My hand finds the back of his neck, and I run my fingers through his hair in a gentle massage. “Should we go say hi?”
“No. We should have her committed.”
I laugh, but I’m pretty sure he isn’t joking. “C’mon,” I say, and unclick my seat belt.
As I turn to open the door, Ben tells me to wait, and when I look back at him he leans across the seat and kisses me. There is a depth of need in this kiss to which I am unaccustomed. I can feel it in the way he leans, the way he reaches, the manner in which his mouth draws on mine, the grasp of his hands. There’s something fierce in this kiss, something raw and unguarded. Something that says, Please catch me. I’m falling.
After a minute my hands find his face, and I pull back, looking him in the eyes. Six days later, we are forehead to forehead again, but I know him now—not as an old friend with a shared history, but as something much more.
“Let’s go inside,” I whisper.
He glances out the windshield at the garage, where his mom teeters on a step stool, pushing a package of paper towels onto a top shelf. “Can we sneak in the front door?”
I smile. “It’ll just take a second.”
Adele wants to hear all about my dress while Ben hefts the Bounty rolls onto the top shelf, then quickly fills in the rest on the rack below.
“There isn’t much to tell,” I say. “Just found it at Second Sands.”
“Can you imagine somebody letting go of that?” she says. “So glad you put it to good use. Didn’t expect you home so early, Benny.” She pats Ben’s arm, but he ignores the question and continues putting stuff away.
“John Doone showed up,” I say, trying to fill the silence, but Ben shoots me a look, eyes wide. Why are you talking to her about this?
“It’s all anybody’s talked about at work this week,” Adele says, shaking her head. “His daddy’s been on the phone with the door closed for hours talking to lawyers. Margie’s been in and out all week, too, crying buckets every time I see her.”
Ben hefts the last pack of paper towels into place. “Well, tell her to come here if she needs a tissue. We’re prepared for a flood. Won’t need an ark. We can just mop up the whole planet with these.”
“Thanks, hon.” Adele tries to peck his cheek, but he squirms away. “Now we won’t have to worry about running out for a while.”
“Were we worried about running out of paper towels before? Was there some worldwide shortage I didn’t hear about?” There’s an edge of scorn in Ben’s voice.
“It was just . . . such a good deal.” Adele blinks, her eyes smudged with the liner she wore to the gym tonight. “I actually made twenty dollars when I picked these up.” She looks over at me and smiles in hopes of a friendlier audience. “I had a coup—”
“A coo-pon,” Ben cuts her off, mimicking his mom’s pronunciation. “You and your coo-pons. Jesus, Mom. When’s it gonna be enough? The stores aren’t shutting down. We can go buy freaking toilet paper whenever we need some.”
Ben’s anger chokes Adele, and her eyes water. She glances at me, then blushes at the floor. “Just . . . like saving money, I guess . . .” She busies herself folding up the step stool. She leans it against the wall, then reaches the door that leads into the downstairs rec room. She pauses with her hand on the knob, trying to salvage this ruined moment. “What do you have planned for the rest of the evening?”
Ben shrugs. “Watch a movie or something.”
She searches Ben’s face, but he won’t make eye contact. It’s excruciating to witness. “That sounds nice.” She turns and gives me a shy smile. “Good night, Katie. You look beautiful.”
I say thank you as she slips through the door, closing it behind her. I am seized by the urge to chase after her and give her a hug, but I don’t. Ben won’t look at me for a minute either. He jams a stray case of Altoids back onto a shelf. I hear water flowing through pipes and imagine Adele, stepping into a hot shower upstairs.
Ben punches the button to close the garage, then opens the door to the rec room. “Coming?”
As I follow him down the hall, I feel a frown folding around the words that form in my mouth. What the hell was that? Why did you yell at your mom? As we reach the den I turn to say this. Ben kisses me. I kiss him back, and he wraps his arms around me. He slips an arm under my thighs as he bends, and lifts, gently laying me back on the sectional that outlines half the room.
