Chapter 33 #2
When I get back upstairs, Benson is where I left him. He pauses his show, his attention on me as I set our plates down on the floor and join him.
“Everything okay?” he asks, deftly scooping Mouse off the floor before she can steal his food. “You were gone for quite a while.”
“Everything’s fine,” I assure him. “Want to go for a walk with me after we eat? One of my favorite places is blooming.”
With a curious smile, he nods.
Before we head out, I set my CI on my nightstand, the silence that envelopes me comforting and familiar.
Benson, standing at the door, lifts his hands. ‘Headache?’
I shake my head. ‘Just don’t need it right now.’
He nods, accepting that easily. With Mouse in his pocket, we put on our boots and walk outside.
The area we head to is one I’m positive Benson knows about, considering he’s plucked flowers from this field for me on multiple occasions.
It’s fairly untrodden land, the area situated far back behind the milking barn before the woods begin.
It’s always grown wild, and it’s where my dad’s bee colony now lives, with plenty of pollen for them to gather.
I used to come out here as a child and lie in the tall grasses, uncaring about ticks or bugs or whatever else might be crawling on me. As an adult, not much has changed, apart from now knowing to check myself afterward. I very much doubt Benson will mind me doing the same for him.
He follows me wordlessly into the field, some of the flowers and grasses reaching our knees.
This patch blooms from the very start of spring all the way through the end of summer, different species finding their moment to flower under the high sun.
Right now, the ground is covered in pink and yellow and light purple, a blanket of cotton candy and happy memories.
I find a relatively flat section in the middle of it all and take a seat, plants tickling my arms, the sun beating against my skin.
Benson lies down beside me, his head landing softly in my lap, the smile on his face making me feel so many wonderful, dazzling things.
His eyes are closed against the sunlight, his hands resting gently over his chest. Mouse pops out of his pocket to explore, but she doesn’t wander far, finding shade near Benson’s leg to pick through the grasses.
There’s a fierce tug in my chest as I watch this man. These moments, where the quiet is home to us both, are a treasure I’m not sure I could have found with anyone else.
When I run my fingers through Benson’s hair, he opens his eyes, the smile he gives me nearly knocking the breath from my lungs.
I stop playing with his hair for a moment to sign to him. ‘I saw this article the other day.’
Benson shifts to see me better, eyebrows lifting. ‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah. It was about…autistic love languages. Have you heard of that?’
His brows draw together. ‘I don’t think so.’
Nodding, I go on. ‘One is called parallel play. It’s when you spend time together doing different things. Like when you watch your show and I’m painting.’
The lines beside his eyes smooth out.
‘There’s also infodumping. Like when you’re talking about your interests.
Autism or Wade figurines, for example. And deep pressure, like long hugs, is another.
Not to mention support swapping, which is when you take turns caring for the other person at times of overwhelm.
Like if one individual is overstimulated or another is dealing with a migraine. Any of this sounding familiar?’
His lips twitch.
‘My favorite, though, is called penguin pebbling. It’s when you share small, thoughtful gifts, to show you’re thinking of the person. Do you know how many flowers have shown up in my room, in the art studio, or around the ranch house these past many months? Because I’ve lost count.’
Benson’s fingers trail slowly along my thigh, the man watching me steadily as my pulse thunders.
‘You’ve been telling me for quite some time, Ben. So can I tell you now? How I feel?’
His nod is small, his hair soft as I run my fingers through the strands. My chest is tight, but there’s not an ounce of me that hesitates. I hold up my thumb, my index finger, and my pinky.
Benson’s breath shudders, his lips pressing shakily together. My words for him flow from my hands as easily as the breeze.
‘I want my life to be painted in wildflowers. In purples and golds and green. In lilies and shooting stars. In sunflowers and spring beauties. I want a lifetime with you, Ben. A million memories, just like this.’
He lifts his hand to my cheek, brushing the skin there before his thumb touches a point above my lip. Another at the other side of my mouth. It’s so soft, his gaze the same.
But none of it compares to him holding up three fingers—thumb, index finger, pinky—to form the same sentiment I gave to him. ‘I love you.’
My laugh comes out like a sob. I grab Benson’s hand, kissing it, holding up my own again. ‘I love you.’
Mouse scurries back onto Benson’s chest in the commotion, but his eyes never leave mine. I bend down, and he rises to meet me, the both of us surrounded by a field of wildflowers as our lips pass those same words back and forth like a vow.
I love you, I love you, I love you.
It’s not loud at all.
It’s steady and quiet and big and so colorful I know I’ll happily spend my life trying to recreate it on canvas.
I always imagined a love that would sweep me away and hold me close. I just wasn’t sure I’d find it.
As it turns out, it came back to find me right here in Darling.