by Shey Stahl
I felt nauseas. Like any minute I was going to spew.
The ceremony was finished in a matter of ten minutes, and I barely could focus, what with trying to avoid puking all over the bride, until I saw the expression on Bensen’s face when the minister asked them to repeat after him.
The pain in his eyes was clear. Again, his stare held me. I couldn’t look away. Did he feel any regret over this? I had so many questions for him.
And then I puked. Luckily we had walked back down the path and had returned to the house so I made it to the bathroom just in time.
As I sat there on the edge of the tub, trying to get myself together for the sake of Ivey, I thought about his face again and what it was he was feeling.
Why did he give it back without saying anything?
I wasn’t in that bathroom five minutes and Ivey was looking for me.
After today I was sure I was up for the worst best friend ever.
She handed me a cold rag right before the reception started. “When you get married I’m going to drive my car through that motherfucker.” I knew she wasn’t serious, but if she was, I deserved it.
The reception was in the backyard. All the chairs from the wedding had been pushed aside and made way for a makeshift wood dance floor and a small stage to the left of the large deck overlooking the lake. Everyone was concerned about the weather so things got started pretty early, but it was pretty damn funny that everyone’s hair was a mess from the humidity and the women’s dresses were blowing up from the wind. Strategically placed white umbrellas offered a little shielding.
If I hadn’t been so drunk, I probably would have laughed.
Instead I sat there and drooled on myself.
Bensen was at the table reserved for the Cole family, hands clasped with his elbows on his knees, head hung.
I was ignoring him and looking for Grayden, but I hadn’t actually moved from the table Ivey sat me at after the wedding. I wasn’t sure I could.
“Here.” She handed me a cup of coffee. “Drink this and don’t move.”
She was about ten feet away when I yelled after her, “What if I have to pee?”
Ivey shot me a glare. “Piss on yourself!”
She wasn’t serious. We’d get through this. She loved me. I knew we would. I still felt like an asshole, though.
When Bensen heard my voice, his head whipped around, but he didn’t get up.
We looked at each other from about ten feet away. He ran his hands through his hair and tugged at his tie.
The moment between us, the stillness, the bloodshot eyes and the bleary stare changed our path. It really did. He looked up at me, and I hated him. But in that moment, I saw something I thought I would never see in Bensen Cole.
Tears. Maybe just one or two but still.
When he blinked them away and stared at the bottom of his glass of ice cubes, I felt relieved that finally he felt the pain I had carried for years.
Fucker.
The problem was now I knew that he had felt it for just as long.
Double fucker.
MOST PEOPLE were assholes. They just were. Myself included.
I wasn’t much of a drinker either, yet there I was, sipping coffee at my best friend’s wedding after throwing up during the ceremony.
The night had settled into an easy pace now. Country music came from a live band to my right, friends and family all celebrating the joining of two great people. Tiny twinkle lights were all around setting a peaceful mood. Any other time this would’ve been perfect, but for me, tonight, it wasn’t.
Bensen was walking to me now, a slow stride set by his indecisiveness that held me steady. I could hear my heart in my ears when he approached me, his suit jacket had been removed, white dress shirt rolled up to his elbows.
He was looking at me and the nervousness was running up my spine. And I itched. Fucking itched to no end.
“Dance with me,” he said quietly when he got to the table, his hands on the edge, leaning forward but not looking at me; he was looking at his hands. The top few buttons of his white shirt were undone, giving me a peek at his skin beneath the cotton.
It wasn’t a question.
“No. I can’t. My armpits itch.”
Controlling little motherfucker wasn’t going to push me around anymore.
He smiled, remembering my little itchy quirk, and glanced over at my parents on the dance floor before looking back at me. Even with the low lighting, it was clear he was nervous. He should be nervous.
I wouldn’t look at him, even though I could feel his eyes on mine, contrite and somewhat sincere. I didn’t look because if I did, if I gave in and found those eyes I missed so much, I would want to crawl inside their storm and find cover from the love I could never have.
Instead of looking at him, I looked at the table—safer, boring, round.
The band started up again, covering songs only Tim McGraw should have sung.
Just his stare was challenging, incredulous, hurt. He read my words, knew my deepest thoughts, and who he really was to me back then. Of course he was hurt in some ways.
This was harder than I thought it would be.
“Dance with me,” he whispered under the wind, his voice strong, biting so much back.
When I didn’t reply, his voice came stronger. “I’m not asking you, Sophie. Get up and dance with me.”
“Why?” I could tell when his hands gripped the edge of the table a little tighter and his knuckles turned white, he hated that I would even hesitate. His disappointed eyes told me so. Mine moved from his, quickly avoiding him.
“Because I have some things to say to you, and I don’t want us separated by a fucking table. Get up.”
“Nah,” I said, trying really hard to be casual and uninterested. It wasn’t working out like that though. “This works well for me. You should be used to distance by now.”
My heart started pounding because I was standing up for myself; it was pounding and fighting for everything I was letting go of.
