by Lisa Sorbe
“Nothing,” I call back to him in a voice that’s higher than normal. “Just never mind!”
Mimi slaps a hand over her mouth, holding back laughter. “Um, hello? I know who you meant. It’s just that,” she pauses, snickering, “you blush every time you say his name.”
I turn and face the two laundry baskets sitting on top of the washer and dryer. Flustered, I begin to sort the darks from the whites, tossing the latter half into the washer as I do. So what if Ben’s boxers are washed alongside my bra and underwear? What does it matter if a pair of my lacy panties get tangled in one of his white undershirts?
Mimi’s brow furrows as she watches me. “Do roommates normally do each other’s laundry? Because I live with Chevy, and even though he’s my brother, I’m not about to touch his tighty whities.” She shudders at the mere thought.
I look back over my shoulder. “Chevy wears tighty whities?”
Mimi leans against the wall and crosses her arms. “Yup.”
I just shake my head. While I don’t know Mimi’s brother all that well, I’ve been in his bar enough that we’ve exchanged pleasantries. He’s a cute guy with a sarcastic wit and a geeky Buddy Holly vibe that a lot of artsy girls back in L.A. would dig. Though knowing what the dude is rocking under his 1950-style cuffed jeans is more info than I need.
“So, how does your boyfriend feel about you staying in Minnesota? With a hot roommate to boot?”
My shoulders tense. “He’s, you know, fine with it.”
“You don’t sound very sure about that.”
I pour some detergent into the measuring cup and then dump the contents into the washer. Slamming the door, I start the machine and then turn around. Leaning back against it, I sigh. “Actually, he’s not.” I suck my lip between my teeth. “And, I sort of lied before. We, um, broke up. Well,” I amend, “we’re taking a break.”
Mimi’s face falls. “Lenny, I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine. I mean, it is what it is.”
“Yeah, but I shouldn’t have egged you on like I did. About Ben and everything.” She takes a deep breath and then regards me like I’m a rabbit about to skitter away from a trap. “It’s just that you totally get this look on your face when his name comes up. You sort of act, I don’t know, almost over-annoyed. And I thought, maybe, you only do that to cover up what you’re really feeling.” She shakes her head and pushes off the wall. “Never mind. What do I know, right?”
I frown, considering her words.
Then…no.
I don’t have feelings for Ben.
Hell, I thought I was in love with Daniel, was literally ready to say yes if he proposed. Yet when we put a pause on our relationship, I felt next to nothing.
“No,” I say. “I like Ben, sure. He’s a nice enough guy. But it’s strictly on a platonic level. And even if I did, hypothetically, feel even remotely attracted to him, he’s so focused on work and the rescue project that he and Lenora cooked up that I doubt he’d have time to date.”
Mimi nods. “You’re probably right. Come to think about it, I’ve never known him to hook up with anyone since he moved here.”
I try to act like I don’t care. Because, you know, I don’t. “No one at all, huh?”
“Nope. Well, he hung out with your grandmother a lot. But that’s different.”
And weird, I mentally add. And then shake the thought right off. Because I don’t want my thoughts drifting back that way, back to the days I when I distrusted him so.
I don’t want Ben to be that guy, the guy I thought he was when I first arrived in Lost Bay.
I don’t.
Mimi’s voice grows louder, breaking into my thoughts and mingling with my doubts until, eventually, they subside altogether. “…not like it’d be hard for him to find someone. I swear the guy has a fan club in Lost Bay.”
I snort. “Yeah, and it’s called Book Club.”
There’s a reason the women who attended the last book club meeting requested to have it here again next time. And it wasn’t because of the cupcakes I threw together last minute. When I point this out to Mimi, she laughs. “Well, your cupcakes really were bomb. I had three that night and took two home to Chevy—which, I’ll admit, never actually made it to him. Anyhoo, that reminds me. Do you think you can make some more for a bachelorette party I’m throwing next week? Maybe with, like, a little penis drawn on each one?” Her eyes take on a devilish glint. “Well, not too little.”
“Oh, my God,” I moan. “You’re terrible.” Then, feeling a foreign sense of confidence ripple through me at the thought, I say, “Erotic cupcakes. Sure, I can totally make that happen.” Stepping forward, I grab her shoulders and gently steer her out of the laundry room. “Now come on. Time to film.”
Turns out the first person to be caught with their pants down is…me.
I’d just come from the shower in Lenora’s bathroom, annoyed that the only towel I could find was a threadbare slip of cotton that barely covered my torso. Ben and I had put in so many hours at the clinic this past week that the last time I actually did laundry was seven whole days ago, when shooting Mimi’s video. Even the boxer shorts and t-shirt I slept in had been worn for over a week straight and felt too dingy to put back on. But it was Sunday morning and I planned to rectify the situation by throwing a load in before braving the roads and heading into town for some baking supplies. And since I could have sworn that I heard Ben go downstairs with Asha about an hour earlier, I figured it was safe to tuck and run.
