Nicholas shifted uneasily.
“What I don’t get,” Ben continued, “is if it had any fucking conscience, if that’s why it warns people, then what the fuck was that about?”
“I don’t know, Ben.”
Ben took the lid to the whiskey and screwed it to the top of the bottle. He pulled the drawer open to return it to its place, but he stilled when he noticed the other contents of the drawer for the first time.
“Fuck,” Ben whispered.
“What is it?” Nicholas asked, stepping forward.
Ben pulled a book from the drawer. He thumbed through the pages, and his laughter subsided as he noticed the scrawl of his father’s unmistakable, almost illegible handwriting in the margins. Passages were underlined, sometimes twice for emphasis, and a skim of the entire book showed that almost every page bore some kind of mark as proof that his father had read the work in its entirety.
“What is that?” Nicholas asked.
Ben did not look up from the copy of The Blue Tulip. “It’s my first book,” he said. “The asshole actually read it.”
Nicholas stepped closer, and Ben glanced up to the other man as he spied the book. Ben flipped through to the last page.
The final note from his father was a vindication written in chicken scratch. “This is the best thing I ever read, Benji.”
Ben tossed the book into the open drawer and put his head in his hands. He kicked the drawer closed, and the loud thud of the wood reverberated.
“Ben,” Nicholas said as he moved around the desk.
“You should go.”
Nicholas knelt down at Ben’s side, but he kept quiet. “Let’s get you upstairs,” he said after several minutes passed in dreary silence. “You should sleep.”
Ben let Nicholas take hold of his shoulder and haul him up from the chair. As they walked to the entry hall, Ben whispered, “I can belong here, you know.”
“I didn’t mean what I said before,” Nicholas replied, his tone soft and apologetic as he guided Ben upstairs. “I was being a dick.”
Ben did not reply. In the bedroom, he waved his arm to gesture at the four walls. “Love what I’ve done with the place?”
Nicholas huffed out a laugh and unknotted Ben’s tie. Ben’s arms hung heavy at his sides, and he allowed Nicholas to continue.
“Oh, yes. It’s still very you.”
Ben gave Nicholas a wretched smile. “You should see my place in Boston,” he said. “It’s very grown up.”
“I’m sure it is, Ben.”
Ben’s head lolled, and he sighed as Nicholas unbuttoned his shirt for him. “Everything’s so fucked up,” he said. “We’ll probably never see each other after this.”
“Is that what you want?” Nicholas’ voice was quiet, too quiet, and the controlled brokenness of it twisted at Ben’s insides.
After a long moment of contemplation, Ben shook his head. “But it’s what will happen.”
Nicholas took each of Ben’s hands in his own so that he could undo the cuffs of Ben’s sleeves. “It doesn’t have to.”
Ben kept quiet, but his uncertainty permeated the air around them.
Nicholas helped him out of the shirt and tossed it over the chair by the bed. “So you’re Preston James.”
“Surprise.”
“I guess that makes you my favorite writer.”
“I guess it does.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. James,” Nicholas said with a tenderness that Ben would not have expected after their earlier arguments. “But I still prefer Ben Wisehart.”
“You’re alone in that.”
Nicholas unbuckled Ben’s belt before he unzipped his pants and let them drop down to the floor. It felt intimate without the rush of sex that would usually follow such a disrobing.
“Get in bed,” Nicholas whispered.
Ben complied. Nicholas pulled the covers up and over Ben’s shoulders.
“I’m gonna stay a while,” Nicholas said.
Ben watched the other man through heavy eyelids and managed a small nod.
“You’ll find it, Ben,” Caroline said as her red eyes stared up from the kitchen floor. “But you have to trust it when you do.”
Ben’s eyes snapped open. The familiar image of his mother sent a jolt of panic through his brain. He had not dreamed of Caroline for years.
Bright light poured in through the window. Ben’s head throbbed. He yanked the pillow out from underneath his head and covered his face with it, certain that he was in his bed back in Boston.