He surprised me when his voice came a little louder, determined even. “You handed me a fucking journal full of memories and a heartache I caused. Let me at least set a few things straight.” When he noticed my anger rising, he added, “Please.”
My liquor lit courage was about to throat punch him.
I looked down at his extended hand, and then his face, and there it was, the fragile hope in his eyes and the nervous set of his mouth. I couldn’t say no. I kept wondering if he had even thought about me since we had last been here, at this same house. His bloodshot, swollen eyes told me he had at least been thinking about me lately.
Again. Fuck me.
“Fine, since you’re asking so nicely,” I said spitefully, placing my hand in his, our fingers curled around each other, fitting together perfectly. It reminded me of the first time I took his hand when I was thirteen on his uncle’s boat.
“Do you really remember all those details you put in the journal?” he asked, his mouth at my ear as he pulled me to his chest.
“Clearly I do.” I looked at my hands instead of his face, trying desperately to shut down and not care about anything he was about to say to me. “It was in the book.”
His head tilted slightly, a wince to his features as his hand squeezed mine. The song changed then and the band played quite possibly the most well-placed song in the history of weddings. When I looked up during that familiar Dave Matthews song to see the band on break, I saw Brady standing near the stereo with a smile.
Well played, buddy. Well played.
“There’s a few things you got wrong,” Bensen said as the opening moaning bellowed through the air leading into “Grey Blue Eyes,” a song that spoke of lost love.
“Like what?”
“You thought it was something you did. It wasn’t,” he finally said, our bodies swaying slightly to the music, but not enough that we were actually dancing. His eyes scanned the space between us as if he was looking to see who was around. There were pe
ople everywhere so this being private wasn’t going to happen today. He knew that, though.
“Bensen …” He silenced me with one look, knowing I was going to tell him to forget it; I wasn’t ready to talk to him about that journal right now. Standing there in my lilac dress, barefoot, splotchy, and tear-stained because I still couldn’t get my shit together, I wondered how he dealt with these last four years, and I wanted to ask, too. The journalist in me wanted some fucking answers. I wanted the bloody, gory details that led up to the slaying.
Bad example.
I felt as if the air was still, my focus entirely on him.
“I missed you, Sophie,” he said, opening himself up, showing me himself, leading into something.
“Why Bensen?” I whispered into his chest. “Why did you leave and pretend I meant nothing to you?”
For a moment his arms tightened around my waist, and we were both silent, but I could tell by the tension in his body he was working himself up to say something, finally.
Pulling at his hair, I almost couldn’t breathe being this close. His eyes were puffy, wearing these last few days on his face.
He pulled back, his eyes watchful. “Can you listen to me?” he begged desperately, hopeful that I might.
“Admitting the truth is never easy,” I said, barely a whisper.
He nodded and blew out a huge breath, like he was completely ridding his body of oxygen. “Can you just please listen to me and hear me out?” My mouth went dry looking at him. I snuck a glance at him. He was taking large even breaths now, warming himself up for something, or maybe settling his nerves.
“Sure.”
Bensen frowned, looking frustrated. I could tell he was struggling to express himself this way. Bensen dropped his head forward, like he was giving up.
“I get it. You did what you needed to do,” I finished.
That’s when his eyes lifted to meet mine. “It wasn’t like that, Sophie.”
I nodded, my voice hitched when I said, “I know.”
He tipped his head to the side. “Do you?”
My heart jumped, my eyes swollen, filled with that sadness I knew too well. “I know you messed around with my sisters. If that’s what you’re referring to.”
Ugh, it felt awful just saying that.
“That’s not everything,” he said, regret thick as the glossy eyes returned. “You don’t know everything.”
Again, I shook my head. I guess maybe I didn’t know.
“Did Grayden tell you?”
“Tell me what?” I felt my face scrunching with every word, my heart beat increasing with every breath it hurt to take.
“About that first summer …” The way his voice trailed off had my heart in my throat again and my skin prickling.
“No.”
“I made a bet with Grayden,” he whispered. “That summer after that party on the boat, Grayden was spouting off about Shanna turning him down. I was cocky and told him I bet I could fuck her before the summer was out.” Bensen looked down, his gaze on his bare feet. “He went a little further and bet me I couldn’t sleep with all five Kaden sisters.”
My soul unraveled. Shaking my head, I closed my eyes. I didn’t want to know this truth, and I was beyond the limits of furious; I was gone. I couldn’t process this truth.
At the pause in his words I finally took a breath, the sound sharp and sudden as if I had finally come up for air. When he spoke, when those lies became reality, my feet and hands were tingling, my whole life changing in front of me, out of reach because what I knew was a lie, an allusion he led me to believe was a lie. A fucking lie.
Fuck me for ever believing in anything.
“Uh …” I tried to process what he was saying, but failed—the anger, the resentment, all rolling through me and shaking my bones. My armpits were itching again.
Bensen took a deep breath before continuing, and even though his voice was soft, I could hear the embarrassment in his words. “I never met to hurt you, and I didn’t sleep with you because of the bet. That had nothing to do with it. I didn’t even follow through with the bet.”
