Chapter 23 #2
"I wasn't exactly the husband of the year either. She could tell I wasn't fully in it. Plus, she acts differently when we're home. She's complicated and has her moments."
I smirk because I don't believe that anyway, and—childish as it is—I'm not thrilled when he backs her up.
"I noticed you don't wear your ring. Ever."
His eyes flick down to his hand, checking the bare finger. "Sometimes I do. Lately, not so much. It's not allowed in the hospital, and I'm there most of the time anyway."
"Right." Not the answer I hoped for.
I don't wear mine here either. I always put it in my purse like a tiny act of decency toward two men who shouldn't have to share me. It's absurd, but it feels like respect.
"Have you ever thought about leaving?" I ask.
"Yeah," he says without hesitation. "But divorce? That's not a thing in my family. If I did that, my mom would cry, and I can't watch her be sad anymore."
He drags his hand over his creased forehead and looks at me with heaviness in his eyes. "So I figured—fine, we'll just be one of those couples who rot quietly because neither of us has the guts to cut the cord."
"Ben," I peel his hand from his head and place it over my chest. "I'm sure your mom forgave you."
"Not so sure. Anyway... I don't have a problem telling Lisa everything, but for me to divorce her, I'd have to have a solid reason."
I blink, trying to decode what "solid reason" even means.
He lets it hang there for a beat, and then continues.
"When Lisa mentioned San Francisco, I said no instantly.
Family, work, too far. I knew you were back in here and I had very mixed feelings about it, but then, things got weird and I started feeling like maybe it was supposed to happen.
That it was good. Honestly? I didn't know what the hell I thought.
Just... signs, coincidences, whatever, made me say yes. "
"What coincidences?"
He blinks, then licks his lips and smiles. "That's for another day."
I frown, but don't push.
"What's important is that I made the move," he says, then snorts a laugh and his eyes roll up. "But, of course, you had to show up in the same damn elevator, same building, and I thought, great, whoever set this up clearly wasn't interested in my sanity."
I glare and smack his chest. "You absolute ass." Try to wriggle free, get up from bed, but his arm traps me before I move.
He pulls me back, his chin hooked over my shoulder, and his lips brush my ear. "Emma. It's never not been you."
My breath hitches as I turn, searching his eyes desperately, because he doesn't just mean now; he means always.
"You mean it?" I breathe.
"Do I mean it?" He raises a brow. "I haven't touched Lisa since us."
The words slam into me like the last blush of sun bleeding through the shutters.
He hasn't touched her since us, not once, not as her husband.
I feel like howling into the pillows out of happiness if I'm being honest, but somehow I manage calm, composed adult energy. Somehow.
"So you haven't—?"
He shakes his head, slowly. "No."
I smile. And because I'm me, I can't leave well enough alone, and prod: "But she told Richard you wanted to move back to New York."
Ben's face goes very still. Then, choosing his tone carefully, he says, "I did say that."
My internal jumping stops, my stomach stays lodged in my throat, though. "So you're leaving."
"I was," he admits. "I really miss my family. New York. But the worst was that you called me a mistake. That gutted me. I hated you for it."
"You don't say." I roll my eyes. "But now?"
"I told you. I'm not going anywhere, unless you tell me to. Actually—" his eyes darken, "—I don't care what you say. I'm staying."
"That's stalker behavior," I quip, fighting a smile.
"Then I hope you like obsessed."
"How much obsessed?"
"Completely, disgustingly, irredeemably obsessed with you." His face is serious.
"I'll think about it." I pout, exaggerated, because apparently that's how one negotiates eternal obsession. Also, this? This is the epitome of all I've ever wanted.
We go quiet for a while as I watch the sky through the window, daylight smoldering into ash, the breeze playing with the sheer curtain through the cracked window.
It's the hour that allows you to feel more than think, which is probably why I love it so much.
Ben's eyes are closed, but I know he isn't sleeping—just thinking.
Somehow, he doesn't ask about Richard. Maybe he doesn't want to ruin this sacred moment while we lie tangled together.
I appreciate him not bringing it up.
Now we have this place, three months as a temporary commitment but what happens next? He's made it clear that divorcing Lisa won't be easy, and neither will Richard.
What if this is what Ben wants anyway? Not an expiry date, but a long-term double-life. As shameful as it is, we wouldn't be the first lovers to sneak across boundaries.
