Chapter 6
So what if he's married, right? My marriage should be enough to make me immune, make me wish him someone nice, with an actual skincare routine and personal boundaries, unlike me.
I didn't actually expect him to stay single, knew there'd be a lineup of women ready to trip over themselves just to be near him.
But married?! That's not flirty smiles and bar stools.
That's signatures, a mortgage you split, and a freaking till death do us part.
And why the hell isn't he wearing the ring? I would have clocked it in an instant.
My chest feels like a raisin and I don't think I'm doing a good job keeping my guard up. My face must be a slump, because Mara studies me with genuine worry.
She clears her throat a little too pointedly and gets up. Something about the bathroom.
I start to rise too, ready to bolt, but she lifts her hand.
"One stall, babe. Sorry."
"Oh. Right." I sit and try to calm down. Scrunch the hem of my sleeve—anything to cope with the worst moment of my life.
When Mara disappears inside, it hits me: one stall? She's never been here before. That pink trickster. She obviously wants us to talk, but there's nothing to talk about. It's over.
Ben hasn't moved yet—he's pretending to lounge. A bit too laid back in my opinion.
When the silence drags into something unbearable, he breaks it. "You're quiet. That's rare."
"Maybe I've evolved."
"Doubt it," he says, and I feel him prowling at the edge of my vision. "You can't even look at me though?"
"Do you need me to?" I still don't.
"No. Just didn't know you were that afraid of me now."
"I'm not afraid of you." I force my gaze up, all bluff bravery in my tone. "We're not at war."
He cocks an eyebrow, something unreadable crossing his face. "Really?"
"What's with the Socratic really questions?" I snap, stabbing him with my eyes. Had enough of him. "Yeah. Really."
He props his elbow on the armrest, fingers grazing his mouth as he watches me in that calm, ready-to-pounce way of his.
"Alright. Then unblock my number."
And just like that he flips it on me. Damn. I almost flinched.
"What?" I snap again, pretending cluelessness.
"You blocked me." His voice lands like an accusation in slow motion. "Didn't you?"
I absolutely did.
The day Richard proposed, it was so fast, so unexpected that I spiraled and reached for the panic button, except it was Ben's that I wanted.
Him on the phone, to ask if I was allowed to move on, or hear his voice and see if it still broke me.
But what would I do with those answers? So I did the only thing I could—slammed the emergency exit and ran.
He doesn't get to know that, though, so I just lift a shoulder.
"Maybe I did."
He draws in a breath, on the verge of letting loose, then reins it back, giving me a look that says he's doing me a favor. "That explains a lot."
"Like what?"
"Like a lot," he says, jaw tight.
I frown and press. "But what exactly?"
"Forget it." His hand rakes through his hair—the old giveaway that he's pissed, but won't say why. Then, dry as a bone: "Does Richard sleep in a tie? Looks like it."
The way he says Richard's name like he already knows him, makes my thoughts stall for a second.
"How do you know what Richard looks like?" I fold my arms. "You stalked our socials?"
"Guilty." He smiles, charm dialed to eleven, and goes back to his dessert. "He's got quite an eye for aesthetics. Too bad banking's keeping him from going viral."
My eyes narrow. "Don't you dare."
He smirks at me. "Are you allowed to breathe in those shots? Or is that too... off brand?"
Wow. What an absolute ass.
"I'm sorry, what happened to the vow? No marriage before sixty unless she's got wings and a lingerie contract? That was you, wasn't it?" I snark, sarcasm obviously being my shield.
"Yup," he says with mouth full. "That was me."
I freeze. No way. Absolutely no. Don't tell me he married a Victoria's Secret model because I'll lose it.
"Never figured you for the marrying type," I toss out, flippant.
He throws me a look that says, you don't mean that and we both know it.
That's the biggest tragedy, isn't it? He was.
Butterflies and heartbreak and blood-boiling everything, loyal to his family to the marrow, all wrapped in one man. Ben? Totally the marrying type.
But not for me. Never for me.
"So how's Lisa?" I do my best to not spit out her name.
"She's great."
"Great?" I echo, tone pissed. Like I actually asked for great. "That's it?"
The unspoken hangs on my face:
But does she rub your feet after your shift?
Do you love her?
Does she look anything like me?!
"Grounds me," he adds.
"Grounds you?" I pull a face. "What, like your mummy?"
He smirks, infuriatingly serene to let me know he's above my jabs. "She's steady. Knows what she wants and goes for it."
