Chapter 13
I roam the desert, past the metallic gods rising, their steel bones catching the afternoon sun. Dust licks my ankles, and everyone else seems blissfully distracted—faces painted gold, neon wings fluttering and all that—but here I am, hunting Ben through it all like a woman on a mission.
Because I don't want him thinking about the stupid jabs I said, and even when I'm mad, I still take him as mine—friend, phantom... whatever.
When I finally find him, he's in a patch of shade under a makeshift canopy with Paul, Jonah, and some other guys.
Hookah smoke drifts lazily, mixing with the scent of watermelon, but I know Ben doesn't smoke it. He hates all kinds of drugs.
He's half turned away, forearms braced on his knees, lost deep in thought.
"Ben?"
His head snaps up immediately, that reflexive smile flickering across his face before his eyes harden as he straightens. "Yeah?"
"Can you take a little walk with me?"
The group goes quiet. Everyone's eyes slide to him, as if they already know me, or talked about me. I don't know—feels weird.
Ben hesitates, caught between saying polite no and following me. My throat dries.
"I need help with something," I say, kicking at the dust.
That's all it takes. He rises instantly, mutters apologies to the guys, and nudges me lightly forward with his hand. "Okay. Lead the way."
We walk in silence, the thrum of bass from a distant art car trailing us until I stop under the shade of a skeletal tower wrapped in flags, the fabric snapping faintly in the dry wind. "Can we sit here?"
He arches a brow. "Thought you needed help. Or a walk."
"This was the walk," I say, a bit sheepishly. "And I need help with my apology."
He gives me a look, but drops down against the structure.
I join him, shoulder to shoulder, watching the mood spin around us, but mostly feeling the knot between us.
"You look good in beige. You should wear it more often," I tell him, smiling.
His face flattens, unimpressed. Compliments won't melt him today.
I draw a sharp breath and blurt it out, "I'm sorry for pushing it too far. It wasn't my place to comment on your wedding. I got heated because—"
"Because?" he cuts in.
"Because it makes no sense. You told me that Nonna wanted you married in that Venetian chapel where she got married and—" My words falter when his jaw tightens.
Damn it. I'm deflecting and not making it better.
"Forget it. I just had this stupid idea, I knew what was best for you, which is absurd. You're allowed to do whatever you want," I say.
He exhales slowly, like I've dragged something raw out of him. Then his gaze sharpens as if something struck him. "Did Mara tell you anything?"
"No." Too fast. I force my eyes not to blink and give it away. "She's a vault when it comes to you. I don't know what you have on her. She's scared of you."
He snorts a laugh. "She has a reason. Comes with being siblings."
"I can imagine, even though I have none."
He breaks a little smile. "Actually, we made a promise as kids that we'll always be there for each other and never break each other's secrets, and she always kept it.
Even when I crashed Dad's Alfa at sixteen, she didn't tell anyone.
Just helped me buff out the scratches and pretended she didn't see a thing. "
"Wow. She's a saint."
"Yeah. She's a good sister."
"She's incredible. I love her so much." That part is easy, true.
His smile softens, finally, just a flicker of warmth breaking through. "She loves you, too."
"Didn't you say you'd shave your scruff?" I tease, letting the tension slip sideways. Looks good on him actually.
He scrapes a hand across his jaw. "I was stuck at work these past five days. Multi-car pileup. Every trauma doctor was called in. Barely any breaks," he says, tired.
"Oh damn."
"Yeah. You'll probably read about it in the papers when you're back."
I take him in properly. He seems hollow at the edges, exhaustion pressed into his bones, and it makes me want to do something reckless I used to do back in the day—care for him.
"Do you want me to rub your back?" I say it before I can stop myself.
He looks at me for a beat, caught off guard. Then says, "Is that a real offer?"
"Why not?" I shrug, pretending to be casual. "I used to do it after your shifts. Remember?"
His whole face softens with that memory. "Oh yeah. I mean, I'm not saying no to that."
I smile, shift toward him, pull the back of his shirt slightly down, and press my thumbs into his shoulders.
I tell myself it's fine—normal—my hands on him like this. He's exhausted, and massages are what friends do, right?
His head tips back, giving me a better view, and from this angle he's all jawline, that tiny bump on his Italian nose and unbearable perfection.
"Christ," he mutters, his voice instantly wrecked. "You're too good at that."
"Just pressing where you're tight."
And I'm tight everywhere because of you, but we're not saying that, are we?
I dig into a spot and he lets out a pained groan that reverberates through my fingers.
