Chapter 9 #2
I sigh, envisioning how to tiptoe around the things I’m not willing to admit to Ben and how to best phrase the things I am. “There are things that could be better, but I imagine that can be said of any job with any company.”
“Like?” Ben’s brow lifts, the faded scar on his forehead catching the light.
“You ever work somewhere that had the potential to be a dream job if it wasn’t for the management making you miserable?”
“No.” He huffs a laugh. “But bartending and The Boathouse weren’t really dream-job material.”
That’s right. Other than those two jobs as a teenager, Ben’s only traveled with Dan and then worked for himself.
“Well, it’s kind of discouraging when a company feels like it would be the perfect place for you if it wasn’t for one person.
” That’s the closest I’m willing to get to admitting my career failures.
“Is that one person Cal?”
“He’s made some decisions I’ve questioned.
” Like not interviewing me before hiring Devon.
Like expecting us Locals to be in the office Monday through Friday while the Internationals come and go as they please.
Like allowing the whole building to become a fire hazard because he refuses to tell Shirley she can’t smoke inside.
The list goes on and on…I don’t say this though.
“Well, you’re giving a ringing endorsement for working there, Ems.”
Shit. “No, really,” I amend, “it is a great job. I get to write for a living, which is a dream come true. And I get to see a lot of cool places and do a lot of cool shit.” There have been assignments I’ve truly enjoyed.
I’ve been sailing off of Nantucket and gone on a cheesesteak crawl in Philly and learned how maple syrup is made at a Vermont sugarhouse.
And because I am like other girls, I enjoyed the hell out of some apple-picking at a lovely orchard in New Hampshire on a crisp fall weekend.
But I can’t tell Ben any of that without telling him all the places I haven’t been as well.
I try a different tactic. “Wouldn’t you like more stability than being freelance? ”
Ben taps his thumb against the wooden tabletop, sharp eyes suspicious as ever. “I like working freelance. No long-term commitments.”
The words land like a blow to my solar plexus, momentarily knocking the wind from me.
But I recover quickly, dead set not to repeat another awkward airport scene.
“Okay, but don’t you want to stay in one place for longer than a couple months?
Be close to your friends and…significant other… if you have one?”
Why in the actual hell did I go there?
What’s worse, why in the actual hell have I never even considered Ben being in a relationship a possibility until right now?
Most pressing, why in the actual hell do I feel like I might throw up?
Ben’s fidgety thumb stills, his gaze never straying from mine. “Since I’m always traveling and my assignments can be lengthy, the friends I have are spread out all over the world. And do you really think I’d be sitting in my hotel room with you if I had a significant other?”
I’m relieved by the implication of his answer, very much unrelieved at the flash of heat that pulses between my legs. “Why not?” I venture innocently (at least that’s what I tell myself). “This is purely professional.”
Ben smirks and wets his lips with his tongue. “Ems, I think we both know there’s no way anything could be purely professional when it comes to me and you.”
I don’t know what he means by that, but I do know my heart skips a beat or seven.
“What about you?” he asks. “Anyone special back at home?”
Pulse throbbing in my throat, all I can do is shake my head.
There’s a knock at the door, and Ben sighs at the disruption, mumbling something that sounds like a curse under his breath.
But he stands to answer it, and a hotel employee wheels in a cart with our dinner a moment later.
Meanwhile I’m frozen in my chair while my heart beats a crescendo against my chest wall that could rival any award-winning drumline.
But when Ben and I are alone again, he starts arranging our food on the table between us as if everything is perfectly normal.
Perfectly casual. I take a few deep inhales and will my heart to slow the fuck down.
Much like the night before, as we each devour our food there’s not much conversation other than murmurs of indulgence and whispers of, Would it be okay if I stole a fry?
(Because why did I ever choose sautéed veggies when I’m this hungry?) But my mind stays busy tripping over one thing, and surprisingly, it’s not these moments Ben and I seem to keep having, or the conversations we keep dancing around.
There will be plenty of time to overanalyze those worries later tonight when I’m not sleeping.
Instead, what eats away at me is how lonely his life seems. Always on the road.
A few friends scattered across the globe that sound casual at best. It’s such a stark difference from how enmeshed in the Miller family he used to be.
