Chapter 9 #3
I don't know why I can't say anything, probably because I'm beyond embarrassed, and don't even know how to justify what I did.
With cheeks burning, I shrug off his jacket, ready to give it back when—
"Shit, Ben! Your shoulder!" A gash streaks across his left side, bright red. Definitely doesn't look good.
He barely glances at it before brushing it off. "It's fine." Face back on the horizon.
I lean forward, hand flying to him in panic. "No, it's not. Let me see—"
"I said it's fine." He jerks away and turns his back to me completely, like a wall.
I sit here, hugging myself, breathing those ugly hiccups you do when you try not to cry and you're not doing a good job.
All that shame swells in my throat, and I keep swallowing until it's too much.
"Ben?"
He shifts, just a fraction, my trembling voice tugging something in him. Still, won't meet my eyes though. "Yeah?"
"What you said, I deserve that. You must really hate me now."
"I don't." His voice cuts. Flat. Final.
"You should."
"I know," he mutters. Then quieter, almost reluctant: "Trust me. I tried."
Damn it. That guts me more than anything else.
I'm tempted to touch him again, but I know he won't let me, so the tears burn in my eyes, spill before I know it, running down my cheeks.
"I'm sorry," I choke out. "For what I just did to you. I hate myself for it. So much. Are you okay?"
He turns when he hears me crying, his nostrils flaring, but at least he's with me again. I hope he will say something, but his face stays locked, just watching me wipe my tears away.
"And I'm sorry for three years ago," I add.
"For how I handled it. I wanted to call you so bad.
So many times, but I was scared. You asked if I thought about you—how could I not, when you were my best friend, my—" My throat catches and I swallow the rest. I can't tell him what he means to me, when I don't even know how to word it.
I take a deep breath. "My point is that I'm sorry, for hurting you. "
When I finish, he goes still, completely struck, not even blinking.
For what feels like a long time, he doesn't say anything, and now I feel like an idiot for blurting it all out.
At least I didn't tell him the whole truth.
Finally, he nods, but still looks like my apology scrambled his system.
"Thanks," he says, and starts brushing sand from his feet. Like that's what matters now. Like that's all.
Seriously?
I bite my lip, trying to prevent myself from saying the next thing, but since we're at honesty, something's been stuck in my throat for too long. It's now or never.
"You know, you should apologize too," I say, my voice barely audible.
Ben turns to me with his brow cocked, like he's weighing whether I'm serious or angling for another fight.
"And what exactly should I apologize for? Saving you from dying? From your brilliant ideas?" he says bitterly.
I try my best not to flinch and shake my head, holding his gaze. "No. Because... you hurt me too."
The second it's out, all color drains from his face. He snaps his eyes shut like shutters, hiding whatever's behind them and drags in a long breath.
Then he opens them again and looks at me, despondent.
"I'm sorry, Emma. Really," he says, voice low. "I realized too late. Trust me, hurting you was the last thing I ever wanted."
I stare at him, speechless, because for all his bluster, Ben's never this raw and unarmored.
So I inch closer, nudge his shoulder lightly. "Hey, it's okay. I know you didn't," I say, and he hisses through his teeth when I touch him.
"Oh. Sorry!" My hands fly to his shoulder, but he smirks, clearly milking it. I'm tempted to hit him now. "Hey! You said it didn't hurt."
"I didn't say that." His smile grows, a little roughed up. "I said it's fine."
I roll my eyes and try to examine his shoulder now that he lets me in again. It's not as bad as it appeared at first, just a deep scratch. I press lightly around it, even though that's not going to help much.
Ben turns and sweeps his eyes over me. "Are you hurt?"
"No," I lie automatically. My chest screams, but luckily, he can't see it because I'm under his jacket. "Just ashamed. The usual."
His eyes are inspecting, slowly dragging up and down before they land on my bare legs, lingering there and his voice drops. "Let me see."
I blink. "No, really, I'm fine," I protest, eyes dropping low on the blanket.
"Let me see," he repeats, soft but commanding now. "I need to know you didn't crack a rib."
He doesn't wait for my permission, just slips his fingers under the jacket and pushes it off my shoulders.
It drops on the ground, and his eyes land on my soaked bra almost immediately.
I wish I could hide because the wet white lace sticking to my skin is now translucent, leaving nothing to the imagination.
"Turn," he says, voice low, his eyes still on my chest. "Slowly."
I hesitate. I shouldn't do it when he's this close, wearing nothing but his jeans, when we're both practically naked, but for some reason I do it anyway.
I move my arms to the side and turn. His hands find me immediately, broad palms claiming my bare sides.
So this is how his hands feel on my bare skin...
I can't fully explain the feeling, just that I feel every fiber of his pads and the pulse beneath his skin with the fire threading through his veins.
"Breathe in for me." He presses into my ribs and I inhale, my chest expanding against his touch.
His fingers slide higher, and higher, and then they land on the underside of my breasts.
My nipples instantly harden under the lace and I bite my lip.