The smell of the fabric softener on the pillowcase made him bolt upright in alarm. He was not in his bed, these were not his sheets, and that was not the lemony-fresh scent of his usual detergent.
Ben grimaced at the sunlight, but his bleary vision settled over the man in the chair beside the bed. Nicholas was asleep, and his long body was stretched out in an awkward pose. Ben sat up further, causing the mattress to creak slightly, and Nicholas stirred.
“Good morning,” Nicholas said in a voice that was gruff from sleep. He straightened and scrunched his nose as he rolled his neck.
Ben rubbed a hand over his left temple and winced. He struggled to recall their conversations from the night before through the murky haze of his hangover. “You didn’t have to stay.”
“I wanted to.”
Ben said nothing. His head throbbed in outrage over last night’s whiskey.
“You got aspirin or anything?”
“Maybe,” Ben said. “Downstairs, probably.”
“Come on, let’s go.”
Every muscle in Ben’s body felt stiff. He tugged a gray t-shirt out of his bag and pulled it on as he followed Nicholas downstairs.
The clock on the wall in the kitchen read just after six o’clock. Nicholas shuffled around the kitchen before he finally found a drawer with a bottle of Tylenol inside.
“Here,” he said, offering Ben two tablets and a glass of water.
Ben swallowed them and drank the entire glass. His mouth felt like it had been stuffed with a ball of cotton.
“I’ll put some coffee on,” Nicholas said, but Ben shook his head.
“No, you sit down. You slept in a chair. I’ll make it.”
Ben prepared the coffee while Nicholas sat at the kitchen table. He was aware of Nicholas’ contemplative gaze on him the entire time.
“We should talk,” Nicholas said.
“Oh?”
Nicholas took the cup of coffee when Ben offered it to him. Ben sat down opposite the sheriff and sipped from his own mug.
“Let’s hear it, then.”
“Maybe you were right yesterday,” Nicholas started. “Maybe I have this idea of you, and you’re not that idea anymore.”
Here it comes. Ben stared down at the steam that rose from his coffee. A part of him had expected this revelation even before their failed dinner the night before.
Nicholas brushed his right hand over Ben’s. “You’re better than the idea I had, and I’m sorry I’m not a better version of whatever memory you have of me.”
“Are you going to help us kill the thing in the woods?”
Nicholas blinked at Ben for a beat before he nodded in confirmation. “Of course.”
“Then you’re fine the way you are, Nic.”
Nicholas’ forced smile was full of melancholy. “Did yesterday fuck things up for us?” he asked with caution as if he did not want to know the answer.
“No,” Ben sighed. “We’re fine.”
“In my head,” Nicholas said, “when I thought of seeing you again, I never thought it would be this hard.”
“What, you didn’t factor in the supernatural creature living on the edge of town as the ultimate cockblock? I’m surprised, Sheriff.”
Nicholas huffed a laugh and glanced up at the clock. “I should go. I’m on duty in an hour, and I need to shower.”
“Yeah, okay.”
Nicholas stood, and Ben followed him to the front door.
“I am glad you’re h
ere,” Nicholas said, turning. “I’m glad you came back. You belong here for as long as you want to belong here. And speaking selfishly, I hope you want to. For as long a while as you can stand.”
Ben regarded the other man with uncertainty, but Nicholas stepped closer and took Ben’s face into his hands. His eyes shone with an affection that was both beautiful and terrifying.
“I love you,” Nicholas said. “I’ve loved you for years. You don’t belong anywhere else because I think you belong here with me.”
Ben’s stilled at the familiar words. His words.
“Don’t go again, Ben.”
Ben smiled despite the ache in his heart and the throb of his head. “Let’s live through this,” he said. “Then we’ll see.”
Nicholas’ thumb brushed against the stubble on Ben’s cheek. “May I kiss you?”
Ben tilted his head and leaned forward. He did not speak his permission, but he gave it freely as he pressed his lips to Nicholas’.
Nicholas cradled Ben’s head in his hands. His eyes fluttered shut, and he leaned closer and kissed with a gentle intensity that caused Ben’s knees to tremble. With a final caress of his lips, Nicholas receded a few inches.