He didn’t go a single day without hanging with my brothers; I’m certain of that.
And I know he’s capable of deep connections, because he was my friend, too, my best friend if I’m being honest, and the times we spent at the lake together talking and trading secrets late into the night were some of the best times of my life.
So who does he talk to now? I’m curious, but I’m also treading a delicate line here, so I decide to leave it alone for now.
After I’ve stolen at least half his fries and both our plates are spotless, I stand from the table and stretch my too-heavy arms overhead with a deep yawn. “I should go. Better rest up so I can get my ass kicked again tomorrow.”
Chuckling softly, Ben stands, circumventing the table to approach me. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. You did great today.”
“Tell that to my broken body.”
For the briefest second, his eyes trail down my body and back up, and an infusion of heat sweeps through me, chasing his gaze.
Ben stops in front of me, close but still a respectable, professional distance away.
“Seriously,” he says. “We’re doing hard shit here. This isn’t easy for me, either.”
“Right,” I reply with a short, humorless laugh.
“You weren’t even winded any of the times I made you stop to rest on that staircase from hell at Kerie Crater, and it wasn’t you who only made it halfway up that goddamn mountain at Strokkur.
” I fold my arms over my chest, self-doubt again weaseling its way into my head.
“My assignments aren’t usually this outdoorsy,” I admit, hoping he doesn’t press this topic and I end up confessing the most strenuous physical activity I’ve previously endured for work was a tug-of-war contest at a Highland Games festival (in Connecticut).
And my team lost. “I’m not Marcus or Mason.
I don’t hike every weekend for fun. I don’t go out in the elements.
Sometimes I need to take a breather during gentle flow yoga.
How am I going to get through this trip? This is day two!”
“Hey,” he soothes, moving closer and gently grasping my upper arms. “Ems, you’re doing great.
I promise. I am used to hiking, and I might have held it together out there, but I came back to this room and spent forty-five minutes just standing in the shower with my eyes closed.
That’s the real reason I answered the door half-dressed. ”
A small laugh puffs past my lips. “Really?”
“Really.” Ben smiles, his hands slowly stroking up and down my upper arms. Professionally? Of course! Casually? Certainly! “It’s entirely possible I lost consciousness in there.”
A deeper laugh this time, which makes my achy abdominal muscles burn. “Ouch.” I lay a hand over my stomach. “My body really fucking hurts.”
Ben laughs, too, a raspy sound that’s deeper than fourteen years ago but still familiar in a way that makes my chest fizzle like a firework.
“Mine, too.” As he sobers, his expression morphs into something earnest, something resolute.
“Ems, I really want to clarify something. About yesterday. At the Blue Lagoon.”
“Oh god, Ben, I’m so mortified by my mistake.
” I drop my head to hide the heat of shame blooming in my cheeks all over again.
“I am so, so sorry for misinterpreting…well, you were there, you know. And then yelling at you. And then insulting you. Basically just all of it. I’m mortified by the whole encounter and it was—”
“Hey, that’s not why I brought it up.” He tips my chin up with a knuckle. “I don’t need, or want, your apologies, Ems.” He bites his lower lip, hesitating. Then, “I brought it up because I wanted you to know that you didn’t completely misinterpret the situation.”
“Oh.” Everything around us fades away. The only things that exist in this world right now are me and Ben and my drumming heart that I’m certain he must be able to hear.
“I just—” He squeezes my arms, his thumbs trailing underneath my short sleeves. “I wanted you to know that I wasn’t about to kiss you, but it’s only because I wouldn’t do that without your consent. Not because I wasn’t thinking about it. And not because I didn’t want to.”
“Oh,” I say again.
“But I fully respect what you said about why it can’t happen. I get it. I just wanted you to know that you weren’t the only one who felt…” His mouth quirks. “Well, you were there, you know.”
Though I’m not certain what to make of the admission—he could’ve simply been as caught up in the romantic setting as I was—it still makes me feel better.
He makes me feel better. But I shouldn’t be thinking about that, or whether or not he still wants to kiss me, because I know from experience that Ben Carter can also make me feel as if the world has been ripped from underneath me.
