by Kevin Sean
The sad look flashing across Ben’s eyes right now will haunt me for the rest of my life. I have so many things I want to say: I have questions to ask, apologies to give, confessions of love to declare. But I say nothing. Instead, I remain silent as a stone and watch myself let the best thing that’s ever happened to me slip through my fingers.
15
BEN
I’ve never heard silence quite as loud as this. My ears are ringing with the haunting echoes of nothingness. Neither Logan nor I have said a single word in at least a minute.
At this point the absence of sound is so potent it’s almost deafening. It feels so wrong, this lack of communication in the middle of a disagreement, that I can’t help but wonder if one of my internal screams that I’ve been letting out inside the safe confines of my inner monologue have escaped my lips.
Could I be screaming aloud and not even realize it? Is that why Logan is looking at me with that pitying expression, as if he’s thinking about poor little Ben. It’s a look which I’ve never seen on his face before. Screaming like a madman and not realizing it wouldn’t explain this sudden tension, but this entire week on Logan’s island has been lacking in logic or rationality.
I don’t know how long it’s been since either of us spoke. All I know is I refuse to cave in and offer myself up for sacrifice by being the first one to open my mouth. Logan must have the same idea, because he matches my wordlessness.
Logan can’t be suddenly turning like this, can he? How is this possible? As much as I tell myself a breakup can’t be what Logan has in mind, that it makes little sense for him to end things in such an abrupt, callous manner, I’m not stupid. I can read the writing on the wall.
And Logan has all but written: get the hell out of here.
Logan steadies himself as if he’s about to present a product. “Listen, Ben, I’ve been thinking about the prospects of our relationship look like in the long term,” Logan begins. I raise my hand to cut him off and launch into a speech of my own.
“Please, spare me from false sentiments and the corporate business-speak. Don’t talk to me like I’m one of your employees or investors, for fuck’s sake.” Suddenly I’m angry. My fists curl up in to tight, white-knuckled balls.
“Ben, it’s not like that. Not at all—” Logan looks desperate, discombobulated. It’s almost enough to make me feel bad for him, if he wasn’t currently stomping all over my heart.
I am an idiot for trusting Logan Lexington. I was a fool for staying here, and an even bigger fool for thinking this fucked up relationship had any long term hope.
“Okay, so what is it like, Logan? Why don’t you lay it all out for me? Why I’ve been fucking you for the last week, why you encouraged me to paint you, why you let this get out control?” I know that’s unfair. I know that both of us are to blame. We let this get out of control.
Now that I’m going off like I’ve lost my mind, I just can’t stop. Logan wants to say something, but right before he gets a word in edge-wise I continue.
“Don’t think I don’t know why you invited me here. We both do. It’s not like we were set up by a matchmaker. We never meant for this to be a romantic connection… or any sort of connection at all.” I realize that all I’m doing is a bad job answering my own questions and making no sense.
It doesn’t matter at this point. I’m breathless from ranting. From raging. From my heart fracturing bit by bit the deeper we dig ourselves into this argument. “We were only supposed to be together for one night. It should have only been one night.” The words spill out like a broken tap, an overflowing sink.
I’m right, I know I am. We’re guilty of agreeing to this arrangement, but blame for drafting the specific terms and conditions falls squarely on Logan’s shoulders. We’re playing a game by his rules on his home court.
So why is Logan looking at me like I just smacked him across the face with a pillowcase full of doorknobs?
For a moment I’m overtaken by a tender sympathy for Logan. It hurts to see him in pain like this. But then my pain—which he has caused—overpowers any hope of pitying him. All over again I’m newly afflicted by the casually cruel way that Logan has extricated himself from me, from this entire situation.
“Ben, please. Be fair. For both of our sakes.” His voice is so calm it just riles me up even further. I want to punch a wall, I want to cry, I want to curl up in a ball and hide for days and days until everyone involved forgets that this whole last week at Logan’s mansion happened at all.
