Chapter 16
If there was ever a good day to spend approximately six hours in a vehicle with someone, can confirm it is not the day following your road trip partner’s stone-cold rejection of you.
It just doesn’t make for a fun-filled excursion.
Especially following a less-than-stellar checkout experience at the guesthouse where you were rejected, in which the bubbly young clerk kindly asked, Did you all get a chance to try out that hot tub?
Unfortunately, I’d huffed at the same time Ben sighed, It was certainly an experience.
After that, no words were spoken on the four-hour drive north to Stuelagil Canyon, which might have had something to do with my earbuds staying in place (Ben didn’t need to know they weren’t playing anything) and my laptop remaining flipped open on my thighs (focusing on a screen in a moving vehicle makes me nauseous, but desperate times and all that) for the entire journey.
Under normal circumstances, I’d courteously offer to split such a long drive, but I’m not feeling particularly courteous today.
Good news, with so much time on my hands, I started work on my article by transcribing the notes from my journal and coming up with a framework for the opening paragraphs.
Bad news, none of it will matter if Calvin doesn’t get what he wants from me.
And what he wants spent all day in the driver’s seat silently brooding while we both pretended I didn’t throw myself at him last night.
After we’d finished exploring Stuelagil Canyon—because an 8 km hike in complete silence was just what I needed today—we made another two-hour drive east and checked into our residence for the night in the tiny coastal village of Seyeisfjoreur.
By the time I shower and make my way into town to forage for food (alone), I’m exhausted and famished.
I walk the streets lined with brightly colored buildings and pass by the Blue Church that I instantly recognize from my research on the town.
Leading away from the church, a street painted in squares matching the rainbow—Seyeisfjoreur’s own version of Rainbow Street—is flanked with shops and restaurants.
And Ben.
His camera is aimed down the colorful street at the pale blue church, its steeple haloed by the evening’s orange and pink sky.
I slip past him without drawing his attention, dipping into a square-shaped building with a painted sign on the front advertising local beer.
Inside, I make my way up to a polished wooden bar, and the person working the counter motions for me to choose a seat.
The restaurant is half-full at nine o’clock, and I’m surprised it isn’t busier.
Tourists probably outnumber the locals in this tiny village, and with limited options for dining and nightlife, I’d imagined most places would be fully packed.
Then again, everyone is probably so goddamn tired from a full day of “moderate” Icelandic activities that they skipped dinner and went to bed hours ago.
If my stomach wasn’t screaming at me for sustenance, I would have done the same.
I’m mostly finished with my dinner when a muscly man with hay-colored hair and icy blue eyes sinks into the open seat to my left and summons the bartender. He looks to be in his thirties like me, and when the bartender comes to take his order, his American accent catches my ear.
“You’re American?” I say, rudely interrupting his drink order.
He eyes me for the first time. “Yes,” he drawls in a distinctly Southern (and suspicious) accent.
“Sorry,” I say, realizing I’m being weird. But most accents I’ve heard here have been European. “I am, too. Please ignore me.”
The man smiles, revealing a set of perfectly straight, shockingly white teeth, and his expression changes as he looks me over. “Can I buy my fellow American a drink then?”
“Oh, that’s okay. I was just about to…”
I trail off when the door to the restaurant swings open and Ben appears in the doorframe, backlit by the fading sunlight.
He’s dressed in an emerald green sweater, a gray wool coat, and dark jeans, and as he steps through the doorway, he pulls off his beanie and runs a hand through his messy, golden brown hair.
The sight of him affects me, viscerally, and by the pit forming in my stomach, I know without a doubt I’m about to do something very, very stupid.
“Actually, a drink wouldn’t hurt,” I say to Blond Man who is not Ben. “I’ll take a vodka soda.”
Smile widening, the man turns to the bartender and orders our drinks, but I don’t hear the specifics because I’m too busy staring at Ben.
He catches my gaze and makes a quick appraisal of the situation, jaw tightening as he takes in the stranger at my side.
When he blinks back to me, I can read the disappointment in his eyes from across the room, and guilt fills the open chasm in my stomach.
Looking away, Ben takes an open seat at the opposite end of the bar, and I realize the man at my side is speaking again.
“I’m sorry. What was that?” I turn his way and offer a friendly, but not too friendly, smile.
