Chapter 29
Ben is drunk. Not champagne-wedding-toast drunk—the kind of drunk when you're trying to kill every nerve ending before it kills you.
Sitting through the ceremony was excruciating.
I cried more than Mara's mother because Ben stood by the altar and every time his eyes found mine, it was so naked, so gut-deep, one of us had to look away, usually me.
Because I am the woman sleeping with the bride's brother—the bride who despises cheaters and comes from a Christian family where loyalty isn't a value but a creed.
The two days in New York before the wedding had lulled me. Richard was very charming—gentle, even. The dinner with the governor went amazingly and he was grateful I joined him, as his friend.
We went to the opera, watched Otello from our private balcony while Richard whispered ridiculous translations in my ear, making Desdemona sound like she was scolding Othello for not doing the dishes.
I laughed so hard the other people shushed us and for once Richard didn't care about his image, but gave them a death stare.
We grabbed a food truck kebab on our way back to the hotel, laughing, drafting absurd divorce contracts where I'd keep the good wine glasses, and I teased him about his awful wedding speech in which he actually joked about how costly our divorce would be.
He joked that I'll always be his favorite tax deduction.
Did I know what he was doing? Yeah. But it felt dangerously good to imagine we could end this with dignity.
Then cut to today.
The second we arrived at the venue, I didn't even see Ben and Richard's mask dropped.
Naturally, Ben and I haven't had a minute alone because he's been very busy, making sure everything goes smoothly for his little sister. He's also been very busy avoiding me.
And by the way, for how fiery Ben can be, when he gives you a cold shoulder, it's ice.
However, in those few occurrences when his shoulder did brush mine, Richard's there, hand on my back like a wall I never agreed to build.
Not even cousin Maria, undeniably the most gorgeous woman I've ever seen, could distract him as she batted her eyes and asked him to dance. His hand stayed locked to my waist while he politely turned her down.
And now—the entire afterparty feels scripted for my slow execution.
Soft jazz. Clinking glasses. Ben's across from me—quiet, unreadable.
Richard beside me, all charm and venom, performing for the table.
Lisa's sitting too close to Ben, her hand brushing his arm every chance she gets, smiling that rosy smile, and I think she knows something because she's playing along with Richard perfectly.
"Ben, you and Lisa should come to Emma's birthday party," Richard says, voice smooth as the scotch he's drinking. "We're hosting on our yacht. Same one where I proposed to her. Two-deck. You'll love it."
"Oh, we'd love to." Lisa lights up and sneaks a soft, hopeful glance at Ben. "Right, honey?"
Ben doesn't answer, just watches Richard with a stern look that says more than a thousand words—he's imagining violence.
Richard, unfazed, smiles at me adoringly. "Pity you missed our anniversary party there. It was spectacular. All of Silicon Valley showed up to see how stunning Emma was." Then, to Ben: "Or are you still moving to New York?"
"Maybe," Ben mutters flatly.
I shoot him a questioning look, but his eyes never leave Richard.
Lisa jumps in, looking at Ben. "We haven't really talked about it yet. Ben keeps changing his mind."
"I get him. He has everything he needs in here," Richard says. "I was considering New York, too, but Emma was just telling me in bed last night how happy she is on the West Coast, so West Coast it is."
My head snaps toward him. He said that. He actually said that.
Ben's eyes go glacial, his knuckles almost white on the glass.
Lisa smiles at me. "Emma, you're so lucky. Richard's such an amazing husband. You two are a dream." She glances at Richard. "But weren't you two moving too?"
Ben shoots me a brief look, thrown off by the comment, and takes a slow sip.
"Oh yeah," Richard says. "We're moving back to Seattle next year."
I frown at him, completely thrown off because that's news to me, but he just smiles at me adoringly and looks at Ben.
"We want to start a family. We've already been trying," he says as his hand lands heavily on my thigh. "Can you imagine a baby with her freckles and my blond hair?"
My eyes shoot wide. I stare at Richard, hot blood surging in my face. What?!
Then, instinctively, my head whips to Ben.
His eyes blaze at Richard, his hand tightening on the glass so hard I'm praying it doesn't explode in his grip.
Then they cut to me with pure betrayal, pure disgust.
No. No. No. I shake my head as much as I can without giving myself away, silently begging him to read it in my eyes: it's a lie, it's a lie, don't believe him.
It doesn't matter. Ben's chair scrapes behind him, and he rises, his eyes falling on Richard's hand on my thigh. Then the vein on his neck pops and he walks away without sparing me a glance.