He reaches out to hold my hand and I snap it away, my limb flailing. I step backwards and bump into a desk, very nearly stumbling to the ground. When Logan takes a step forward to help me I take another step backwards and steady myself. I focus on maintaining the distance between the two of us, however minuscule it may be.
An hour ago, I would’ve given anything to touch Logan again. Had I known it would be the last time, I would’ve savored feeling his skin on mine just a little more. I would have done a better job locking up the memory for safekeeping. Now, all of that has changed. Been washed away in the storm. I’d give anything to be anywhere but here.
“Ben,” he croaks, his voice barely above a whisper.
Is this the voice Logan puts on when he’s laying off an employee at LexTech? Is that what I’ve become—a business expensive he can’t write off anymore? A negotiation which has turned sour?
All at once my mind paints a picture so vividly: Me as unnamed LexTech employee, sitting down in Logan’s office wearing a lab coat and coke-bottle glasses which only make sense as a software developer’s work uniform in the daydreams of someone very far removed from the world of corporate tech. Logan, sitting at an enormous desk which stretches on for what must be miles.
Sitting across from him in my daydream, peering down the massive mahogany stretch of never-ending surface, it feels as if we’re standing on opposite ends of the earth. The vision fades and somehow he feels even farther away from me now that he’s flesh and bone, standing here at arm’s reach.
“I’m letting you go,” he says to me in the daydream.
I’m letting you go, his eyes tell me now in the flesh. Beyond this four word message, it’s impossible for me to interpret what else is going on behind Logan’s bright blue pupils. Is he as pained as me, on the verge of heartbreak? Or is this confrontation a cause of sweet relief, nothing more than an errand he’d meant to attend to days ago and just kept putting off for later.
“Ben, I know we’ve been able to help each other during our time together, but my business needs me right now. My employees need me.” Logan says the statement as if he’s reciting data, not delivering a heartbreaking blow. He’s answered my question: he isn’t very torn up over leaving me in the dust.
Somehow, having already expected this rejection makes it sting all the more. Logan’s words hurt. It’s like a hot brand striking me where I’m already bleeding and then having salt thrown in that wound.
My time with Logan Lexington is about to leave a very ugly scar, isn’t it?
“Good, because I think I need to be alone,” I whisper. I’m surprised I can get the words out at all. My head is spinning. I’m breathing in and out, in and out, ever quicker and ever more forcefully. I can’t say that it’s like everything’s hitting me at once… rather, it’s as if I was hit by a Logan-shaped train earlier this week and just bothered to look down and notice the injuries. How long have I been bleeding out, vulnerable, lying on these train tracks?
Who did I think I was fooling? How could I have believed we could walk away from this fucked up arrangement with anything remotely resembling a healthy relationship? I feel like I’ve been used and discarded. I’ve been reduced to a disposable blow-up sex doll who could fill in for any of the others who’ve come before me, any of the other nameless men who’ll come to this island to service Logan after me.
That’s all I was to Logan, right? A body to warm the bed. I was a waist to wrap his arms around when he had trouble sleeping. I’m no boyfrien
d material, I’m not even myself anymore. A week ago, I never could have imagined I’d be in this situation. I would never have put myself in this situation to begin with.
Except you did put yourself in this situation. It takes two to tango, a sudden intrusive thought reminds me brusquely. My inner monologue is staging a mutiny against my line of logic.
Without another word, I turn on my heels and beeline out of the bedroom. In my panicked state I navigate myself to the hideaway. I feel the slightest bit more at ease once I step into the room and see rays of clouded light streaming in through the storm-soaked window panes.
Usually this place relaxes me, but today I feel haunted by Logan at every turn: his favorite books are on the shelves, his jacket is draped over the back of a padded chair, and the paints he gave me—paints I mixed to match his eyes—are scattered all over the desk. My eyes are hot with tears as I scan the room for a nook or cranny which doesn’t evoke memories of the lover who pushed me away. No such luck.
