Chapter 12
"You better not chicken out!" Mara calls from behind the tent flap, voice all sunshine. "It's time to shed."
"I'm not a snake," I call, wrestling with the zipper of this reckless excuse for an outfit.
Shimmering sapphire jumpsuit, super-tight, sleeveless and plunging to places I usually fence off with cardigans.
Bought it as a dare to myself. Or maybe the devil in me clicked Buy Now because she knew Ben was going to be here.
Which is bad, I know, but give me a break.
For five days I've survived on rinse-and-repeat dresses, and something in me finally snapped, or melted.
I tried to include Richard. Spent day one climbing sand dunes finding signal just to text him despite what he told me at home before I left. Texted him about the sound baths, the new amazing family I found here—texted him every damn day.
This morning, he finally wrote back: Nice. Have fun.
No signature. That was a first.
Just a shrug in text form.
So I buried my phone at the bottom of my bag and decided it'll stay there.
"This is ridiculous. I'm not doing this," I sigh and drop my hands in defeat just as the flap peels back.
Mara peeks in her holographic origami lingerie, casting broken prisms across the ground.
Two long, pink-feathered clips crown her head like she's an intergalactic queen. I adore it. I adore her.
Because Mara talks louder than my rambling thoughts, always has a word of encouragement and believes that nothing comes twice, so you have to act now, even if your mascara's still drying.
So yeah, after five days in this wonderland of reinvention, I can say with my whole heart: it's Mara who cracked my shell.
She stops cold and gasps. "Oh my God. You're a siren, risen from the sea. Hair—let it down." She doesn't wait and comes over, unclips it, then zips me up.
I glance down into the deep V cleavage. "I think I'm going to pass out."
"Want me to unzip it a little?" she offers sweetly.
"That's not it." My lungs are rioting, sure, but lack of oxygen isn't my main problem. "It's Richard."
She gives me a confused look. "Okay?"
I sigh. "I thought this would be my big moment to reclaim myself, but I'm dragging his shadow like a leash."
"Why?"
"We had a huge fight before I came here. He says I've changed. That he didn't expect me to want to do this."
She makes a face. "Do what? Wear blue?"
"It's just... we come from such different worlds.
" I stare at her rose-quartz ring instead of her eyes because I feel embarrassed about my next words.
"I told him maybe we could've gotten another ticket for him, but he laughed, said he's busy chasing estates, not coupons. Then right after, he said I should go."
Mara's entire energy turns into sisterly rage. "I'm sorry, he said that? You should tell him that money obviously can't buy manners."
"He didn't say it in those words," I lie. It was those exact words. "But maybe he's right? Maybe I did change."
"You should change. That's the whole point of life." Mara runs a brush through my hair, soothing me with the movement. "Nonna taught us that if you don't change, you start rotting from the inside."
I make an impressed face. "Nonna's a legend."
"She'd cut him down with a single look," Mara says, digging a finger into my rib like she's stabbing Richard by proxy.
I try to tell her that he isn't that bad, but she stops me with her hand and says, "No, babe. That bullshit would never fly in my family."
I think of Ben, how he never made me feel small when I wanted to be myself, and smile.
"I know. I wish you could adopt me," I try to joke, but it comes out far too real.
When she sees my sad eyes, she hugs me from behind, holding me close. "You've always been like a sister to me. You know that. Blood doesn't matter."
I nod, smiling. "True. You're like a sister to me."
"I do wish you were my sister, though," she adds, and there is something unspoken in it, something almost aching.
That makes me give her a wobbly little pout, pull her even closer and say, "Same."
Mara plants a quick kiss on my cheek. "Forget about him for now. He'll be there when you come back. This is your time." She grabs my arm and pulls me along before I can protest.
The second I step out, Paul, her fiancé, stops playing his guitar and blinks, probably praying I don't spill my Cs because he actually turns away.
Sweet, loyal Paul. Those two are adorable.
A bit too much PDA for my taste, but he speaks fluent Mara, and Mara in his arms stops posing—she becomes a kitten, and everyone loves kittens.
You wouldn't take him for a lawyer, even though he has an uncanny ability to repeat, word by word, your thirty-minute monologue about why you don't believe in happy endings.
Definitely not shirtless and inked in our camp's collective poetry and doodles, and Mara's name sprawling across his chest. Her masterpiece.
She jumps on Paul's knee and yells. "Time to burn this mother down!" Her volume is legendary. I think they heard her back at the airport.
