Chapter 19
The next month is nothing you'd write about. Unless you're calling it Lovers to Enemies, or How to Have Your Therapist Put You on a Watchlist.
After the tennis match, Richard waited the entire day until he slid between the sheets that night, opened his book, and casually dropped, "We’re not seeing them again."
Yes, he knows he promised Lisa the horse racing, but she’s an opportunist, Ben is too much of a show-off, and apparently we have plenty of friends anyway.
So that was it. Another choice made for me.
Since then, my nightmares have come back.
I wake gasping or crying, while Richard either sleeps very heavily or pretends to, his back turned. I stare at the ceiling, watch shadows morph into monsters until, finally, they hush me back to sleep.
Then it happens all over again.
To break the heaviness, Carl called with "stellar" news: the publisher loves my new chapters.
It would be wonderful to hear if I’d made any progress. How can I write about love when the one who inspired me acts like I don’t exist?
Because the worst part is what I told Ben at the court: "I already told you. It meant nothing. So get over it."
His face went dead in an instant.
He apologized for forgetting a shift and rushed out like it was a true emergency, leaving the cherries on the table.
My stomach turned upside down, and it's never flipped back.
In my defense, what do you say when your husband’s one foot away? You don’t push the man you want between your legs and tell him what you really want. You just don’t.
I sent Ben a message a day later, after I slept on it.
Me: I need to speak to you privately. Gym? Walk? You choose
No three dots. No message back.
A week after the first one, I went full word-vomit:
Me: Let’s grab coffee at Eleven:Eleven? Best caramel latte and all the classic movie soundtracks. I go there all the time
Me: It’s where I first saw you when you came back. Would be nice to meet you there
Me: Ben, please stop avoiding me
Me: I don’t want us to end like this. I need to explain myself
Nothing. Not even a read receipt. He must have blocked me.
So I went to sit there alone, notebook open, pencil in hand, writing nothing but the letter B over and over until I caught myself and made a disgusted face, then flipped the notebook.
Around me, life moved on.
Dani watered the orchids, lovers on awkward first dates angled for a kiss, a woman licked espresso foam off her husband’s lip, eyes closed like it meant something.
Everyone was in love or desperately trying, and here I was, trying not to be.
Then—the door didn’t even close yet before the air shifted all too quickly.
Ben walked in like someone who belonged in a noir movie.
Dark navy scrubs clinging to his massive body in a way I’m sure they weren’t designed to, hair combed so neatly I wanted to mess it all up, jaw freshly shaved, sharp enough to cut.
He was buried in his phone, two fingers raised at the counter, and my brain immediately remembered them roaming my body.
Flushed, I started counting blue things to cope. My mug. The guy’s sweater. Ben’s shirt... Ben’s pants...
I groaned—not helping—and dropped the pencil in a betrayal of nerves.
He caught the sound, looked right at me, and my chair scraped before I knew it as I stood up, all clumsy, my voice small. “Hi, Ben.”
He held my gaze, flat as the wall behind him, then turned back to Dani, like I was air and smiled at her, one finger explaining something she giggled at.
Which made me realize he came there on purpose.
Throat burning, I wanted to storm the counter, snatch him by the collar, and yell: This is my place. I told you about it and you dare to come here to torture me? Get out!
Instead, I sat down, my body shaking from the fury.
He did that thing with his eyes—looking at Dani too long, lashes practically seducing her, gave her extra change, and slipped out, carrying two coffees, nose back in his phone.
Dani mouthed a starry-eyed "Wow" at me. I flipped the notebook, glaring at the Bs and it hit me—it looked like a bunch of ass cheeks, for the ass he is.
Then Wednesday passed unnoticed, so did Thursday, Friday. Every damn day.
And now? Another soundtrack-free morning with gray light filtering through the curtains.
Somewhere in the back room of my heart, I’m raging and crying. I don’t know what’s worse at this point, battling my nightmares or waking up dead inside. So I lie here without any reaction.
My mother says girls who cry or rage look ugly, and nobody wants ugly girls. Not boys. Not mothers.
Which reminds me, I haven’t answered three of her texts, haven’t been a daughter.
Sigh.
When I finally make it to the kitchen, Richard’s halfway out the door, tapping his phone like Morse code for I’m pissed.
No good morning, just: "You forgot to buy milk. Again."