Lisa narrows her eyes suspiciously at me, but I don't care about her.
The hate that floods me for Richard is nuclear.
I shove off his hand, and before he has a chance to say anything, I'm already weaving between tables.
"Ben! Ben!" My voice cuts through music. "Wait!"
He halts, half-turns, and grants me a brief, impenetrable look. "Don't even fucking try," he growls, and veers off into the crowd.
So I stand here, folding myself invisible, while feeling Richard's eyes on me. Might as well rip the microphone out of the DJ's hand and ask if someone has codeine so I can survive all this, because it's not just Richard—it's Ben's brutal punishments.
Fifteen messages I sent him—fifteen—in those four days we didn't see each other, begging for a moment upstairs, a call, anything to explain the situation.
He gave me nothing.
Like I wasn't even worth whatever we committed before.
"Emma?" a female voice booms through my unraveling. I turn around and see Carmela and Antonio, Ben and Mara's parents, sitting by their table alone for once.
I think she must have seen what happened because her eyes are searching.
"Come. Sit. Sit," she says, waving me over.
The thing is, with Mara you can argue once, and then do as she says. With Carmela? Forget it. Tiny woman, cathedral voice—you obey.
Antonio, her husband, mostly watches her silently with hands folded, smile soft, like she's the only show in the room.
They're adorable, older versions of Mara and Paul, but all I feel is the cage of anxiety cinching around my ribs.
I make it to them and sit down, smiling politely.
"Is everything alright? Where did Ben go?" she asks.
"I don't know," I say, swallowing the sigh.
She frowns, skeptical, but nods.
And then we start talking, and it's easy because they're warm people with a bit of Italian accent and stories that prove they lived life fully, and because we all love food and their children.
She's telling me about Ben being a crazy bambino even in the womb before he grew hands and legs, and I'm managing aching laughs, wishing I could say it makes me feel better, but it doesn't.
At least, it seems like we're clicking. She even held my hand when I mentioned how sad I am to never have met Nonna and called me tesoro.
Uncle Dino stumbles in then, tux crooked, eyes glassy, and he slurs, “Where’s Benito? I don't feel right."
Carmela exhales sharply through her nose. “He’s not here to clean up your mess, Dino. I told you, if you ruin this day for me, I’ll throw you out with the trash, capisci?”
Dino waves her off, wobbling, and turns to me. “You hear her? Always talking to me like I’m him.” He nods his chin toward Antonio.
They’re identical twins, except Dino’s hair’s gone thinner and his swagger thicker.
“Mara’s looking for him too,” Dino mutters.
My eyes shoot to Richard. He's buried in conversation with Lisa and Ben's friends, and for once I'm off the radar. Good.
I stand up. "I'll find him."
"Bene," Dino says. "Bambina's in her dressing room."
I slip between tables, dodging Richard's gaze like it's a laser aimed straight at my chest. Don't. Look. At. Him. Keep your head down. Just get to Ben.
I search through the corridor, the outside garden, heck, even the male toilets. Then I get to the far corner of the building, push the kitchen door and—finally.
Ben's half-hidden in the shadows, leaning against a steel counter, a half-empty bottle of grappa cradled in one hand while he speaks to the chef.
His shirt is wrinkled, bowtie loose, cheeks flushed.
"There you are," I exhale with palpable relief.
His head jerks up when he hears me and for one heartbeat, his face lights up, but then it dims and he says, "Emma," like even saying my name hurts.
"Mara needs you," I say. And so do I.
The chef reads the room, mutters something in Italian and slips away, leaving us swaddled in wine and the ache of everything that's broken between us.
I cross to him and reach for the bottle. "How much have you had?"
He tightens his grip on it, his eyes on me.
"I asked you a question." I rip the bottle from his hand again and put it on the counter.
His face hardens as he stares at the door, purposely avoiding me, but I step into his vision.
"Ben, look at me. You're not okay," I say and sigh. "You're drunk enough I should be worried."
"I've had enough," he rasps as his eyes finally find mine, and stay there.
"Enough to sit through a ceremony where every time I looked at you, you looked away. Enough to stomach him next to you. Enough to hear him say Seattle. Family. Your... babies," he spits and drags a hand through his hair. "For fuck's sake."
"It's not true," I say immediately, my voice pleading as I press both my palms to his chest. "You know it's not true."
"Do I?" His voice cuts. "Because from where I was sitting, his hand was on your thigh, and you didn't move it until I stood up. You looked comfortable."