Chapter 44

Ben, March 11

I’m staring at the ceiling and have no idea why. I roll over and snuggle down into the covers, trying to reclaim the sleep that’s apparently being stolen from me. Then it happens again, a ping from my phone. Another email alert. I really should learn to sleep with that blasted thing in another room. I shove the pillow over my head, determined to ignore it.

Third alert. Loud. Insistent.

I work for a nuclear power facility; ignoring email is probably unwise. Resigned, I grab the phone.

The subjects flash on the screen: “Skype?”, “Please”, “Ben, please.”

I can’t even open them. I haven’t spoken to Liz in ten months. Ten months. And suddenly, she’s messaging me at, according to the clock my eyes flash to, 2 a.m.

Another alert. “I need you.”

Had this been anything else, the phone would be smashed. Yet, before I know what I’m doing, I’m reaching for my laptop.

I unblock her Skype address. Instantly, the call pings. She’s waiting. I click. Her face floods my screen, and a wave of nostalgia and loneliness hits me.

“Thank you,” she begins.

“What do you need?” I let every bit of hurt and anger bleed into my voice. I want her to feel some of it.

“Can you turn on a light or something? I can’t really see you.” She looks almost afraid I’m going to jump through the screen.

Good. I flip on a light, making sure my most frustrated expression is plastered on.

“Thank you. You look good.”

“Liz, what did you need? It’s late,” I bark. I fight the urge to return the compliment. She looks amazing. Tanned, smooth skin, hair pulled back to expose that long neck… frustrating.

“Um, well, I… I mean, I don’t really know where to start.” She shifts nervously. “Matt is at this work thing, and I was just here alone so I decided to clean.”

I feel the anger spike. They’re living together? I say nothing.

“I was cleaning—like closets and stuff. I, um, I found something. I just didn’t know what to do.” She reaches beside her for a box I hadn’t noticed and holds its contents up to the camera.

“Does a diamond ring mean the same thing—”

“Yes.” She lowers it, face filling the screen again.

Matt is going to propose. And I realize how much hope I still held onto. I plaster a smile. “Then congratulations.”

Liz pales. “No. No, Ben, see, I’m… I’m freaking out. I’m not ready.”

“Why? Don’t you love him?” The words slip out, sharper than intended. I immediately regret it.

“I think so,” she whispers.

“Think?” Why am I still in this conversation?

“Yeah. Ben, shouldn’t I know?”

I let it all sink in. Liz is living with Matt. Matt is going to propose. She’s not sure she wants to marry him. She called me. At 2 a.m. After ten months. To ask me for an opinion.

My anger boils over. “Liz, I have to be honest here. I have no fucking clue what you expect me to say. I don’t know why you aren’t happy to find your live-in bloody boyfriend—” Her eyes slam shut. “—wants to marry you.”

I wait her out. I am not giving in. I will not shoulder her pain.

“I have no one else to talk to.” Her whisper chips at me, but I don’t flinch.

“I’m sorry to hear that, but it’s been about a year since we last spoke. I’m not sure I still qualify to give you advice.”

“You’re right. I shouldn’t have bothered you. I just…” She pauses, breathes. “I just needed a second opinion.”

“Why would you need someone else to tell you whether you should marry anyone?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, I don’t know either.”

“I guess I should let you go.”

“That would be nice.” Fighting every instinct to keep her on the line, I reach for the escape button.

“Ben?” She pauses me mid-reach. “I didn’t need anyone’s opinion. Just yours.”

I hit the button. Screen goes dark.

I explode. Laptop thrown, covers ripped back. “Fuck.” I pace, stomping, “Fuck.” Louder, harder. I punch the wall. Pain calms me. Blood oozes from my knuckles. I sink to the floor. Whisper it this time. “Fuck.” Head in hands. More defeated than I’ve been in a year.

But somewhere beneath that rage, something has shifted. Liz’s desperation, her fear of herself, it’s all out there on the screen. And for the first time in months, I realize — I still matter to her.

If ads affect your reading experience, click here to remove ads on this page.