His gaze snags on my shirt—Chase Stars, Not Paychecks—and he scowls like I’ve just insulted his entire banking career.
"Fundraiser tonight. You don’t have to come. Then midnight billiards. So don’t wait up."
The door slams before I can answer. I pull the shirt down, half-asleep—at least I found a way to dodge the invitations.
Things haven’t been great between us, which isn’t surprising considering what Ben and I did at the court.
Richard doesn’t talk about it, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out my hidden obsession with someone who isn’t him.
I need to do some marital damage control.
So I skip breakfast and head to the supermarket down the street to make Richard’s favorite cookies.
Am I aware I need to have a conversation—correction: many conversations—with my husband instead of plastering everything behind sweets? Yes. Am I mentally equipped? Absolutely not. Right now, just making it past the cart section feels like a major life achievement.
I’m elbow-deep in the baking aisle, hunting for gluten-free flour, when I hear familiar humming.
Startled, I turn and peek out to see Ben casually browsing the store, white cap backward, black everything else.
His sweats hang low, with that knot in front—the one you tug to make them surrender to gravity, and whatever’s under to my hands.
I shake my head. Probably shouldn’t think that. Definitely shouldn’t.
He reaches for the milk on the top shelf, hoodie riding up to reveal the tight, flat plane of his lower stomach and the dangerous V that cuts straight to where my mouth should be.
Damn it. I think I need an aisle with holy water.
As if he’s aware of his stalker, he glances my way, and I duck behind a corner.
I’m in sweats, two dark circles carved under my eyes as a gift from my nightmares, and my hair’s in that purgatory between "undone chic" and "when did you last wash it" (Answer: I don’t remember.)
Meanwhile, Ben moves through the store, grabbing ingredients: Eggs. Vanilla pods. Strawberries. Ricotta.
He's making cannoli? It's his specialty.
Except he doesn't eat them, which means he's making them to impress someone.
I doubt they're for Lisa. She seems to survive on air with a garnish of breeze. So who?
Someone he was texting the other day? Someone he smiles for now?
I'm so pathetic.
I trail after him at a safe distance, like he's a human charging station for my depleted batteries, something in the air making me want to sneeze, which would definitely give me away.
We pass the fruit, the bakery, and the frozen section before he disappears around the corner, and I peek just as he grabs red food coloring.
Red velvet cannoli? My favorite?! I swear that ass is doing that just to spite me in his head.
I glare, though he can't see me, and turn around, swiping the ingredients into my cart as I make a beeline.
Back home, I shower, wash my hair because you apparently never know when you'll meet your nemesis, and manage to bake pretty good cookies.
Then I change into a black dress with a lace hem—short, tight. Bought it the other day when I decided I'd take full custody of my wardrobe and it's perfect to show life that you can throw a punch back.
Hair's in a French twist, pinned with a gold brooch, and the heels—red Louboutins with open toes. The sexiest shoes on the planet.
The funny part is that I'm just going to sign some bank papers.
But you don't always dress for where you're going—you dress for where you wish you were—and right now, I need something to lift me out of this mood.
?
The day turns out better than expected.
I take a cable-car ride after ages, swaying above laundry lines and motel signs that have hung there since the ’90s.
Then I wander down a street that smells of jasmine and duck into a no-name bookstore with no one around.
Pick up some bad erotica, read a full chapter standing by the window, and find myself liking it because it reminds me that even now, in this half-broken version of my life, I still burn for life.
I bite into a bagel on the curb, dip my fingers in the fountain's warm water, and smile when the breeze plays with my hair. Who needs Ben’s mouth? I don’t even want it anymore.
By the time I return, the city's lit like a Broadway stage, the wind outside our building smelling faintly of sap.
For one night, everything feels almost okay. Until I stop and squint through the glass doors.
I'm not even mad at the plot twist anymore, just exhausted. I guess I really can't escape him.
Ben's leaning against the reception desk, casually explaining something to André, those loose pants traded for black jeans, the denim tracing the curve of his round ass like a criminal map.
His hair looks damp, fresh out of the shower, and I'm standing here, locked on every subtle movement from the tilt of his head to the brush of his fingers against the papers on the counter—until I realize that I'm staring.
So I suck in a sharp breath and set my bitch face, locked and loaded.
A few steps forward and the doors slide open.
Ben looks my way, and his eyes shoot wide, his speech faltering. "Yeah... I... was..." He's stuck on me, absolutely smitten.