The whole gang pivots on cue. Girls gasp in awe, and guys cheer like they've been waiting for this as much as something in me has.
I wince and try not to run back. "Thanks, fam."
Someone wolf-whistles behind me. Then I turn and my heart jumps.
Ben's leaning against the van, one ankle crossed over the other, his massive arms folded. He's in beige for once, linen shirt undone just enough to reveal the plates of his bronze chest.
A grey bandana shoves his hair back, the breeze tugging at the ends.
When I swivel to him fully, his eyes trail down my bodysuit, and he licks his lips, clearly wanting me to know he's entertaining some filthy thought—that idiot.
I blush like someone dipped me into rose-gold but glare anyway. How is he this composed? I haven't seen him in almost two weeks.
After the beach day—after I lied to Richard—I promised myself to keep my distance from Ben. So when he texted me the morning after, Will I randomly meet you at 5 a.m. in the gym tomorrow? I shoved the phone into a drawer, proud of myself for holding the line, even as the messages kept coming.
Ben: Packed already, or still debating which top will cause the most trouble?
Ben: Bring electrolytes. For, you know, sweating
I wanted to answer, tell him I'll wing it and that he doesn't have to worry about my sweat, but answering would mean admitting I'd been thinking about him, and I couldn't risk that.
Now he's here, devouring me with his eyes like payback for the silence.
"Hey, Ben. Didn't think you were coming anymore."
"The hospital had special plans for me, but no way I was missing this." He folds me into him until I have to rise on my toes, my breath snagging against his shoulder. "Came at the right time."
I pull back and walk toward Mara, when I hear him behind me, "Got anything to eat? I'm starving."
"Didn't you just come here eating some wrap?" Paul smirks.
Ben shrugs. "Yeah. So?"
Mara smirks. "So? You eat like a zoo animal."
"Then feed the exhibits," he deadpans, cocking his brow.
I shake my head, trying not to laugh, and tie my apron on like armor because now that he's here, I feel exposed.
"You're too much maintenance." I give him a look and slide into the makeshift desk to slice peppers.
The knife moving fast in my hand, glinting, like I'm daring him to notice.
Ben smirks. "Flight was hell. The week's been worse. It’s in your interest to be nice to me, Emma."
Mara shakes her head and ties on her apron too, cringing at the damage to her aesthetics before she stands next to me like a reluctant sous-chef.
It's funny how she hates cooking, yet her Nonna ran two restaurants in Italy, her parents ran two in Brooklyn.
Ben's amazing, naturally, and doesn't even need to follow a recipe.
Ben grabs Paul's guitar and starts lazily plucking chords. Paul drops beside him, pulling out a harmonica, the first metallic notes cutting through the thick air.
"It's been a while since we played together." Ben glances over at him. "Permission to proceed, Saint?"
Paul nods, all serious. "Affirmative, Sinner."
I glance at Mara and whisper, amused, "Wait, they call each other that?"
"Yeah." She sighs like she's had to live through it. "We've all placed bets."
"On what?"
"Origin story. What it means. Those two are always trouble, so I'm sure it's something ridiculous. But it doesn't matter since they made some blood pact."
I chuckle under my breath. "It's giving matching tattoos."
"Don't tempt them." Mara smirks and calls: "Guys, play us some nineties. If I'm going to peel cucumbers, might as well have the right to boss the playlist."
"You're bossing, even when you have no right," Ben says dryly, but he shifts the tune instantly, and Paul follows without missing a beat.
The song we all know so well from childhood rolls out slow and blue, people gathering around and singing.
Even I start to hum along, watching him while he plays, pretending he's not watching me pretend not to watch him.
It's ridiculous, this little game. His smirk gives him away. Mine probably does too.
Ben doesn't really sing. If he does, it means you're in his inner circle. He says it's only for real fans, and I agree. Fans or true romantics because it's a warble.
But the way he plays? The way he holds the guitar like he owns it, the strumming, the pauses, even the way his fingers move like they're memorizing skin is slow-burn seduction.
So I get distracted and let the oil bottle slip from my hand.
A golden tide spreads across the counter before I can catch it.
"Shit," I hiss.
"It's fine." Mara waves her hand, murdering the salad with pepper.
I blink at it. "Okay, that's enough. You want to kill us?"
"Flavor is everything, babe," she says, tossing the last tomato with a flair before she calls out, "Okay boys! Food! Come! Come!"
Ben drops the guitar and strolls over—he must be really hungry.
Paul takes his time, still puffing on his harmonica like we're in some dusty southern movie.