“Wait,” I whisper between kisses. I want to talk to him about what is happening. He is kneeling on the floor, his upper body slowly settling on top of me, his arm around my lower back pulling me close, every part of him pressed up against me. The same desperate kisses from out in the driveway fill my mouth, the heat of his body against mine steals my breath, and fogs all the things I want to say, words written on a mirror in a steamed-up bathroom.
He reaches for the zipper at the back of my dress and draws me up with the arm underneath me as he unzips it. I feel his bicep bulge and remember again how powerful he is. I say, “Wait,” once more, but it’s as if he doesn’t hear me. His fingers are warm on my bare back, his tongue adamant against my own as he pulls the dress loose from my shoulders, one hand sliding down, down, down my back, cupping my hip in his hand. He pulls me more tightly beneath him, throwing one leg up onto the sectional with me, rolling his full weight onto the couch, while his fingers continue searching beneath me.
My pulse is racing now as fast as my mind. I press my palms flat against his shoulders, pushing back and up. I roll my mouth away from his and thrust my whole body against him, bucking him sideways, back off the couch and onto the floor.
“Jesus! Ben.”
He stares back at me, dazed. “What?”
“What is with you tonight?”
He blinks at me, then scowls. “You’re the one who wanted to come inside.”
“Yeah, I did, before you decided to make your mom cry. And I just told you to wait. Twice. What the hell?” I pull my dress up and sit back on the couch, huffing out a long slow breath.
He is kneeling on the carpet, his face red. He peers up at me, ashamed. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Really. I wouldn’t—”
“That was some bullshit out there with your mom.”
His eyes darken and he looks away, pulling off his jacket and tossing it onto the couch. “Don’t tell me about my mom. She’s crazy.”
“You know what else is crazy?” I snap. “That you’re way more upset about a stack of paper towels than you are about what’s going on with Dooney and Deacon.”
His eyes flash up to mine. “What do you mean?”
I can’t hold the question in any longer. “Were you there when it happened, Ben?”
He gapes at me. “When what happened? I was dropping you off at home.”
“After that.” I drill down. “When you went back for your truck. What was going on?”
“I went in to tell Dooney bye. That’s it.”
“So, what Stacey says happened . . . you’re saying it didn’t?”
“I don’t even know for sure what she’s saying.”
A response forms in my mouth but is pulled back by a jolt in my chest. It’s the first time this phrase has entered my mind. Ben looks at me, expectantly. Finally I force out the words in a rush. “That she was raped, Ben. More than once. By different guys on your team.”
Ben groans and rolls his eyes, but I keep going.
“Sloane Keating said Stacey was in the hospital all day on Sunday—”
“Wait.” Ben holds up a hand. “That reporter? She said this on the news?”
“No. Last night. She told me.”
Ben frowns. “Where were you talking to a reporter?”
I take a deep breath, then blurt it out. Quick, like a Band-Aid. “At Coral Creek. I went to see Stacey. Sloane Keating was hanging out in a news van.”
I see Ben blink twice when I say this. Even in the dim light of a single lamp the color seems to drain from his face. “Kate. What the hell are you doing?” He hisses this in a loud whisper, as
if he’s afraid the walls are listening in or the whole house is bugged. “Why did you go talk to Stacey?”
“I didn’t talk to her,” I tell him. “Her mom shut the door in my face, and then I got ambushed by a reporter.”
“We weren’t there,” Ben says. “Nothing happened. And even if it did, you and I were already gone.”
“When ‘nothing’ happens at a party, charges aren’t filed, and reporters don’t show up.” These words slice through the air between us, and Ben rocks back on his heels as they find their mark.
“Coach told us that we shouldn’t talk to anyone about this. Why are you talking to reporters?”
“He’s not my coach. And I didn’t talk to her.”
“She sure as hell knew our names tonight.”
I sigh. “We’re both all over the Buccaneers Facebook page. It’s not hard to figure out. She’s a reporter.”
“Exactly,” he says. “A reporter. She doesn’t care about Stacey. Or any of us. She just wants to make a name for herself. That’s why we should stay as far away from this whole thing as we can.”
“Dooney isn’t staying away from it. You saw him tonight. He’s loving this.”
