Chapter 43
Two hours later, we're on our beach, our little slice of sky and salt. Heads touching, fingers tangled. I'm watching the clouds pass over the canopy of pale blue, toes buried in cool sand, while Ben, predictably, has fallen asleep under an open book.
He made it three pages into Neruda, which he brought along with him, before yawning and muttering something about "real love poems being too complicated," and he passed out.
He's been asleep for about fifteen minutes, lips parted in that quiet surrender men only show when they stop pretending they're fine.
It's strange, seeing him like this—Ben doesn't get tired, even when he's running on an hour of sleep, not even during a week-long hospital strike when his pulse is basically caffeine and adrenaline, but here he is, wrecked.
And I know it's not the work. It's us. All the waiting and pretending we're okay when neither of us is.
He'll never admit it because he thinks holding himself together is the only way we'll stay intact and that my sanity depends on his posture.
That's partly true. But watching him now, I realize he's just as breakable, and it sucks, because I can't help him.
"Do you want me to tell you a line I wrote in my book?" I whisper, mostly to the sky. My voice is so light, I almost hope he won't hear it over his heavy breathing. I'm generally shy about sharing my work, but I kind of want him to know this one.
"I wrote it after our first time. On the rooftop."
His breathing stalls instantly. He shifts, slides the book off his face, one eye peeking open, and nods, his face in quiet anticipation.
I turn to him, press my hand on his cheek, and whisper, "What am I but a dying star, waiting for the gravity of your arms, so I can flicker again."
He looks stunned, his eyes flicking left and right.
"Wow," he says finally. "That's really beautiful, baby. More beautiful than anything I could ever write about you."
I manage a little, breathy laugh. "It's not as original as your poems."
"Mine would just be a list," he says. "Your mouth. Your eyes. How cute you look in my T-shirts that somehow migrated to your drawer. The way you say my name when you're—"
"Ben," I cut in, biting back my grin.
"That," he says, eyes glinting dark, "is poetry."
I roll my eyes, still smiling. "I'll ask Carl to print out your special edition—'For Horny Women and Other Lovers of the Arts.'"
He snorts, lies back, and pulls me onto his chest. "I can't wait to read your book."
"Yeah, I can't believe it's done. It's the fastest I've ever written anything."
He runs a hand through my hair and his voice comes out soft but heavy. "I have a feeling you're going to be everywhere now—not only bookstores, but airport shelves, billboards—and I'll be bragging that you drooled on my pillow once."
"Not just once," I correct him, resting my chin on his rib to see his eyes. "And I want you at all my book signings."
Ben nods, smiling gently. "Yeah. I'll be there, front row, camera ready, making sure no idiot forgets whose girl you are."
His voice is lulled, and maybe even threaded with something that aches. I wonder why.
"That reminds me, Carl said they will book me on a tour on both coasts. It's huge, a few months. New York is there, too, so we can go together and visit your family. We'll tell them about it during Christmas."
His jaw tightens and his chest is suddenly stiff under my hands.
The ocean hushes, waiting for him to say something, like I do.
Then his voice comes out too careful. "Emma, I had to cancel our trip."
I sit up and turn to him with a frown. "What? Why? I just spoke to Mara, they are expecting us. Antonio got a huge turkey. Everyone's excited."
He sits up beside me, takes my hand with an apologetic look. "I just spoke to them, too. They understand why we can't come."
Understand why we can't come? Why couldn't we?
And then I see it in his eyes.
"No," I say just as my face goes dead. My eyes pinch tight. "No. No. No. What is it this time? What did she make up now?! It was supposed to be our moment!"
He breathes slowly, face pained. "I know, baby."
I stare at him, the wind slapping my face hard enough to make my skin sting.
"Let me guess," I grit out bitterly. "Lisa doesn't want you flying across the continent? The baby told her it's too far?"
He flinches at my acidic tone, blows a quick breath through his nose. "She doesn't want to be here alone."
"As far as I know, she'll be here with her parents. You bought them the tickets yourself."
"Yeah, but her last bloodwork wasn't good. She's scared. She wants me around."
I cross my arms and pull back. "How convenient." My eyes are flashing light bolts.
Jaw clenching, he shakes his head at me. "What do you want me to do? If something happened while I was with—"
"What?" I jump in, snapping a sharp nod. "On a trip with your mistress?"
"Stop saying that!" His voice cuts, rises, and he scowls at me. "It's derogatory. To both of us. You're my girlfriend."
"Your girlfriend who had her birthday plan canceled last week—"
"We'll go to LA another time—"
"She made up something that very day. She did it on purpose, and you know that!"
"Emma," he sighs, and looks at me like I'm a damn weight on his chest. "She didn't know it was your birthday."
"Uh-huh. Like it doesn't take two clicks to find me online and see when my birthday is, right? She planned it. To ruin my day."
He makes a face that drives me nuts. "Lisa is not obsessed with you; she's just pregnant. Be more understanding, please."
I scoff, cross my arms, blood rushing in my face.
"Great. So now I'm a self-centric prick on top of everything else.
" I completely pull away from him. "It feels really great when your boyfriend can't be with you on your birthday because he has to run around the stores to buy her mangosteen and then he never comes back.
