Chapter 12 #2
We put the salad on the plates and gather around the low foldout table, knees colliding under, too close for comfort.
Ben barely fits, elbow brushing mine, but there's nowhere to go, so we start eating.
Halfway through the meal, a couple settles off to the side and immediately starts making out like it's their last day on Earth.
"Wasn't she with the bearded guy this morning?" Paul nods a subtle chin their way.
I side-glance them and nod at him. "They have an open relationship. These two have been at it since, like, three?"
Paul lifts a brow at Ben. Ben lifts one back at him. Some bro-code telepathy. Useless, but amusing.
"Don't even," Mara warns, catching Paul's chin between her fingers and pinching. "Eyes on your fiancé and the plate she made you."
Paul laughs, fork dangling in the air. "Em, rule number one—never date an Italian. They're all trouble. Ouch!" He yelps when Mara squeezes harder.
Ben and I catch each other's eyes, then drop them back to our plates just as fast, pretending it never happened and we're minding our business.
Except Paul has played it well for me, and what can I say, I'm in one of those moods.
"Thanks for the gospel, Saint Paul." I crunch on the cucumber with sudden vengeance. "I'll take your legal advice. I don't get the craze with Italian men anyway."
"Please," Ben drawls, head tipping toward me. "You want an Italian to love you."
Crunch. "Do I?" I make a bored face.
"Yeah." He nods slowly. "We're intense lovers."
Crunch. "Is this your sexual résumé pitch?"
His smirk curves. "Wouldn't you like to know."
I roll my eyes. "Please. I'd rather not ruin the mystery—or the comedy."
Ben's lashes drop, a shadow crossing his mouth and leans over, close enough to whisper in my ear so no one can hear. "I can promise you that my real talents can't be put on résumés."
I pull back, glaring, tempted to smack him. Instead, launch an olive at his head.
He dodges it, smirking. Damn his reflexes.
Still, I lick my fingers and pretend I'm the one in charge. "Keep it to yourself. Nobody cares."
"Careful, Em," Paul murmurs, amused as he watches us. "You bruise him too much and he gets poetic."
Ben smirks, but holds my gaze. "Someone has to let her know what she's missing." He leans back, throwing his arm across my back rest, the light catching on his exposed chest. "Want to know why Italian men are the best lovers?"
I inhale sharply, rolling my eyes. "Enlighten me."
"It's not the hands. Not the mouth. Though granted, we're fluent in both," he says before his eyes pin me, the air tightening between us.
"It's because we burn for the part of you that you think nobody will love.
The part you hide, even in front of yourself.
We'll love it, and kiss it, and worship you, because we don't want you to be tamed or perfect. We are designed to hold your chaos."
Okay, not bad. The way he said it had that Italian-fire-level hot.
No way he'll know that, though.
I press a hand to my chest, pretending to swoon. "Beautiful. Truly. Let me know when you drop your merch next to Keats. And by the way, I love how you preach about surviving the mess while you tend to cause most of it."
Mara bites her cheek, snorting a loud laugh.
Ben's glare lands squarely on her. "Really? No national loyalty?"
She inspects the little stars on her pink manicure instead of answering, so his brow cocks, voice dipping into that dangerous register. "Sibling loyalty?"
She takes a slow sip from her glass, considering the odds, then shrugs.
"I'm done with this," he says bitterly and nudges his plate. Then he faces Paul. "Word of wisdom—you shouldn't marry her. She'll give you ulcers."
Paul subtly backs off, retreating before he gets caught in the storm. "She makes the best tiramisu, though," he mumbles, obviously claiming his team. Smart man.
Ben? Brave. As always. Ready to strike.
"Yeah, everything else?" Ben flicks his fingers for quote marks: "And while stirring constantly, we dump it straight into the dumpster."
I almost lose it, but squeeze it shut because I can't do this to Mara. But holy hell, my throat feels like I swallowed sandpaper from all the pepper.
Mara pops on her smile like candy dipped in poison. She flicks with her nails. "You're lucky I've been here long enough to be in a good mood. Didn't your wife turn you into a vegan rabbit? Or whatever she's molding you into now?"
Ben's eyes narrow and he spits, "Che cavolo."
I'm pretty sure it's Italian for get wrecked.
Paul laughs into his beer, but when he sees Mara's dead eyes, his grin gets desperate and he quickly deflects. "Speaking of marriages, the boss finally picked a date."
"Oh yeah!" Mara instantly recalibrates into beaming, fingers grazing the gold cross at her throat. "November 14!"
I cheer on instinct. Ben doesn't.
"November? I told you that month's hell for me. And everyone's going to freeze."
Paul's eyes go wide—abort, abort.
Too late.
"Shut up." Mara's voice cracks like a match, her temper blazing in her eyes.
"Don't you dare! I fought with Mamma for two weeks over this.