“I’ll talk to Harper,” he said.
“I’ll talk to Lewis and Warren.”
“Be careful,” Nicholas said. “Don’t answer your phone if it’s—you know.”
“You too, Nic.”
Ben watched the sheriff stride out to his cruiser. They smiled to one another from a distance before Nicholas got into the car and drove away.
A fresh copy of the Gazette rested on the doormat. Ben grabbed the newspaper and closed the door, entertaining the idea of another coffee. A quick skim of the morning’s headline halted his steps.
“Point Pleasant’s Prodigal Son and His Stunning Tale of Success.” Ben studied the decade-old photograph of himself on the front page and skimmed the first few lines of the story written, of course, by Elizabeth Collins.
“Reputable local business man Lionel Dawson has informed The Gazette of a celebrity in our midst: Ben Wisehart—son of Lieutenant Andrew Wisehart, who died tragically yesterday in the accident on New Silver Bridge—is none other than esteemed author Preston James. James, Wisehart’s pseudonym, has received critical acclaim from the New York Times for his writing…”
“Asshole,” Ben said and tightened his grip on the edges of the paper. “You sold me out.”
He scanned the rest of the article, and his eyes narrowed at the final paragraph. “Wisehart’s return precedes next week’s annual Harvest Festival. The author will be available for book signings and a discussion of his work and life in Point Pleasant.”
They were using him to garner more attendees for the festival.
Fuck all.
Ben dressed in his best suit and pulled the Camaro into town around eight o’clock. He strode into the office of the Gazette, which was still quiet given the early hour. There were a few groggy staff members present who were sipping on their coffees as if the cups were filled with liquid life support.
“This is bullshit,” Ben announced to the newsroom as he held up his crinkled copy of the morning paper.
Lizzie shot up from her desk, and the intense scarlet of her lipstick grated against Ben’s nerves.
“Ben!” Lizzie cried out. She sounded almost giddy. “I’m sorry about yesterday,” she said as she strode to his side and put out a hand to shake. “I get it now. You were protecting your identity!”
Ben ignored the gesture. “Yeah and then you put it all over the front page!”
Lizzie waved this away as if it was an unimportant detail. “Look, it was either that or the tragedy on the bridge, and Stewart insisted we keep that off the front page because of the festival next week. I’m so sorry about your dad, by the way.”
“Are you actually fucking kidding me right now?”
Lizzie faltered at his anger. “I’m sorry, Ben. I shouldn’t have gone off on you in the café.”
“You had no right to publish this. I’m not some tourist attraction for you to use to lure in extra visitors for your fucking festival.”
“But I thought you’d want everyone in town to know,” Lizzie said, shrinking back a step. “How well you’ve done, I mean. I always knew you’d do well, I told you yesterday.”
“Where’s Richard?”
Lizzie shrunk away a few more steps. “He doesn’t come in until ten o’clock on Fridays.”
Ben clutched the newspaper in his fist. “Well, when he gets in, you tell him Kate, my lawyer, is in town in a few days. And we’ll speak then.”
“Ben, please,” Lizzie started, but he pivoted on his heel and headed out of the building before she could finish.
There was a waste bin with a cheery sign on the side that read, ‘Help Us Keep Point Pleasant Pleasant!’ Ben threw his copy of the paper into the bin as he stalked down the sidewalk. He paused as he approached Duvall’s.
The bell over the door chimed when he entered.
The diner was filled with old men in flannel shirts drinking coffee and eating plates of pancakes and bacon to prepare for their days at work. Behind the counter, Mae whispered something to Keith before she came around to the front to greet Ben.
“Ben,” Mae said and took his hands in her own. “I’m so sorry, honey.”
“Morning, Mae.”
Mae shook her head and sat down with him in a booth by the window. Ben was aware that everyone in the diner had turned to watch them, though he did not know if this was because of the article in the morning’s paper or for sympathy over Andrew. Maybe it was both. He ebbed under the attention either way.