"Interesting. Seems like we both wanted the same thing." I press my back into the chair, cross my legs, and school my face into neutral. I'm over it—even with cheeks burning like hellfire.
He leans back too, mirroring me, but way more poised. "Then it's good we both got what we wanted."
"Yeah. Really good," I shoot.
"Good."
"Well, as long as you're happy," I add bitterly, the words both true and excruciating.
He nods once, licks his lips slowly—his way of saying yes. "And you?"
"You already asked."
"You didn't answer."
"Richard's good. We're good. It's good," I say smoothly.
Ben lets out a huff, sardonic as ever. "That's a lot of 'good.' Is that a coded distress signal?"
Swear to God, I will throttle him.
"Hilarious," I deadpan, staring him down. "Feel better?"
"Not really," he says, sounding almost believable. Almost.
I make a face, and shoot another shot, meant to make him flinch. "And why the hell were you scrolling my socials anyway?"
Completely unabashed, he drags his tongue around the spoon—insufferably slow—and smirks. "Don't act shocked. I used to care about you."
Brilliant, really, how well he maneuvers. Gives me what I want, then stabs me with the past tense.
Manipulator.
"Well, just so you know," I say with my sweetest smile, "I never checked yours. Not even once."
There it is—a fracture. His brow ticks. Is that a self-soothing gesture? Sure is. His hand curls around his thigh, thumb pressing down to compose himself.
He digs into the cake, leaving the spoon stabbed upright like a middle finger, and turns to me. "By which you mean, you didn't think about me?"
I shoot him a look that says, you're not that special. Only it's a lie.
He knows it.
I know it.
The whole café probably knows it.
But he doesn't let it go, gaze dissecting me. "So? Did you?"
"Cut it off," I bite out.
"Cut what off?" He tilts his head, feigning innocence, but his expression says I deserve this for switching the button.
"You shouldn't care, you're married," I remind him, stressing every syllable.
"Doesn't matter. This isn't about Lisa. This is about you and me."
"There is no you and me."
His eyes hood over, the storm behind them evident. "Answer my question."
"Why?"
He leans closer, pinning me down with his gaze. "Just. Answer. The. Question."
I meet his stare with every instinct in me screaming to hold my ground, even though I don't think I can win against him.
But I'm trying—desperately trying—to push past those dark-matter eyes and not smack him even though I'm a hypocrite but I still feel like he betrayed me.
"Keep talking!" Mara's voice cuts through like divine rescue and my head whips her way.
"Sorry. Got carried away talking to people. I missed the vibe on this coast—" She pauses and flicks a finger between us. "What is this? A mirror arguing with itself?"
Ben and I glance down at the same time. Right arm, left arm—identical, fingers resting the same. Even the grunt we give Mara is a synchronized perfection, proving her point.
Her mouth curves devilishly.
I sigh and shift, rearranging every limb, trying to shake him off.
Ben inhales sharply and checks his watch.
"It was so lovely talking to you, I almost forgot the time," he says too sweetly to pass as genuine. "Next shift's starting soon. I have to go get ready."
He stands, adjusts his shirt and I instinctively lean away because he's too close. I can practically smell his skin.
"Could you move back a little?" I ask, squinting up at him against the afternoon sun.
He peers down at me, that teasing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Still can't handle a little closeness?"
My glare says it all—his crotch practically in my face—I could eat him alive now, and not in the fun way.
"Still clueless about boundaries?" I bite out.
He smirks and shifts. Not away. Closer.
Fine. Back to tearing sugar packets—the only thing under control right now.
He hugs Mara over the table, pretending he can't go around, and they share parting sentences in Italian before she kisses his cheek.
"Have a nice day, Emma," he says behind me then.
"You too, Ben," I say, eyes locked on my fingers, thinking he's gone. Hope he is. But then—
His hot breath fills my ear, curling down my neck, and instantly every goosebump stands, reaching for him before I can stop it. I stop breathing.
"Maybe unblock me?" he whispers in that voice. That rough velvet voice. "Mm?"
Then he's gone.
And my lungs collapse as I exhale.
I throw away the sugar packet and glance at Mara. She didn't even ask anything and I shrug like I've no idea what this was about, like it's nothing.
Yeah. Nothing. But it's not nothing.
I haven't even made it home—I'm in the elevator—when I open my contacts and find his name.
The photo I took is still there. Him in that threadbare black hoodie, hair undone and eyes glazed with sleep because he just returned to the world from an afternoon nap.