Two weeks! It's the last date St. Anthony's had, and she wanted it, so I gave in, because somebody—" she spears him with a glare sharp enough to cut, "—decided to do a Vegas stunt, where none of us got invited. "
Ben flashes her a look but goes still.
The whole table follows before I realize what she just said and whip toward him.
“Wait, what? You got married in Vegas?”
The guy who couldn't fit his friends in Madison Square Garden? The guy whose Nonna planned his wedding since he was five?
“None of your business. It’s what we wanted," he mutters, his knee knocking mine under the table, like he's ready to get up. Done.
"We?" My eyes narrow. He sounds like Lisa and that pushes a bad button, so I smirk, eyes cold. "Damn, she trained you well. Tell me, did she say yes before or after the buffet?"
Ben's jaw ticks. Then he turns his head toward me, slowly, with the kind of look that could level a city—death-stare locked, warning me he's seconds from erupting. "You want to talk about reckless weddings?"
Internally, I flinch. Not even because of the comeback.
I know I went too far, kind of want to apologize, but I'm still pissed and pride doesn't let me.
So we just stare at each other before Mara intervenes, her tone soft, her hand on Ben's hand. "Hey? Hey?"
Only his eyes answer. "Mmm?"
She starts tapping on his wrist like that'll soothe him. "It's alright. Forget it. You'll be so handsome in the suit. We’ll take nice photos. Mom’s excited. You’ll be right next to me, ushering like the good brother you are.” She pauses, then jabs a finger at him.
“And don’t think you’re skipping Thanksgiving again! We're counting on you this year."
Ben tilts his head, staring her down before he turns back to me, assessing, like he's calculating which one of us will kill him first.
Paul tries to laugh it off, the mediator he is. "You have to come to play Scopa with us. Antonio's been winning too long."
Ben slides back in the chair, fury still pulsing under the surface. “He cheats all the time. That's why."
"You, babe?" Mara jumps into it and turns to me. "You'll be my bridesmaid. The theme is soft yellow."
"Yay, my favorite color," I chirp.
"You'll look great in it," Mara says. "Maybe too great, but whatever. Don't lose the tan."
Before I can tell her that might be a problem, that I'm already peeling, a man draped in a peacock-feather cloak swoops in, grinning straight at Ben.
"Ben! Finally. The boys said you made it."
Ben jumps up instantly and claps his back, voice strong. "Jonah, the Peacock King! Man, what you did is incredible. I owe you, big time."
Jonah waves his hand. "Don't mention it. You always do so much for us."
Nicknames start flying, questions volley back and forth like they've clocked years together, and Ben's mood slightly elevates, just not around me. He barely spares me a glance before he disappears with Jonah and Paul out of our camp, leaving me with the burn in my chest.
Meanwhile, Mara and I go back into our tent to freshen up.
She props up the small mirror she hauled from home and spreads her army of brushes and pins across the blanket.
Just as she dusts something shimmering over my cheekbones that almost makes me choke, I cough it out. "Mara? Did Ben actually elope to Vegas?"
She pauses with the brush above my cheekbone. "I shouldn't have said that. I'm just still pissed about it. Forget it."
I purse my lips. Mara is that annoyingly amazing friend who never talks about you behind your back and never spills your secrets—definitely not Ben's—but I try to push anyway. "I mean, it's just so unlike him."
"I know." Her jaw locks tight.
"Was it his idea?"
"I don't know. He changed a lot."
"After the wedding?"
She shakes her head, exhaling like it burns.
"Even before," she says and pauses, then sighs, her eyes growing heavier. "It's a long story, but with her, he hides things. A lot."
I look at her curiously. "Hides? Why?"
"I think he feels guilty. Mamma cried for weeks when she found out about the wedding because she wanted to plan something beautiful, but he just showed up and announced it. No explanation." She snorts bitterly. "Definitely not his style, which makes me think, yeah—it was all her."
I hesitate, then push while the door's cracked open. "How did he meet her?"
"During one of his shifts. She cut her hand, he patched her up and she came back with some bullshit story about how she wrote about a man like him into her teenage diary.
Then she was all around him. They started dating right away.
After meeting her, he seemed a bit happier, which made us happy too.
He said he'd never met anyone like her—" She falters when she sees my face blanch and leans in, face apologetic.
"Babe, don't make me the villain here. Ask him yourself. You know he hates when I talk for him."
She dusts a final sweep of shimmer over my cheek and beams. "I have to stay alive at least until I become Mrs. Paul Dalton, so I can haunt him forever if he misbehaves."
I smile on cue, but inside, Mara's words keep circling: hides things... not his idea... never met anyone like her.
They scorch hotter than the desert sun, but the truth is we made our choices, and after that brutal fight, maybe the air's cleared.
Maybe it's time I tell him I'm glad he's happy.
Maybe.