking at him.
‘No,’ he signs simply.
‘You have all these?’
He nods. ‘They’re not…uncommon to find. I’ve collected a lot so far.’
‘Can you buy them online?’
His smile is slight. ‘I’m sure. But I don’t want to.’
So it’s the process he enjoys. Finding them on his own. Collecting them slowly over time from the places he’s been. He doesn’t care about having a complete set. Only ones that mean something to him.
‘Will you show me sometime?’ I ask.
He nods his fist in a slow yes, even as his brow is furrowed.
‘Which don’t you have yet? Do you know?’
Benson licks his lips before signing, ‘Swan.’ He thinks for a second and adds, ‘Stretching kitten.’
‘Is that its official name?’ I ask around a grin.
He looks almost sheepish as he responds. ‘No. It’s just called kitten. It’s from the second set of Wade Whimsies offered at retail in the United Kingdom in 1954. I have the rest of the set.’
I’m fairly certain I fail spectacularly at hiding my smile. ‘And the swan?’
His hands move almost abashedly. ‘Set 10. Sold in 1959. There’s a Shire horse in that set I also don’t have.’
Mouse pops out of Benson’s shirt, her head swiveling around. Without missing a beat, Benson reaches into his jeans pocket and pulls out a small baggie of sunflower seeds. He drops a few into his shirt pocket, and the rodent disappears.
‘Ben.’
Benson looks almost surprised to see me signing his name. It’s probably been years since he last saw his name sign, despite Auggie and I using it frequently.
He dips his head in a nod, letting me know he’s paying attention.
‘You like animals,’ I point out.
Benson’s eyebrows draw together, his ‘Yes?’ clearly a question.
I huff a small laugh. ‘You said you’re trying to figure out who you are. I think animals are a part of you. The real you. They’re not like jogging. These?’ I indicate the figurines next to us. ‘They’re not for anyone else. Neither is the time you’re spending at the ranch. This is all you.’
He considers that for a long moment, nodding slowly after a while. ‘I think you’re right.’
‘Of course I am,’ I quip. ‘I’m wise, remember?’
‘And humble,’ he shoots back.
Laughter bubbles up in my throat. ‘The sass you have.’
He shakes his head, trying to deny it, even as his lips twitch. ‘I’m boring,’ he replies, almost like it’s something he’s heard before. Something he’s repeating by rote.
And fuck if I hate whoever made him feel that way.
‘No,’ I respond firmly. ‘You’re not. You remember that sign I taught you over video?’
It takes him a minute. ‘Asshole?’
Seeing Benson sign the word so casually inside an antiques market has my chest warming, even as tightness lingers there. ‘Asshole,’ I repeat in confirmation. ‘The next time someone implies you or your interests are boring, you call them out for what they are.’
His eyes widen, as if the mere thought of that is unfathomable.
‘What?’ I ask, hands moving swiftly. ‘You can call a friend an asshole but not someone who deserves it?’
He shakes his head a little. ‘Repeat? Please?’
Realizing I’d been signing rapid-fire in my frustration, I slow down and repeat my question.
Benson’s eyes meet mine once I’m done. ‘We’re friends?’
My pulse hops. ‘I think so. Yeah?’
He nods slowly. ‘You’d know I’m kidding. That’s the difference. I don’t want to hurt someone on purpose.’
My shoulders deflate, every ounce of my ire leaving me in exchange for an overwhelming rush of fondness. ‘You’re not boring,’ I tell him again. ‘Never have been. Do you think I’d lie to make you feel better?’
His mouth forms the word, “No,” his fingers pinching together a moment later.
‘Then it’s settled. Do you have multiples of any?’
Benson glances at the figurines in the case again, his nose twitching slightly like he maybe cleared his throat.
‘Turtle. Although it’s called…terrapin.’ He spells that.
‘Specifically the model from the Canadian Red Rose Tea Promotions between 1967 and 1973. It comes in multiple color variations. I always grab it if I see it.’
‘How many do you have?’
He hesitates, even though I’m positive he knows by memory. ‘Twenty-six.’
My huff has Benson’s eyes dropping to my smile. ‘And how many friends have you brought along on these turtle hunts?’
A small smile twists his own lips. ‘Just you.’
My breath catches. ‘Not August? Your mom? Dad?’
He shakes his head.
‘A partner?’ I ask.
‘Just you,’ he repeats.
Jesus.
My heartbeat is a swift drum beneath my sternum as Benson continues down the aisle, completely unaware of the effect those two words had on me.
He’s never shown this to anyone.
But he’s showing it to me.
Neither of us ends up buying anything at the antiques market, but I had a good time, a fact I let Benson know as we head toward the exit. Giving his arm a little nudge, I add, ‘Maybe you’ll let me watch Antiques Roadshow with you sometime.’
His brow furrows. ‘You don’t need my permission.’
My laugh is slight. ‘I’m angling for an invite, Ben.’
His mouth forms an, “Oh,” his gaze fixing on the floorboards.
We reach the coatrack at the front of the store, and Benson stops, looking over his shoulder.
He signs a quick, ‘Bye, Bob,’ as his lips move.
I give the older gentleman a wave, as well, noticing Benson surreptitiously holding a hand in front of his pocket.
I keep my amusement to myself until we’re out the door, winter coats and gloves in place.
“Rebel,” I voice.
Benson looks amused despite his expression remaining fairly stoic. It’s the small changes. The corner of his mouth hiking up. The way his eyes soften. How his shoulders aren’t quite so tense.
I like being the reason he looks like that.
Benson glances from my vehicle to his own, his hands deep in his pockets.
‘Will I see you tomorrow?’ I ask.
He nods, removing his hands to reply. The exaggerated and familiar, ‘Later, alligator,’ has me letting out a disbelieving laugh.
‘I was five!’ I defend.
He visibly chuckles, eyes warm and almost amber in the late afternoon sunlight. The reddish-gold highlights in his hair burn just as brightly, bringing to mind summer sun and tea steeping on the back deck. Grass between my toes. A warm hand tucked firmly in my own.
I want moments like that with this man. Simple ones. Familiar ones.
I want them more desperately than I realized.
I form a slow, ‘XO,’ with my fingers, the goodbye of hugs and kisses more intimate than I would have dared in the past.
Benson nods after a moment, the motion jerky, before he lifts his own hand in a quick goodbye.
I drive back toward the ranch, snow beneath my tires and the sun nearly hidden behind the mountains. But in my head, I’m lying in a field of wildflowers.
And for once, I’m not alone.