When you have to spend the rest of the day pretending you didn't want to cry. "
"I told you, I will make it up to you. I will," he says, frowning but apologetic. "I couldn't leave her when she was puking in the bathroom. I'm not an asshole."
I groan long and loud. "I want you to be there for her, but you know what she's doing. Why can't you at least admit it?"
He doesn't.
Doesn't say a word.
Just looks away, behind me, like I'm not here breaking.
Which only fires me up.
I stand up, my tone resolute. "I think it's about time you tell me the truth. Will she let you go? Is Lisa going to let you divorce her?!"
He drags both hands down his face, then looks at me with exhaustion painted all over his face.
"Emma... I'm sorry for shouting. You're right. Let's not—"
"Too late," I cut him off, my voice trembling. "Tell me. Huh? I'm done waiting in some half-life version of us. Is she going to allow you the divorce?!"
"I don't know, okay?! I don't know!" He snaps, louder, and stands up too, the warmth we shared until five minutes ago gone. Now it's just cruel air.
"Of course you don't." I cross my arms.
His nostrils flare. "Do you know what it's like to feel like the biggest scumbag alive? No matter what you do, you're hurting someone. When you go so mad you start praying the baby somehow appears in your belly?"
The pain in his eyes makes my throat lock.
"Or worse—when you lie in bed at night and think, I wish there was no baby?" He looks up at the sky, his face twisted with disgust. "Do you understand what that does to me? Huh?"
I blink, speechless.
He shakes his head at me, sharp and defeated. "No. You have no idea what it feels like. So stop judging me."
Silence.
Just our breathing and the sound of the wind. I should be angry, but I'm more hurt, and he's right, I don't know what it feels like. So I don't argue anymore.
I move one step and wrap my arms around his rigid body, nodding and whispering "it's okay" because I don't know what else to do and I hope that if I say it enough, I'll believe it myself.
"It's everything but okay," he says, holding me barely a second before he pulls away, not meeting my eyes. "Let's go. There'll be traffic."
I level him with an empty look. We both know it's 1 p.m. Saturday, so it's a lie.
Inside, I snort. Inside, I do a lot of things—like curse and kick a stone, and jump from the cliff again, this time for a valid reason.
Instead, we pack quickly and leave the beach that's forever haunted by us.
The drive back is quiet, except for the filler talk about the football season finale and the weather, because what else is left when you can’t touch the real things?
By the time we reach my place, something invisible and heavy sits between us.
He parks, leans in and gives me a brief kiss. "I'll call you tomorrow, okay?"
I nod, empty. "Okay. Try to get some sleep, you need to rest."
I don't even open the door of my house when he's tearing the tires on the asphalt, the sound of him leaving tunneling through me.
For a long moment, I stand here, watching him disappear behind the corner, watching the faraway traffic light turn from green to orange, then red.
Then—enough.
I just had enough.
I pull my phone out and scroll until her name appears. Lisa.
Calling her feels like walking barefoot across glass, but I do it anyway because this is going to destroy Ben.
I pace along the waterfront calling her over and over, but she doesn't pick up, so I leave a text.
Me: Lisa, please let's talk. You, Ben and me. I understand you are upset. I am on your side. I want you and the baby to be safe. Please meet me so we can discuss what happens next.
An hour passes while I'm home.
Somewhere outside, someone laughs. I try not to take it personally.
I'm by my desk, deleting photos, old drafts. Drag. Trash. Confirm. Folders renamed so I can pretend I'm reorganizing when I'm really trying to kill time.
Then my phone buzzes on the table. Lisa's name pops up and my pulse skyrockets before I even open it.
When I do, there's a picture: The baby clothes I sent her. Crumpled. In a trash can.
My stomach hollows. I can't believe she would do that.
I don't need to read the rest, but I do.
Lisa: You will never be a part of our baby's life. If you have any drop of decency, leave our family alone. Your selfishness is driving Ben insane.
My body folds into the chair, and the table moves around me while I stare at the message, two breaths from throwing my phone through the window.
I'm driving Ben insane?! I am?!
My hands shake, tempted to text her back, tell her she might be the worst person on the planet, but that's not what I wanted to get out of this. I'm sure she thinks the same about me, too.
Maybe I am the worst person?
Maybe I am driving Ben insane?
Somehow, I manage to push my chin high. Maybe if I hold it high enough, the tears will absorb back into my eyes.
No. Unstoppable.
You'd think I'd be used to the crying by now and the ache that comes after. I should be better at it, but I'm not.
When I start thinking about it, Lisa might be right. Ben is torn between us and the life that should've been simple, sacred, beautiful. And I'm the reason it isn't.
We love each other, but that doesn't fix us.
Because sometimes, around 3 a.m., when the evil thoughts flood my mind, I picture his hand brushing her belly, and my mind spirals into the kind of madness that whispers: what if he realizes she's given him something you didn't? What if one day that rekindles the spark and that hand skims lower and he'll be gone?
And all those thoughts make me get up, pace around the house, trying to shake them off but they only turn louder and more vivid.
Turning to the window, I end up watching the Golden Gate glowing in the distance, until the sky pales at the edges, and I stop fighting the truth, letting it settle in my bones.
Ben will never be mine.
Lisa will never let us be together.