That familiar comfort of seeing his stupid face like that washes over me. No matter what's changed, and how much we hate each other now, some pieces still belong to me.
I tap Unblock.
Not even ten minutes later, my screen lights up on the kitchen counter as I absentmindedly flip through the same magazine I did the other day.
Ben: Have you unblocked me yet?
Ben: Ah, looks like it. Heya
My heart skips a beat.
Picking at my fingers, I stare at it, knowing I shouldn't reply. But I do.
Me: How many times did you check?
Ben: You know me, I'm persistent
Me: Don't you have better things to do?
Ben: I'm about to change and spend the whole night stitching strangers, listening to their bad habits, and cleaning vomit, so no, not really
All I read in that was: he's about to change.
As in: strip down.
As in: everything that was hidden under that t-shirt and pants today, to underwear.
Screw this. I barely make it to the living room before my phone takes flight, thudding onto the sofa by sheer luck. I'm right back where I was three years ago, trying to stop thinking about him, and failing miserably.
Not okay.
But definitely stronger than me.
I dive onto the sofa, grab the phone, and open his messages.
Ben: Emma Foster
Ben: Three years later
Ben: Can't believe
Ben: I'm actually
Ben: Talking to you
I'm tempted to write I'm Emma Lawson now, but I keep it to myself.
Me: If you start spamming me, I'll block you again
Ben: Wouldn't dream of it. You look good in my texts again
Ben: And I know how fast you disappear
Me: Funny! You writing your own material?
Half a day passes with nothing.
I almost check his socials ten different times, thumb hovering, stomach knotted, but don't, because I'm more avoidant than curious, every single time.
Until today, I pretended he wasn't here, but now that he's lodged under my skin I've got a new reason—Lisa.
If I don't see her, she remains abstract, and Ben available in my imagination.
Later, brushing my teeth, I stare at his last message, convincing myself that's all it was. Leftover rhythm. I shouldn't want more. Probably wouldn't reply anyway.
And no, I'm not the kind of girl who spends an hour digging through old e-mails just to find the name of his cologne. The one I bought him for Christmas, which I definitely didn't break two days later, soaking his sofa to the point he suffocated because—I'm not clumsy.
Except I am that girl.
Fingers scrolling past years of receipts until—there, Creed. The kind of scent guys get to compensate for bad looks, which means he should be banned from wearing it because on him? It lands like a grenade.
11:04 p.m., just as the perfume name blazes on my screen, so does his.
Ben: Hey, I want to make things less awkward. Be friends again. Let's grab a coffee. Just the two of us
I stare so long the words feel permanently branded on the inside of my skull.
Don't reply. Like you said. Just shut the phone and go to sleep. You need to sleep on this.
Thirty minutes later, I'm still awake, hovering over the receipt for his cologne, debating whether I should reorder—don't ask me why, no sensible reason behind it—when I get another ping.
Ben: Emma. You at least owe me to know how you've really been
He's playing that guilt card, and it lands square. My lip's already paying the price as I chew on it.
Rational Emma screams: You're both married. This is unacceptable.
But the other Emma who still answers to his voice whispers: That's why it's safe. Both of you are locked away. No risk. Just friends.
Maybe I want that. He was my best friend once after all, and I want to know he's been doing okay.
Me: Fire
(That was supposed to be "Fine." My thumb slipped, or it was auto-correct, either way, kill me.)
Ben: Fire? Guess we're skipping small talk and going straight to arson
Me: Don't get excited. It was a typo, pyromaniac
Ben: Too late. Got a place in mind. Appropriate. Promise
Appropriate. Of all the words he could have chosen, he picked that one. As if there is anything appropriate about this.
He means coffee—I know he means coffee—but all I hear is warning. Foreshadow.
Me: Somewhere far please
As soon as I send it, the air turns stuffy—excitement and shame crawling in the sheets like twin snakes.
Richard's out at some event, but I'll tell him. I will.
First, I need to look Ben in the eye and know it's gone. That the past is buried and we can nod in the lobby like two decent neighbors, grumbling about how long the renovations drag on.
Because I've built something now. A life that doesn't tremble every time my man enters the room. And I won't throw it away for whatever this feeling is.
Ben: As you wish. Mon 1 p.m.?
Me: Deal
Ben: There's a dress code though
A dress code for twelve noon? I almost laugh, but then again, nothing about Ben bows to normal.
Me: What's the dress code?
Ben: The real Emma