For a moment I consider painting. I wonder if maybe it would calm me down, like art therapy. But I reject the thought a second later because I recognize doing so would only unearth even more tender memories of painting Logan.
What if I never paint again after this? I can’t shake the fear that when I return home from this island, I’ll be even more depressed and hermit-like than I was after my breakup with Zach.
As self doubt and terror duke it out in my inner monologue, I notice that the room is growing brighter and brighter by the second. I’ve never seen so much sunlight coming through the glass walls of the hideaway before. Could it be that the storm is lifting? I run to the window and am greeted by a sight I’d resigned myself to never laying eyes upon again: the sun.
It’s happening. The storm is over. In no time at all, Logan’s ferry will take me back to San Francisco and I can move on with my life. When I’m home, safe and sound, I can try to brainstorm less risky methods of seeking inspiration for my art—preferably by means not involving sex or handsome billionaires.
The sunlight continues to increase in brilliance until it’s blinding. The tingling sensation of the light of day beating down on my skin makes me feel like a vampire stepping into the sun after centuries of isolation.
There’s a doorway built into the greenhouse-style glass wall on the opposite end of the hideaway. I walk to it, as if drawn by a magnetic force, and throw the door open. I’m greeted by a warm breeze from outside. The purity of the air and relaxation I feel when I inhale it compel me to step outside and close the door behind me.
I walk away from the mansion until I reach the dense woods. They were lit with beautiful lanterns on that very first night, but now they seem much more impassable and intimidating. I’m surprised that none of them appear to have toppled over in this week’s gale force winds. Looking at my surroundings, I’d never know there had been a devastating storm wreaking havoc mere moments ago. It’s so tranquil. The only sounds are faint bird songs and the crackling of twigs snapping under my feet.
I push through the thick blanket of tree branches. I lose sight of the house after walking only a few meters into the woods. Suddenly it’s like I’m in a rural, desolate wilderness, a million miles away from the rest of humanity. I don’t hate the feeling of being so, so alone. It’s a little peaceful, knowing I’m not bothering anyone and no one can bother me.
After a few more minutes of pushing through trees, I hear ocean waves lapping onto shore. With every step the crashing and rushing of water grows louder. I pass another wall of thick tree cover and the sky opens up, changing from blankets of pine green to an open expanse of brilliant sapphire blue. I’ve reached the shore.
In front of me is the very dock I arrived on, although this time there’s no ferry carrying a town car and French chauffeur. All I see are a pair of empty powerboats chained to the dock with thick, multi-knotted nylon ropes.
When I lay eyes on these vessels I’m struck by a vivid memory: I’m sitting with Logan at that first dinner we ate alone together, when he cooked the ridiculous combination of ratatouille and cheddar bacon baked potatoes. He’d talked about a boat trip to Fiji, I remember. When I asked Logan how he’d learned to navigate and suggested it was difficult to do so, he’d insisted that it was easy to control these machines.
He’d also promised to take me out with him for a boat ride on the bay. I have a feeling that the offer no longer stands.
There are so many plans Logan and I made together which have now gone up in smoke. I’m angry at Logan, I am, but that doesn’t stop me from mourning the beautiful day we were supposed to have together out on the water. Of course… I could always steer one of these boats across the San Francisco Bay by myself, if it’s as easy as Logan claimed it to be. I’ve never done such a thing before, but I have enough cell phone reception to pull up a tutorial online, plus from my position I can see a manual sticking out of the glove box in the captain’s cabin.
Is this a good idea? Probably not. Will I regret stealing a boat? Maybe. But do I want to stay on Logan Lexington’s island one minute longer? No, I don’t. I want to go home, desperately so—and desperate times call for desperate measures.
16
LOGAN
A breakup song from the eighties croons from my cell phone’s speaker. The music is beautiful, but all the devastating chorus does is confront me with the ugly truth of my predicament, which is that it will be impossible for me to ever encounter another human being like Ben Carpenter.