"What are you thinking?" Ben whispers out of nowhere, eyes opening on me.
"I don't know," I whisper. I know—sneaky cheat-code since he said I could use that line, but I really don't know.
"How's Mara?" I toss instead. "She asked my dress size two weeks ago, then ghosted."
Ben exhales, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Bridezilla in her final evolution. Sent me a spreadsheet of fifteen identical shades of ivory and made me vote. Then whined I picked wrong."
I snort a laugh. "There's a wrong ivory?"
"Apparently," he says flatly. "And I was supposed to psychically know it, being her brother."
"How's Paul taking it?"
Ben's mouth quirks. "He keeps calling, asking if there's a light at the end of the tunnel. I told him there is—it's called cardiac arrest, flatline on the monitor, and the morgue freezer."
I flick his chin. "Jesus. Tell me you didn't—"
"Verbatim. He laughed a full minute, like something in him finally snapped, then said he hoped it'd be quick."
I snort and press my forehead into his chest to hide my grin. "Poor Paul. Your family must be happy, though?"
"They can't wait. Italians. You know how we like to celebrate."
"Is Lisa coming too?" I ask carefully, then rush out the rest. "Since Mara doesn't like her, I mean."
"Yeah," he says, watching me intently. "It's a family matter. She has to come." A breath. "Mara told me you're not going alone either?"
"Yeah. I had to take Rich—"
"I know," he jumps in, nods, face flat. "It's alright."
His fingers drift through my hair, aimless and tranquilizing, like he's soothing himself as much as me. Somewhere between the last blink and the next one, I'm gone.
Then one panicked inhale later and I'm yanked back into his arms.
His watch glows 11:04 p.m.
Shit. Richard. Home. Me, not there.
My phone's probably glowing with missed calls and half-angry, half-worried messages.
I jolt, trying to sit up, but Ben's arms are locked around me.
When I glance at him, he's up, eyes on me, looking dazed, like I've interrupted him mid-love letter.
"Have you... been watching me?"
"Yeah." Just that one word, breathless.
"Why didn't you wake me?" I shove at the blanket tangled around us.
"Why the hell would I?" He frowns as if I've insulted him by that question.
"Because I need to go," I say, trying to sound annoyed but it comes out too thin.
I shove uselessly at his biceps—they don’t budge—so I sigh and snap, theatrically, “The building’s on fire.”
"Then we'll burn here together." Said like he's already made peace with it.
"Jesus, what got into you?" I say, a little too breathless, and then stop.
Because I bury my nose in his neck without meaning to—he's not wearing his cologne so I inhale his skin—and suddenly I can't wrestle the feeling that overpowers me, something I didn't know I was still searching for.
"You smell like home, somehow," I say.
It sounds mostly bewildered, but it makes him loosen his grip, eyes going tender.
"Then come home tomorrow," he says, thumb brushing my cheekbone. "Same time."
I bury my nose in his chest again, still puzzled as he lifts my hand and presses slow, reverent kisses to each fingertip. "Is that a yes?"
I grin so hard it hurts. "Yes. Yes. Yes..." Ten times over yes... And I wish I had a hundred fingers.
?
When I walk into my apartment, I carry that golden-light feeling, soft from his hands, and holding some kind of certainty in the pit of my stomach.
I plan to tell Richard everything—not the scandalous details, god, no.
Just the truth between us: that I'm sorry we didn't make it, that maybe we were never enough, that I broke what we were supposed to protect, and I'm not the good girl I've tried to be, maybe never really was, but never like this, never this much.
There'll be hate and disappointment, and I'll have to live with the fact I hurt him, but just as Carl said, I owe him the truth and the freedom to think of me whatever he wants. For once, after a long time, I should do the right thing.
But Richard isn't home again.
So I perch at the edge of the couch like a trespasser, no TV on, nothing.
When I can't take it anymore, I get up and put the kettle on because I need to hear something other than my own thoughts, and shuffle to the bathroom.
And then, right around when I'm getting out, the door bangs shut—so hard, my insides leap.
Across the floor, I see Richard charging into the kitchen with his boots pounding the tile.
I cross to him just as he grabs the counter as if he doesn't hold on, he might hit something.
I stare at him because he looks nothing like the man I know and my palms go sweaty even though I'm cold all over.
"Richard?"
His head snaps up and his eyes find me. "We're done."
Just those words—and the sound of water starting to boil, screaming.