“Oh, well hell, you’re forgiven then.” I tried to swallow, and stop itching, but I couldn’t. It was impossible.
“Really?” He watched me again, as if he would sacrifice the beat in his chest for the break in mine. He was completely freaking out but trying really hard not to let it show. I had to give him credit for that. But not enough credit.
“No. Go fuck yourself.”
This time I turned my back on him. My fuck-you of choice. I stopped briefly to grab another bottle of whiskey and took off.
Even from that distance I could hear his anger bubble over, a consequence only he created, as he flipped over the table I had been sitting at, champagne glasses shattering.
He was ruining his sister’s wedding and my life.
I was sure when I put down that pen, that was the end the Bensen-Sophie drama.
But no, now I’d been thrown a curve ball. Fate’s fast fuck you.
THE SKY around us, once cloudless, rumbled and growled, turning soup-colored, and I knew the steady sprinkle was about to turn to a wall of rain.
Not only was I exhausted, physically and mentally, drunk and sick, I was shaken. With every move, I still wanted him and I hated myself.
So I made a run for it.
Not really. I was still drunk so I more or less stumble-ran, like I was running from an axe murder, looking back every few steps to see if he caught up.
And he did keep up. The problem was I had no idea where I was running, I wasn’t wearing shoes, and Bensen was quick.
“I don’t blame you for hating me! I expected it. Deserved it.”
“Really? Could you be any more of an asshole?” He had no idea how much he deserved it. I looked back so furiously hurt I was scared my voice would break and I wouldn’t get out what I needed. “You expected it? Deserved it? Fucking right you did. I loved you, Bensen. And not just any love. It was the kind that crushed me into peach-mush. It was the half-myself, fucking holding my ripped out heart in my hands type of love!” I nearly fainted after getting all that out, but kept up my attempts at running away.
In his mind, the conversation was far from over and he continued to chase after me. “Just fucking talk to me, please,” he begged, sounding like he was ready to drop to his knees.
I hoped he did fall because maybe, just maybe, he would feel this pain.
“Why?” I shouted, continuing to walk despite my lack of visibility between the tears and rain. In the distance, to the right, I could see the barn. The wind picked up, rain slapping against my tear-soaked heated cheeks.
“Because there are some things I need to say to you,” Bensen said, like it was that easy. He had now almost reached me, as our heavy steps were silenced by a flash through the sky and a loud crack of thunder.
The sound stopped me, and I looked back at him, throwing my hands in the air. Racing through thoughts, trying to wrap my mind around my own hurt, I asked, “Why? Wanna make me feel like shit some more?”
“Damn it, Sophie, please.” He breathed out deeply through his frustration. “Talk to me.”
“No.” I turned to completely face him, my hand on my hip. “You can’t stand here and tell me you don’t remember me, and then tell me I was just some fucking bet you made when you were fifteen, and then get to explain yourself. It doesn’t work that way, Bensen Cole.” The more I yelled at him, the less I felt like I made any sense.
“Why can’t I explain?” He sounded confused.
As was I. My stomach lurched, twisting into more anger and resentment.
“Oh, fuck off.” I kept walking, hoping he would finally leave me alone. Of course he didn’t, and I was pissed to no end and ready to fuck him up. “You messed around with my sisters, Bensen. And then took my virginity against a wall like it meant nothing to you. All on a bet.”
We were getting to more uneven ground when I slipped in the wet grass. He tried to help me catch my
fall, but I only shook off his touch.
“I mean … how could you?” I asked, trying to sink the knife in a little more.
Bensen groaned as if hearing that made his stomach sick. “It wasn’t like that. I didn’t technically do anything to them. I never actually touched them. It wasn’t like what I did with you,” he said in defense, looking like he really was going to vomit.
I hoped he did. I hoped it made him so sick that he puked for days and felt like he was dying a slow painful death because that was exactly how I felt when he left. And how I felt again when I found out about him being with my sisters.
Looking up at him, I had to ask, “Then what exactly did you do with them?”
His brow scrunched as he swallowed hard. “Shanna … she gave—”
“Shut up.” I started walking again. “Just stop talking.”
By the time I turned around again, Bensen had once again caught up with me. The rain picked up, and he grabbed my wrist to pull me inside the barn out of the lightning. Briefly I wondered again about the wedding and hoped Ivey was okay. I ruined her night and that didn’t sit well with me.
That old barn held just as many memories as the dock had. It was the same barn where we played spin-the-bottle. The barn where Brady broke his leg and the same place I drove his truck through the side.
Nothing had changed, but yet, everything felt different.
I looked back at him, wanting to tell him how much I hated him and just how much I wanted to kick the shit out of him.
Bensen bowed his head, the weight of his admittance heavy. Placing his hands on his hips, he took a careful breath. “Sophie …”
When he looked up, his face was contorted like he had thought about this moment so often that it consumed every minute of the last four years.
This was because of him though; that part he couldn’t forget. He did this.
I could feel Bensen’s reluctance to let me go, but he knew I was moments away from punching him. I tried to clear the haze around me, blink away the confusion. I had to know why. Why had he let me go on for so long believing this?