Ben closes his eyes and rubs his temples like he has a headache. His expression is the same one he has when he sees his mom hauling stuff into the garage—like he wishes he could snap his fingers and make all of it disappear, me included.
Something about this makes me furious.
“Oh yeah. It’s such a pain in the ass, isn’t it? The fact that someone else had something terrible happen to her.” It comes out more sarcastically than I mean it to, but I don’t stop. “And what if Dooney did do this? So now he’s got a hotshot lawyer, right? What if he gets off the hook? Won’t he just think he can go on acting this way forever? Did you see how Coach and Mr. Jessup were smacking him on the back tonight? It made me sick.”
Ben places his hands on my shoulders and looks right into my eyes. “Kate. We are not the police. This is not our problem.”
I wonder if he’s lost his mind. “Not our problem? Your two best friends might’ve raped someone.”
“Why would Deacon and Dooney rape anybody?” he asks. “They can both have any girl they want. You saw Stacey hanging all over them at the party.”
“That doesn’t mean she wanted them to fuck her.”
Ben jerks like I’ve slapped him in the face. “We don’t know that,” he says quietly. “We weren’t there.”
“Exactly,” I say. “For all we know, it’s just as likely that Dooney and Deacon are the ones lying. Don’t we owe it to Stacey to believe she might be telling the truth?”
“I don’t owe her anything.”
Something about these words cracks me open. I try to choke back a sob, but start crying despite my best intentions.
Ben reaches for my hand. “Kate, no—please, I didn’t mean—”
“What about me?” I choke. “Do you owe me something? I was just as wasted as she was. Why do I get driven home and kept safe but not her? Why not just leave me to Dooney and Deacon and the boys in the basement?”
“Because I love you.”
He fires this back at me, then smacks a hand over his mouth. The words roll through my chest like a thunderclap. More tears stream down my cheeks and I try to wipe them away, but they won’t stop coming. How many times did I imagine hearing I love you from Ben? How many times will I wish I had kept my mouth shut so I didn’t have to hear it like this?
Ben collapses onto the floor, turning around to sit with his back against the couch, his arm against my leg. We stay like this for a long time staring at the dark TV screen on the opposite wall, watching different movies in our minds.
Mine is the image of Ben, walking back to Dooney’s that night, pausing on the stairs to tell Rachel and Christy good-bye as they leave. He finds John and Deacon in the kitchen, finishing the Cabo Wabo with Stacey. Ben waves away the shot they offer. He bumps fists with Greg. He hears Randy call up the stairs from the den. He stops at the top of the stairwell and yells a later back down.
Then he leaves.
In my mind’s eye, I see him closing Dooney’s front door and walking to his truck. He climbs in, he turns on some music, and he drives home. I see the Ben I have always known, being the person he has always been: honest and kind.
I see the guy who loves me.
Of course he’s angry and confused. Of course he doesn’t know who to believe. Isn’t that exactly how I feel?
Finally, Ben reaches over and slides his hand around my ankle. He runs his fingers up and down on my calf, hesitant, searching out some common ground between us. “You have such great soccer legs.”
“The better to kick your ass with.”
He turns toward me with a sheepish grin and I roll my eyes. “Where the hell did you learn to unzip a dress with one hand? Was there a clinic on that at basketball camp?”
“I’ve been the man of the house for a few years now,” he says quietly. “I’m good at zipping them up, too. Here, lemme show you.”
He stands and takes both my hands, pulling me to my feet. He turns me around and pulls the zipper up my back, adjusting the fabric on my shoulders. Then he places a tender kiss on my neck.
I turn around. He leans in and kisses my lips once. “Can I have a do-over?”
I nod.
“I love you, Kate Weston.”
“I love you, too, Ben Cody.” The words tumble out in a whisper.
He drives me home and walks me to the front door. Beneath the porch light, he gives me one last kiss. He wraps both arms around me, pats me on the back, and whispers in my ear the words he said that first time he hugged me when we were five years old.
“It’s okay. It’s going to be fine.”
twenty-four
I WAKE UP to the sound of laughter.