There wasn’t even a clean towel for me to wrap my hair in, so I just left it down, the water dripping from my locks wetting my shoulders, the strip of cloth down my back. I was just brushing away a stray drop that had run into my eye when Ben stepped out of his room. He stopped short when he saw me, his brows tipping together, his lips pressing into a thin line.
I almost dropped the towel in shock, my mouth popping open, my brows shooting up my forehead.
And then we just stood like that for what I swear was a full minute (but probably not), both in shock, like we’d just been slapped, until Ben averted his gaze and I scrambled past, yammering about how towels cover more than swimming suits do these days and, you know, yada, yada, yada.
And right then and there, I decided to move into Lenora’s room.
That is, as soon as I buy a new bed.
Now, dining with Ben over his breakfast of French toast and fruit, I can barely look at him. Which is stupid, right? Because I wasn’t naked. And like I said earlier—swimming suits show way more skin than what that skimpy little towel bared.
But the whole situation felt intimate, risqué—like this one time when I was ten and caught a peek of a dirty magazine that Cliff had hidden under the couch in the basement. Scared of getting caught, I only dared to flip through a few pages, but the forbidden act and the X-rated images made my stomach flip in a weird, swoony way.
I think I would have felt less exposed if Ben had caught me out by the lake, prancing around in a thong bikini.
I casually sprinkle a spoonful of powdered sugar over my toast and take a deep breath. “Do you need anything in town today? I’m heading to the store.” I scatter a few blueberries over my plate and laugh. “The bride from the bachelorette party liked my penis cupcakes so much she asked if I could do a sort of cupcake tree for her rehearsal dinner next week. It’ll basically triple what I baked for the party, so I made it abundantly clear that it would cost extra if she wanted a penis on each one.” It’s a lame attempt at humor, but in my nervous state, my mouth is running away with me. I rub my wrist, remembering the cramp that drawing all those little phallic shapes gave me. “I swear, it doesn’t matter if they’re real or made of sugar and spice—cocks can be such a pain in the wrist.”
I’m hoping the joke will ease the awkwardness of what happened earlier but, upon further contemplation, realize that bringing up male genitalia may not be the best way of going about it.
Fortunately, my nervous prattling elicits a chuckle from Ben.
<
br /> “Look at you,” he says, cutting into his toast. “Sounds like you’ve got a new side gig.”
“Sounds like I do.” The thought makes me smile, and soon a huge, cheesy grin spills across my face. I feel like I’m being lit up from the inside, as if suddenly all the dark corners I’ve carried with me for so long are being flooded with light and I’m bulging to the point I’m about to burst, the glow seeping out of every pore in my body.
“Okay. My French toast isn’t that good.” Ben takes a bite and considers me while he chews. “What’s got you so smiley?”
How to answer this? Because I don’t even really know. It’ll sound stupid to put what I’ve been thinking this last week into words. To give voice to something that suddenly feels so right, so true, without sounding on par with a kid who just declared that she wants to be a vampire hunter when she grows up.
I pull in a breath. “I think I want to be a…baker.”
Ben sets down his fork and props his elbows on the table. Folding his hands together, he gives me a stern look. “That,” he says, “is an excellent idea.”
And then he smiles.
“Really?” I bite my lip, but my excitement breaks through. Why I even care so much about his opinion is beyond me, but I do, so who cares about the why? Maybe it’s because he’s a small business owner and, since my desire is to (Lord, I can hardly dare to dream) open my own shop one day, I’m eager for his guidance, his words of advice.
So see? That’s it. Entirely professional.
Though now, staring at him from across the breakfast table and remembering the towel incident from not even an hour ago, it’s like I’ve been lit on fire. And the only thing that can douse the flames are Ben’s hands.
Ben’s lips.
Ben’s…
Okay. So maybe not entirely professional.
“You got a game plan?” Ben takes a sip of his coffee and waits, unaware of the lewd thoughts racing through my mind.
I fidget. “Um, not really. I haven’t thought that far ahead, actually. I just know that it’s something I want to do. I’ll need more experience, for sure. And some classes, of course.” For some reason, I feel the need to defend my decision, though I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because if a year ago someone told me that my deepest desire would be to bake cakes and cookies and pies, I’d have said they were crazy.
But these last couple weeks? Fiddling around with Lenora’s recipes?
It’s the most relaxed I’ve been in years. Maybe…ever.
Ben waits, patient, as I work out what I’m trying to express.
“Actually, it’s not just a want. It’s more like a feeling, a need to do this. Does that make sense?” I drop my forehead into my palms and groan. “Listen to me! ‘I wanna be a baker’,” I say, mocking myself. “What the hell am I thinking?”
“Sometimes thinking is the worst thing you can do.”
“Tell me about it,” I mumble, peering at him through my fingers before lifting my head. “It’s just that this is so out of left field. How can it possibly be right?”
