Chapter 5 #2
Do I? I thought I'd have a minute without him occupying my entire existence. I guess that won't happen, at least not in this lifetime. Plus, it's even harder to decide when his scent is already colonizing my bloodstream.
"No. Don't mind at all," I say, let a faint smile slip and hide behind my empty wine glass.
"Good, I hoped you'd say that," he says, his mouth curving. "So what did I miss?"
"Nothing." I shrug, sliding Richard into a mental file drawer and locking it shut. "Just learning from Mara how to run the world."
He huffs a laugh and turns to Mara who's been staring at him the whole time, eyes sharp.
"So nice of you to return to the world," she snaps at him, tone biting.
"I can't have a little me-time?" He fakes offense.
"You can," she says, all Italian big gestures. "Just keep your phone on and let us know?"
I guess not much has changed—he's available when he wants to be.
Ben looks at her, calm and untouchable. "You're overreacting. I turned it back on. For you."
Mara raises her immaculate brow. "For me? Uh-huh. Admit it, there's a different reason you flipped that switch." Her eyes flick to me, then back to him, full of implication.
I glance his way just as he starts fixing his shirt, a little too casually.
Did he turn on his phone for me? Was he texting Mara to see where we are?
Or is my brain building a whole city of unnecessary connections because my pulse just went rogue?
"What did he do to you this time?" I jab because the table's been silent for a while.
"I had to listen to Mamma pissed off solo instead of talking to Paul because his phone was off—" Mara starts.
"I just spoke to her, she's fine," Ben cuts in, but she talks over him.
"Dad booked a trip with Uncle Dino to Vegas and forgot to mention it. Now she's done with him. For good." She rolls her eyes theatrically.
"Aww. I remember their steamy love. I could write two books about them," I say genuinely pouting in awe.
Their bickering stories always felt oddly comforting because my house growing up? It was cold walls and closed doors.
Unless Mom erupted. Then the whole house wanted to run.
"Paul's okay with the family fireworks?" I ask her.
"Please." Mara waves her hand. "He says he's marrying me for my spice."
Ben slides her lemonade to him and takes a sip. "Like he has a choice," he says, teasing.
Mara's eyes instantly flash. "Like you don't have 'wasted potential?'" She quotes with her fingers and whips the glass back, but the straw stays put in his mouth, so he gives her a death glare.
That's their sibling love in a nutshell: seventy percent affection, thirty percent perfectly aimed daggers.
Makes me envious in a way I don't like because I don't have anyone to spar like this with.
Only, I used to. He happens to sit to my right, like some reminder I didn't ask for.
But okay, maybe I shifted a little. Enough to somehow pass it for leaning closer to Mara, but really to steal a better look at him.
That neck? I’ve never had a thing for necks.
I don’t. But his—his is maddeningly sculpted, all tendon and definition.
Like some men are just born with beautiful throats. Unfair."
He catches me staring, so I quickly face Mara. "Wait. Wasted potential? You have to explain that one."
"She doesn't have to explain anything," Ben cuts in, eyes threatening Mara under his lashes.
"Why? Is it classified?" I tease, but he doesn't register me.
"She just has to stop meddling," he finishes.
I guess he forgot Mara runs the same blood in her veins.
She leans back, tipping her head to the side and her voice drips that venomous honey. "Oh really? You don't seem to mind when it's convenient for you."
Ben's jaw ticks. He drags in a slow, tired breath, cocking his brow. "I slept two hours. You really want to do this?"
The second he lets his exhaustion slip in his tone, her smile falters and she drops into her maternal tone. "Alright, alright. Sorry. Tell us about your shift."
Ben lets out a long breath, letting go of the other words he had for her, and then he smiles faintly—can't stay mad at her for too long. "Quieter than New York, which is good—I won't miss the overdoses."
"Where in New York?" I jump in because where else am I going to get this?
"Mount Sinai."
"Ah. That's one of the top ones, right?"
"Yeah. ER's efficient." Simple. Like compliments cost him.
"He was a rising star. Before he decided to move," Mara cuts in again, catching his slicing stare, but she just flicks her hand and looks at him pointedly. "What? I'm praising you. You got promoted instantly. Now you'll have to start over here."
"Don't worry about me," he says with that usual certainty. "I'll manage anywhere."
"Where do you work now?" I ask, circling the rim of my glass with one finger, like I'm just bored, not prying.
"Zuckerberg. Third shift today. Had a few interested cases," he says. "Best one was a guy who came in with his crotch super-glued to his pants. Girlfriend's payback."
Mara chokes. "No."
He nods, like it's nothing, just his regular Friday. "He kept insisting—while I'm literally cutting him free—that she's the one, that he already bought the ring, that he'll die without her. People are," he shrugs, "people."
Mara practically hisses, her fingers on the cross. "Cheaters should be glad it's just glue."
Not sure if it's her Christian values, but for some reason her hatred for cheaters runs deep, and I respect it.
"What are you drinking?" she asks Ben the second she spots the waiter and waves the guy who practically runs over.
Ben orders a ristretto and leans back, letting out a long breath, his shoulders visibly relaxing.
He makes the shift sounds effortless but I've seen him in the grind, the pressure absolutely insane, and I'm sure it gets to him.