He studies my body and then my face like he owns every reaction he's drawing out of me, composed and controlled.
Liar. I can see his throat bob as he swallows.
"Does it hurt here?" The words are clinical; the tone isn't. It's thick.
"Yeah," I breathe out, because it does hurt when my whole body is coiling against my wishes and I can't do anything about it.
"It does?" He looks at me suddenly concerned.
I blink, my cheeks heating up. "No. Sorry. I mean, no."
Something flickers in his eyes—something that doesn't belong in a sterile room. Raw desire.
He moves his palms away from my ribs, but not from me. They drift lower, slow enough for me to stop him, certain enough for me to know I won't.
When they find the hollow of my stomach, his fingers tighten—just a fraction, like a little claim—and they stay there.
The breath that leaves me sounds dangerously close to a plea.
"You're fine," he says, eyes dropping to my lips, lingering there. "No cracked rib."
"Oh. Yeah? So I'm fine?" My mouth refuses to shut.
"Yeah. You're fine."
Except I'm not, and neither is he. The air between us thickens and I can feel electricity sparking all over my body.
His jaw goes tense as his hands stay on me, and I can tell he wants to lean in.
I half-shut my eyes, waiting for him to kiss me, lay me down, right here under the open sky.
Five inches. Five inches is all it takes to close the distance between us.
His throat moves in a hard swallow, and then—
He blinks and pulls himself back like he's snapping a leash around his own throat.
"Let me get your dress," he says, voice rough, and instantly gets up, like he can't trust himself otherwise.
I cross my arms, watching him run to the cliff where we left our clothes.
Shame starts creeping in—holy shit, I think I almost just kissed him. What the hell happened? I couldn't even fight it. It overpowered my entire system.
Not good. Definitely not appropriate, this whole date.
No, this isn't a date, Emma.
And this... this was a mistake. Clearly, just a glitch. That's all... That's all.
When he comes back, he holds my dress with his arm outstretched, gaze fixed the other way to give me privacy.
I snatch it from him and fumble to drag the fabric down my thighs, hoping my face doesn't give away how pathetic I feel.
"I think we had enough fun for one day," he says, his tone somewhat detached. He clears his throat. "We should go home."
I search his face, struck by the sudden shift, and he gives me a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.
"Yeah. We should," I say then. "I have to make lunch for Richard."
Why did I say that? A protective measure? Trying to sting him for feeling like crap after he changed his whole mood?
Ben blinks, looks at me with a flicker of something I can’t name—hurt? annoyance?—and then it’s gone.
He straightens. “Yeah, Lisa and I have plans too.”
Internally, I snort, but to him, I nod. "Of course."
He starts packing, racing some invisible clock only he can hear, and before I pick up my bag, he's zipped, ready, already halfway up to the car as I trail after him.
Is he feeling bad about it? Is he thinking about his wife? The way I should be thinking about Richard?
I think I get it. He's running from the girl who dives off cliffs. Lisa doesn't do that. Doesn't strip mid-argument. Lisa is stable. Which is why he married her and not me.
Seriously, what is wrong with me? Why can't I be normal for once?
The drive back is almost silent, lacking the hums, taps, and stupid jokes about my melodrama. Both of us pretend the kiss that nearly happened didn't even start, so now it's just the hiss of tires on asphalt and my reeling thoughts.
Only when we step into the elevator and I reach for a goodbye hug, does Ben hold on a bit longer. Or maybe I just want to imagine it.
"Try to get some rest today," he says, letting go as the door opens on my floor.
I step out, feeling miserable beyond measure, but try not to let it show. "You too. Is your shoulder really okay?"
He shrugs with the wounded shoulder. "After a few stitches..."
"Should I drive you to the hospital?" I say, eyes widening, and step back in the elevator.
He gives me a half-smile. "I am the hospital. Relax. I'm kidding." Then he leans back on the mirror, pulls out his phone, and gives me a brief smile. "Take care."
"You too." I give him a humble smile back and walk out again, watching his body vanish behind the closing doors.
No "we'll do this again." Just the humming blue of the corridor light and me, standing alone.
It's over. Finally. No more if-onlys. Isn't that what I wanted?
Yes. Now I can come home and tell Richard everything.
Minus the cliff.
Minus the dress.
Minus everything.
Sigh.
No, I'll come clean, because it didn't mean anything, and it won't happen again.
Honestly, I don't really think I wanted to kiss him. I think I thought I wanted to, but I didn't really want it, you know what I mean?
I'll even suggest a double date just to prove it to myself. Something that doesn't taste like blood, salt, and betrayal, and involves our partners.
Maybe chocolate fondue since Ben loves chocolate.
It can't end like this.
He can't remember me as the girl who almost killed him and gave him the wrong signal.
Turning the key in the door, I'm deep in crafting the right pitch, line by line.
I almost feel good, hopeful, but the second I walk in everything dies.
Richard's in the kitchen, staring at me like I'm literally wearing someone else's skin. Like he can't recognize what walked in.
"What the hell are you wearing?" he snarls.