Mae noticed, and she twisted around with a wild, defiant edge to her demeanor. “Go back to your business!”
Ben slid down in the booth and sighed. Mae continued to hold his hand over the table.
“Honey, what can I do?”
Ben gave a weak shrug of his shoulders. “There’s nothing to do, Mae. Thanks, though.”
“You look like hell. You eaten yet?”
Ben struggled to recall his last meal and realized he had not eaten since the previous morning. “I’m okay, Mae.”
“Balls,” she said, and waved Keith over. “Get Ben a stack of flapjacks,” she said. “And bacon and coffee.”
“Mae, I’m fine,” Ben insisted, but she shushed him as Keith disappeared to the kitchen.
Ben grappled with the sudden, uncomfortable urge to walk out of the diner. Mae gripped his hand again.
“You made the morning paper,” she said.
“I’m not happy about that,” Ben replied.
“But honey, we’re proud of you. It’s not everyday we make someone as special as you.”
“We?”
“The town,” Mae said. “Everybody’s talking about you. You’re our first and only author as far as I know.”
“It’s no big deal, Mae.”
“It is, Ben. What was that line about a magazine the other night? And everything your daddy’s been saying all these years?”
“Dad didn’t approve of my career choice,” Ben said with a sigh.
Mae finally let go of Ben’s hand when Keith brought over two cups of coffee and resumed his place behind the counter. “Your daddy,” she said as she took the sugar shaker and poured a good measure of its contents into her cup. “He was a good man, but he was as proud and stubborn as a damn mule. God rest his soul.”
Ben could not help a caustic chuckle as he sugared his own coffee. “Truer words never spoken.”
Mae held up her mug. “To your daddy. A stubborn fool, but one of the best men this town has ever known.”
Ben raised his mug as well, and he tried to smile. “Hell of a pool player too.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Mae said.
The coffee was acrid and made Ben feel queasy, so he left the mug on the table. Mae stood after Ben’s pancakes arrived.
“I gotta get back to work,” Mae said. “Breakfast’s on me, don’t wo
rry about it.”
“Thanks, Mae.”
“I’d better see you for lunch, Ben Wisehart,” she said and shot him a stern expression. “Or I’ll hunt you down and drag you in. You need to eat.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Ben ate in silence and tried to ignore the gawping customers who jangled the bell over the diner’s front door as they came and went.
Sugar Maple Lane was a ten-minute drive from Main Street. Ben parked in front of a small blue house with messy rose bushes in the front yard. His quick search of the phone book in Andrew’s office that morning had informed him that Evelyn Lewis, retired veterinarian, lived here.
Ben knocked on the white door and scrubbed a hand through his hair as he waited for an answer. After a moment, a woman with cropped blonde hair opened the door. She wore sunglasses to cover the dark holes where her eyes had once been.
“Yes?” She tilted her head as if to sense who was there.
“Dr. Lewis? My name is Ben Wisehart, I don’t know if you rem—”
“You brought that dead turtle to my practice,” she said with a laugh.
And it was true. He and Nicholas had been about ten or eleven when they found the turtle on its carapace by the side of the road. They had both been convinced it was just hiding in its shell. On the walk to Dr. Lewis’ office, Ben had decided to call it Raphael with Nicholas’ approval. Lewis had given them a smile laced with regret and said, “Sorry, boys. This one’s gone home to his maker.”
Ben smiled at the memory. “Yes, ma’am.”
Lewis laughed again and moved aside. “Come on in,” she said. “Leave any dead turtles on the porch, though.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Ben repeated and stepped inside.
“Want a cup of coffee? I just made a pot,” she said as she closed the door.
“Only if you’re having one.”
She nodded and walked toward the kitchen, trailing her right hand against the walls as she went. Ben followed a few steps behind and took in the bright, open expanse of her living room.
“Thought you moved away?”
“I did. I came back a few days ago to visit.”
“That’s nice. You enjoying yourself?”
Ben paused and considered the question. “Not really, ma’am.”
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