"Damn, jokes aside, you're a mess," I murmur, kneading harder. "One big knot. You need to do this more often."
His voice is half lulled, like I've found some secret off-switch. "Can you do this for me every day after my shift?"
"Doesn't Lisa rub your back?" The words are out before I can drag them back. Idiot.
His whole body stiffens under my hands and I mutter, "Sorry. Forget I asked."
"No," he says anyway, but nothing else.
"No, as in—" I drawl, running my hand along his neck. "She doesn't?"
"No, she doesn't."
"Oh." It makes me glow a bit, even though it shouldn't.
He tilts his head to the left, exposing the side of his neck, as if asking me to touch there, and I follow along. "No one would do it like you anyway."
That knocks a grin out of me—too wide, too giddy for the moment. "You should pay me for this."
"Gladly. What's your rate?"
"High. Very high."
"I'll give you anything. Within reason. Maybe."
I snort a laugh, and he pulls his shirt up and turns to me. "You still haven't told me how you are."
"I'm good."
His head tilts. "Emma. It's me. I'm not asking for polite answers. How are you, really?"
It's me... I can't even roll my eyes when he says it like that.
"I am good," I say with an assertive nod. "Right now, I am. I missed our talks. Like this."
The second I say it, something flickers in his eyes, like the sun finally broke through those dark irises. He faces forward again and says, "Me too," like he's saying it to himself.
"Tell me what's new with you? You've obviously been carrying the world's weight on your shoulders. How are you?" I ask him.
His head drops and he lets it hang there, and I don't think it's because he wants another massage.
Then his voice comes out heavy. "I'm good. Work. Workouts. Trying to clean the encampment downtown. Trying to do something good for once."
I frown because it's not what I expected. Not from Ben who usually walks into the room like it owes him a smile.
"Why would you say that?"
He shrugs, shoulders tight. "I don't know."
I move closer so I can see his face better. "You don't know, or you don't want to tell me because I'm a stranger now?"
His head snaps up and his eyes pin mine, steady. "You're not a stranger. You could never be. Doesn't matter where we are in life."
That feels so bittersweet that a smile crawls across my lips, genuine but bruised around the edges.
I tilt my face even more so he can see how much I mean what I say. "Okay, but Ben, you're always doing something. Achieving, chasing, rescuing. You're the last person who should feel like you're not doing enough."
"That's because I hate being alone," he admits plainly. "Loneliness eats my brain alive."
That part I know about him.
We all have that cavern inside that turns hysterical when we sit alone with it too long. Mine gnaws at me at night; Ben tries to outpace his by burning through projects and insomnia that won't let him breathe, but I've seen the moments when it catches him, and he goes quiet.
And when Ben goes quiet, the whole world seems to mute with him.
"Do you still have those days?" I ask softly. "The lonely ones?"
"Yeah. You know I always do," he says, elbows on knees. Then catches himself and adds immediately, "Not always. I mean... sometimes."
"Do you feel lonely even now? You know, in your..."
"My marriage?" he finishes for me when he realizes I can't get it past me. I nod, my jaw tight.
"Yeah," he admits. "It's not her fault though. I think there are parts of us almost no one can reach."
Almost. I catch only that one word and let it land. I wonder if there ever was a person who got past it.
"You're right." I nod. "There are places in me I can barely hold, let alone let anyone see."
"I think it's normal. We all have that dark spot in us, right?"
"Yeah. Totally. You're talking to a pro in that department. I used to call it the eternal night."
He snorts. "You make it sound poetic. It's not."
"I know. Especially when you're just in it. But remember what I told you? Smile and it melts. Everything melts when you smile."
His head tips toward me and he bites back his smirk. "That was bullshit, and you know it."
"Maybe." I shrug. And then I can't help it and lean in, lifting the corner of his mouth myself. "So?"
He frowns. "Why are you lifting only one?"
"Because you mostly smirk."
That finally makes him laugh, his eyes crinkling with it.
"Ben," I say softly, voice too small for what I mean. "You don't have to feel alone. If you ever need anyone to talk to, I'm here."
"Yeah. Thanks, Emma," he says, voice low, before his head whips toward Paul who appears out of nowhere with Jonah.
"Hey. You two coming for the cacao ceremony?"
Ben's up instantly, hands reaching for me before I can even think.
There's that ripple of glances from the guys again that I don't understand.
"You guys go—" I start.
Ben's voice cuts in, firm. "No. We're coming."
"I'm tired and need at least thirty minutes of silence," I protest.
He steps closer and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. "I want you to come."
I look up at him. "Okay... I'll come."