When the tiny cup lands in front of him, he picks it up with thumb and forefinger.
I wrinkle my nose. "Why are you still drinking that? It smells like liquid cigarettes."
He props his arms behind his head, and nods his chin at the remnants in my mug. "Better than whatever you've got."
"True," Mara pipes up. "Decaf's worse than a placebo."
I shoot her an unimpressed look—the freaking traitor she is.
It earns a raised brow from Ben. "You're still off caffeine?"
"Yeah." Said like it has nothing to do with him, with his words, and how I still cling to them.
But of course he goes there, smug as ever.
"Damn. Didn't know I had that kind of influence on you."
"No, you don't," I lie, smiling anyway. "It's called white coat authority. People believe doctors."
"Now you're making me feel like a hypocrite. Three—no, four coffees a shift, easy."
I blink at him. "You're kidding. Practice what I preach?"
He meets my eyes. "I'm more of a do-as-I-say kind of guy."
The way he says it with an innuendo hiding in there makes me pause. I know his voice too well, every inflection, every slight drag on a word when he's baiting me.
But hell no, I'm not jumping on it.
"Good for you," I say evenly. "You've always been a walking contradiction. Doesn't surprise me."
He just shrugs, face tipped up toward the sun, enjoying his little siesta no matter what.
"Everyone's a contradiction. Even you," he says, like it's an indisputable fact.
"Oh yeah? And how's that?"
"You're like a sparrow that bites." He flashes his teeth, biting into nothing.
I laugh, a little off-kilter. "Okay, poetic. In your usual, disorienting way. Why bites though?"
"Bites," he says, the implication way darker this time as he cuts his eyes to me. "Leaves a mark."
I shoot him a look back. But what is it good for?
My stupid heart flips a little, and it wants to complain he's left plenty of marks on it too, so he should stay quiet.
Mara's voice chimes in: "Contradictions are good. Look at you too. Opposites clearly attract."
Freshly revived friendship or not, she earns my driest glare.
When we used to hang out together, she used to do this all the time—call us an old couple in denial.
I see Ben's brow raise with a silent question, maybe even gearing to scold her, but I cut in: "Sure. They do. Doesn't mean they're actually good for each other."
And now his eyes land on me, the other brow joining.
"There you go. That bite," he says, more impressed than angry.
I smirk coyly. "Guess you were right about that one. People don't change."
He smirks too. "Really?"
"Really."
He sets his cup down, sizing me up, and I can already see something devilish behind those lashes. "Then why did you start dressing so... linenish?"
I blink. Then again, at him this time.
"Excuse me?" Damn it. It comes out far too polite.
He shrugs. "What? You used to be trouble walking."
I hate that my cheeks heat. HATE it. I know what he's doing—letting me know he's watching, registering everything.
And maybe I do dress safer, but that's what you do when you marry someone respectable—you drop the damn hem.
I tilt my chin with pride. "Says the guy who thinks emotional range and wardrobe come in two shades of black."
His mouth quirks. "Won't deny it. Grey suits me, mood-wise. What's your excuse?"
I scoff and glance down—his leg has crept way closer to mine, almost touching me. I'm tempted to jab him with my heel—remind him what this granny's made of.
"Forget him. You look rude-level good," Mara cuts in and slides the lava cake she ordered toward me like an apology for her brother's bad demeanor.
I shake my head because a cake won't fix that.
She nudges the first bite toward him and asks him, "Did you get the last of your furniture over?"
He takes the spoon and immediately digs in. "Yeah, been on an assembling spree. I'm starting to think some pieces are from a different set."
Her lashes flutter up in a quick blink of annoyance. "I told you I'd help, but you're so stubborn."
He exhales like they already had this conversation too many times. "You should enjoy seeing your old friends, not wrestle with an Allen key."
Mara makes a face, but slides her hand into his—her thank-you or love-you—but then pulls it away just as fast and her tone turns back to biting. "You shouldn't be doing it alone. When's Lisa back?"
I blink.
Lisa?
Who the hell's Lisa?
A friend? His new dog? Please, say it's a dog.
Ben stiffens, spine suddenly straighter. Mine follows—I don't know why—it just does.
"She's back," he says, voice deceptively calm. "Went to some conference."
"Are you kidding?" Mara's hand curls on the table, tight enough she might snap the tiny bows on her manicure. "She prioritizes that?!"
He shrugs, but every inch of him is taut. "It's fine. Their shampoo line slacked. Philip's on her ass about it. Whatever. At least I can play my guitar between breaks."
Lisa. Conference. Philip. Whatever. The question rips its way out of me, my voice two octaves too high to pass as laid-back. "Who is Lisa?"
The whole table stops breathing.
Mara's lips part, then clamp shut. She makes a regretful face at Ben for letting the name slip but he's not with her anymore—his eyes drag across the table until they lock on me.
"My wife."
My brain lags.
His...... wife.
His... wife.
His. Wife.
And then it hits—in a heartbeat that feels like a hammer while everything in me folds inward.
I nod. "Uhum." Casual. Polite. Like I didn't just leave my body. Like I'm not halfway across the city, barefoot, screaming.
Holy fuck.
Ben is married.