And it’s that thought, or memory rather, of my broken seventeen-year-old self that grounds me, and I pull away from him and take long strides toward the door. “It’s late and I really should go. Good night, Ben.”
I flee his room with no further explanation and return to my own, unsettled by my thoughts and feelings.
I can’t deny the buzzing electricity between us, or the way my heart races and my stomach swoops whenever he’s nearby.
But I also can’t ignore the way my brain screams at me all the reasons acting on that attraction would be detrimental to my future, personally and professionally.
Most unsettling of all, though, is that despite how much Ben hurt me in the past, despite how many sleepless nights I spent crying over what he did to me, I still have a soft spot for him.
One that’s expanding in size hour by hour.
I don’t wish to hate him, I just wish to be indifferent when it comes to Ben, and I’m afraid the fact that I can’t is going to be my downfall.
Sure, I was a teenager when he walked out of my life.
Under different circumstances, it’d be easy to discount the relationship and write it off as no big deal.
A high school fling I should’ve been able to easily recover from.
Forget even. Certainly not still feel the deep-seated hurt almost a decade and a half later.
But when I lost Ben, I lost so much more than my first boyfriend.
I lost my first true love, my childhood friend, and a part of my family all at once.
I cannot lie to myself and pretend it didn’t affect me as significantly as it did.
Full truth: to this day, I’ve never loved anyone the way I loved Ben Carter.
Scarier truth: I don’t know if I ever will.
Throwing myself across the bed, I seek solace in the one person who may be worse at relationships than I am and call Jacklyn.
She answers immediately with a snarky, “Took you long enough to call.”
“Sorry, I’ve been busy.”
“Busy with Iceland or busy with Ben?”
“Jesus.” This was a mistake. “With Iceland. And by the way, I don’t appreciate your little swimsuit stunt.”
“So you’ve already gotten down to your skivvies with him?” Her voice is filled with such delight it may as well be Christmas morning. “How forward of you, Mona Miller!”
“I’m not kidding!” I snap, my voice sharp and shrewd. Immediately, I apologize. “Sorry, J. I’m so sorry. This trip is really fucking with my head.”
“No, I’m in the wrong here. I know this trip is stressful for you,” she replies. “Putting on my supportive best friend hat as of…now. Okay, tell me everything so far.”
So I do. I spend the next forty-five minutes recounting everything from the details of the incredible sites we’ve seen so far down to the mundane minutiae of what I’ve eaten each meal.
Honestly, it just feels good to talk to someone.
Someone I don’t have to worry about saying the wrong thing to or accidentally treading too deep into territory I no longer care to explore.
Someone who knows me, but not like Ben knows me.
When I finish, I’ve rambled for so long I’m not even sure she’s still on the line. Until I hear her horrified voice say, “He shared his fries with you?”
“What?” I just told her about boiling mud pits and tectonic plates and a waterfall that could sweep me away, and she’s concerned about my French fry habit? “Why does that matter?”
“Oh, it matters. Tell me how it happened.”
“What do you mean? I asked if I could have a fry. He said yes. That’s it.”
“No. Tell me exactly how it happened.”
“I just did!” I say, exasperated. “I said, ‘Can I steal a fry?’ and Ben pushed his plate toward me, indicating that I could. So I ate a few. That’s it.” I leave out that I ate half of them. Three-fourths, if I’m honest.
“Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my—”
“The hell is wrong with you? It’s not like we each put one end in our mouths and met in the middle like a Lady and the Tramp moment. Why are you making this a big deal?”
“Because you ate off his plate! That is an intimate act!”
“No, it isn’t. I eat off your plate all the time.”
“And we are best friends,” she says matter-of-fact, as if I’m making her point for her. “There’s an intimacy in that.”
I fall silent, considering her words.
“All I’m saying is, you can’t expect to keep your head in the game if you’re going to fall into old familiarities with this guy.”
She’s right. Of course, she’s right. But also…“You’re the one who pulled the swimsuit trick.”
“ ’Cause, Jesus Christ, I’d rather you fuck him than share his fries!”
As odd as it is, I think I see my friend’s point. “Okay, no more fry sharing. I promise.”
“Good girl. Now tell me about these Icelandic men. Are they hot?”