It’s early still, but I know it’s only me and Will in the house. When his crew is on a project, Dad always puts in at least half a day on Saturday, and most of the time, he doesn’t get home until five. Weekends, Mom meets her friend Mindy from work to speed-walk in the park. She talks about all the calories they burn when she gets home and makes sure to mention that afterward she had her omelet made from Egg Beaters, that yellow stuff that comes in a carton and looks like liquid eggs, but isn’t quite.
I smile as I think about Mom and Mindy, pumping their arms and swinging their hips from side to side in the funny way that speed walking requires. All that movement, but they don’t cover much ground. I know she’ll switch to Sundays with Mindy once soccer starts. Hopefully, Dad will finish up this project soon and be able to make some games as well.
Will is glued to the screen of his laptop when I poke my head in the door of his room. He’s sitting at his desk, his back to me and his earbuds in, giggling like a crazy person while he clicks through Facebook pictures. I can see he’s on a video chat with Tyler, who must be cracking him up. I smile and tiptoe sideways around his bed so I can stay out of the camera frame. It is my general rule that I refuse to appear on any camera in any way until I have looked at myself in a mirror. I also want to spook the crap out of my brother. Will likes to sneak up and scare the bejesus out of me. This is payback.
I am stretching out my hands to squeeze his shoulders and shout Boo! when he says something that makes me freeze.
“No way, dude. She’s a six, tops.”
I frown and slowly lower myself onto my knees so I’m below the sight line of the camera, but can still see the screen if I crane my head sideways. Will clicks back and forth between two pictures of a girl named Emily from his class.
“She’s got a mustache, Ty. I swear. That picture has more filters on it than Dooney’s hot tub.”
I see Tyler’s head pop back with a hoot of laughter in the square at the corner of Will’s screen. Will giggles like he used to when we were little and spent Saturday mornings watching SpongeBob in our PJs instead of . . . doing whatever this is.
Tyler says something I can’t hear, and W
ill acquiesces. “Fine!” he shouts. “I’ll give her a seven, but she is not in the top three.” Will clicks to comment on the picture. He types a 7 then #JVbuccs, then #r&p.
As he moves to post this, I jump up and grab his wrist. “No!”
Will leaps to his feet, screaming. I would say that he yelled, but it was higher pitched than that. Definitely a scream. His headphones rip from his ears, but not fast enough, and the wire pulls his laptop across the desk. It hits his leg, and the padded seat of his rolling chair before bouncing onto the carpet.
“What the hell are you doing?” He’s panting like he just ran a fast mile.
“I might ask the same of you,” I say calmly. “You’re not really about to post a rank on that girl’s Facebook picture are you?”
Will’s gaze darts to his laptop on the floor. He dives for it, but I smack my bare foot on top of it, and slide it toward me. His gangly ninth-grade limbs are longer than mine, but he’s not in full control of them yet—no match for my fast feet and twelve years of soccer drills.
“Watch it!” he yells. “You’re gonna break my computer.”
“I’m gonna break your face if you don’t knock it off.”
“Why do you care?” he huffs. “It’s just a game.”
I cross my arms as my eyes go wide. “Just a game? Putting that number on her Facebook wall so everybody can see it? Are you kidding me?”
“It’s a joke.” Will is pleading now, his eyes downcast.
“No, it’s not. It’s somebody’s feelings.”
I flip open his laptop, and the screen blinks to life. The chat window is blank now. Tyler has disappeared back into the ether. He’ll stay there if he knows what’s good for him.
I put the laptop back on his desk. “Look at her,” I command.
Will rolls his eyes and sinks into his chair, his lips a locked vault.
“How would you feel if I ranked you? Or Tyler?” I ask. “What if I put numbers under your pictures and told the whole world that you two aren’t very attractive? Would you like that?”
His silent shrug makes me want to smack him in the back of the head. “Jesus, Will. She’s a human being, not a hashtag. There’s a person involved.” As the word hashtag leaves my lips, the blinking cursor in the comment box catches my eye. I point at #r&p. “What is this? What does it mean?”
What We Saw Page 13