“I asked your name,” Blond Man says.
“Oh.” Should I tell this guy my real name?
This is so not me. Where is Jacklyn when I need her?
“I’m Mona. Mona Miller. From New York. Brooklyn to be exact.
” Shit, I might as well provide him my fucking address in case he wants to come murder me on his next vacay.
How am I thirty-one years old and failing basic Stranger Danger 101?
The man’s smile is overtly smarmy as he looks me up and down. “Well, Mona from Brooklyn, I’m Tad from Charleston.”
“Todd?”
“No. Tad. As in Tad Peterson Jr.”
Dear god, what have I gotten myself into? Even this man’s name is off-putting. Still, I smile warmly as the bartender returns with our drinks.
An hour—and four vodka sodas—later, Tad has told me all about his work as some kind of finance bro (classic), his historic home in the city (probably bought with Tad Peterson Sr.’s money), and how if I ever visit Charleston, he’ll be happy to “show me around” (his bedroom, I’m certain).
But I laugh and flirt (and mostly drink since he won’t shut the fuck up) because as childish as it is, I want to make Ben feel a sliver of the rejection I felt last night. That I felt fourteen years ago.
Also, I’m a little drunk.
Ben remains seated across the bar. He’s finished his dinner and now sits with his palm hovering over a crystal tumbler of whiskey, rotating it in his fingers but never sipping.
I haven’t made eye contact with him since he first walked in, allowing myself only lightning-fast glances here and there, but I feel his stare scouring my skin.
While I’m laughing at some joke I didn’t listen to (and that might have been a bit misogynistic from the part I did catch), Tad leans in too close to my face and whispers, “Let’s get out of here.”
A shiver runs up my spine. Not the good kind. “I don’t think I’m in any condition for company tonight.” I shake my empty glass for emphasis, the melting ice cubes clinking together.
“You only had a few drinks, sweetheart.” The term of endearment makes bile rise in the back of my throat. Tad stands and tosses some bills on the bar to cover our drinks, suddenly impatient. “Come on, let’s go.”
His hand wraps around my upper arm, but I jerk away. This is quickly escalating to something I never intended. “Look, I appreciate the drinks, but I’m not leaving here with you.”
Tad, unfazed, simply smirks. “Come on, baby.” He leans into my space again, and this time his hand starts rubbing my lower back. “I promise I’ll show you a good time.”
Again, I twist away from his touch and say, “Please stop.”
The room is starting to spin now, the effects of that fourth drink setting in hard, and nothing feels real anymore. Before I process what’s happening, Ben is at my side, his voice hard and syllables clipped when he tells Tad, “You heard her. She’s not going anywhere with you.”
“Who the fuck are you?” Tad demands, puffing his chest out like some strange bird claiming its territory. “She can go anywhere she wants.”
Oh shit.
“Yes, she can,” Ben says. “And she already told you she doesn’t want to leave here with you.”
The scene in front of me feels like a bad dream. Hazy around the edges, the warmth in my belly turning sour.
“You ready to go, Ems?” Ben asks me, and when I finally look up at his gorgeous green eyes, filled with concern but not a single trace of judgment, shame fills me.
I nod pathetically.
“That’s not even her name, asshole.” Tad smirks, like this is some sort of win for him.
“Come on,” Ben says gently, ignoring Tad and taking my elbow. When I stand from the barstool, the floor is a Tilt-A-Whirl beneath my feet, but Ben’s solid grip steadies me.
Once I have my bearings, he pulls my coat off the chairback and holds it open for me to slide my arms into.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Tad, Todd, whoever, barks. “You let me buy you drinks all night and now you’re leaving with him?”
“Piece of advice.” Ben wraps his arm around my shoulder, and I lean into his side for balance. “Buying drinks for a woman doesn’t entitle you to her body. Maybe learn that before you inflict yourself on the public again.”
Tad’s face goes fire-engine red, and he grabs hold of Ben’s sweater, his other fist clenched at his side. “You arrogant son of a bitch.”
Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.
I am worried.
Very, very worried!
Ben takes a deep, measured breath, the kind that suggests it’s taking everything in him to keep his cool. As he does, he slides his arm away from my shoulder, gripping my forearm instead and guiding me to stand behind him. Then he says to Tad, “Take your hand off me. Now.”