I try to rewrite the lyrics to suit the situation in my head, but none of my contributions flow nearly as well. Neither do my forced visions of a future without Ben. But that is the future which lies ahead of me.
I’ve pushed him away, too far this time… and no matter how much longer this storm keeps him here, Ben will run from me the first chance he gets. After he’s gone, finding someone who could hold a candle to Ben is a tall order. I doubt I’ll even bother trying.
No, my future is crystal-clear. It will be dull, and filled by attending board meetings, finding investors, and assembling profit projections. I didn’t hate any of those things six days ago—I felt powerful doing these things six days ago. But that was before Ben.
I don’t have the slightest idea how long I’ve been pacing and listening to this depressing music. Since the second Ben stepped out and asked for time alone I’ve been operating on autopilot. I’m stuck in an endless loop of heading down one labyrinthine hallway and exiting from another in a completely different area of the mansion. The only constant is that I’m always alone.
My house has never felt so far removed from being a home.
I realize I’m now standing outside the door to my bedroom. Ben slept here on his first night.
That first night was the beginning of the end of my one night stand rules and the beginning of the end of my decade-long laser-focus on LexTech. That night held so much promise, but now it’s the end of Ben and I’s beginning. We’re over. Thanks to me.
I’ve walked far past that fateful bedroom. Before I realize where I’m headed next, I realize I’ve ended up in a place which offers comfort and trauma in equal measure: the hideaway.
I like to think it was here under these multi-colored window panes where Ben and I fell for each other. When Ben painted me in this greenhouse we connected and became emotionally intimate. It was at that moment—when he painted my portrait in the nude—that he transformed from being a clumsy boy in a bakery to being my Ben.
At least, he was my Ben for a minute there. But then I broke his heart and shut him out.
The room is still so peaceful and serene, even amid my moping. The hideaway refuses to succumb to my negative energy. A ray of rainbow light shines through the stained glass. Despite the serene ambience, I don’t feel calmed by this room. For perhaps the first time ever, I’m sitting in the relaxing hideaway and I’m stressed out of my mind.
I sit down on a chair near the door. When I look to my left, I realize I’m sitting right next to all of Ben’s
paintings from the last week.
My mind was already in a melancholy mood as I turned over past mistakes. Now these paintings torment me further, burning me with a deeper pain than I’d ever imagined a piece of canvas covered in acrylic could inflict. But it’s a pleasureful pain, a sweet sadistic longing.
They have a hypnotic energy about them which both beckons me to come nearer and warns me to stay away. I’m drawn to the paintings but I can’t bring myself to touch them, to move them, to do anything. I want to toss the pictures out the window and I want to stare at them forever.
To decide between admiring Ben’s beautiful paintings or throwing these pieces of art away is an impossible choice. Both possibilities feel like destructive recipes for long-lasting pain.
Maybe I’m sadistic, maybe I just can’t help myself… but I ultimately I pick up some paintings and begin exploring them with my eyes, taking in every inch. I want to be aware of every paintbrush stroke, every example of Ben’s handiwork. I can’t help but run my fingers along the frame and the canvas. Each bump of texture reminds me that Ben’s hands made this, Ben brought this image to life in such a magical way.
He channeled the sparks flying between us into art, and I repaid him with callous dismissal.
Ben has painted so many things in the brief time that he’s been in my home. On one canvas his brushstrokes form pleasing images of the ancient Grecian vases lining the bookshelves in the hideaway. On another he’s captured a moment in time: Katarzyna, hunched over the state-of-the-art stovetop in the kitchen, concentrated in the ancient Polish art of making pirogies.
I pick up a third painting. This one is of a bright yellow songbird bird sitting in the rain, chirping amongst the cold and the storminess. I recognize the creature—it’s the same bird I’ve seen many a time singing on tree branches outside of the hideaway.