Ben looks down at his hands, quiet for a moment, and as I watch him, I realize how much I appreciate the way he always seems to consider what he’s about to say. Everything out of his mouth has a point, a purpose. Like our conversation matters, like I matter, and he wants to make sure that whatever he’s about to say is actually worth saying—as if he’s determined to always throw the very best of himself into whatever situation he’s in.
Yeah, I can see why Lenora was so sweet on him.
“Maybe,” he says, and he looks up at me, “you were the one out of bounds all these years. And now,” he shrugs, “you’re just finding your way back to the playing field. Back…home.”
I shovel the last bite of French toast into my mouth and think about what he said.
Home.
I’ve never really felt like I had one.
I have a family. One I’m tied to by blood. But what does that mean, really? Home is where the heart is, and I’ve never felt welcomed in my mother and Cliff’s house. And, of course, there was Lenora, but she was always so far away.
“The last time I came to visit Lenora, I asked if I could stay. Permanently.”
The words feel like they’re being pulled from me by a hook.
Ben’s surprised expression tells me this is something Lenora never shared with him. “Really.”
I reach for my coffee mug and nod. “Yup. I was ten, maybe eleven, I think?” I screw together my features, trying to remember. “Anyway, I asked her if I could live with her and she said no.”
Ben frowns. “You didn’t want to go back home?”
“You mean, back to my mother and Cliff’s house? Um, no.” My short laugh is nothing but a bitter exhale. “I did not.”
“She had to have had a reason.”
Ben, ever the defender.
“Oh, I’m sure she had many. And as an adult, I can see that now. But as a kid, I just felt rejected.” My eyes burn with the memory, but not enough to blubber the way I did back then, back when Lenora dropped me off at the airport and I begged and pleaded with her to let me stay. “I got over it, of course. But I never really forgot. It just proved what I’d been thinking all along, that I was only wanted when it was convenient. That people would only allow me into their lives on their terms, not mine.”
I blush. Here I go again. Rambling about shit that doesn’t need to be said. It’s just that Ben has this way about him, this quiet presence, and it lulls me into a sense of security where, before I know it, I’m spilling my guts. All of my deepest thoughts and emotions and feelings just come pouring out.
Splat.
“Lenora and I never spoke about that day again. She never brought up my request or offered to revisit her decision. And now, with her dead and gone, I’ll never have the chance to ask.” Talking about this has ripped scabs off old wounds I thought had long since healed. Have I really been holding her rejection with me all these years? Carrying it around like a shield to ward off others who might do the same?
Lenora, who had a reason for everything, had given me none that day. Her no was a simple no, and that was it. There was no elaboration, no explaining.
Lenora, who always had an answer for everything, a long drawn out explanation for why something was the way it was and things were the way they were, couldn’t drudge up more than a single no in response to the most important question I’d ever asked her.
“Was it me? Was it something I did? I’ll never know. I’ll never…”
Ben sees the way I’m struggling for the right word and finishes for me. “Closure.”
I look at him, the word fissuring open something so deep inside of me I can feel the crack, the pop, the release of pressure.
“You’re looking for closure.”
A sigh whispers through my lips. “You’re right. But it doesn’t matter, because she’s gone. I can’t get it.”
Ben fiddles with the handle of his coffee mug and then, suddenly, pushes out of his seat. “Wait here.” His voice is rough, deep in the way it always is, and the words aren’t so much a request as they are a command. Before I can say anything, he’s gone, out of the kitchen, his footfalls heavy on the stairs.
When a minute turns to five, I stand, gather the dishes, and rinse them in the sink. By the time five minutes have turned into ten, I’ve loaded the dishwasher, turned it on, wiped down the table, and refilled my coffee mug. After returning to my seat and kicking my legs up onto the chair next to mine, I start wondering if he forgot about me.
I’m halfway through my drink when I hear what sounds like a bowling ball tumbling down the stairs. I take a sip of coffee, hardly concerned. Ben is a lot of things, but stealthy isn’t one of them. The last time we snowshoed, I joked that his feet were so big he could probably get by without the help of the extra wide kicks. Which then leads me to remember the story Mimi told me about the bassist with the small hands, and how big feet must mean—
“Took me awhile to find
it,” Ben says, striding into the room. Stopping next to the chair where my feet are propped, he nudges them aside and steals the seat, scooting it closer to the table. Angling himself my way, he drops a photograph onto the table, presses his pointer finger on the top corner, and slides it over to me.
I pull it closer and study it, careful not to smudge my fingerprints over the image. The photo is old and yellowed, the tint coming from age. But other than that, the picture is in pristine condition; not one bend or crease rumples the glossy paper.
“Is this you?” I ask, taking in the boy in the photo, who appears to be about nine or ten.
He merely nods. His expression, stoic, gives nothing away.
I glance back down, noting the same expression on Ben’s younger version, the way his little brows are pointed downward, the firm set of his jaw. His lips, full even at that age, are pressed together so as to not reveal any emotion.
I’d say the little guy looked like he was in military school, if not for the baggy pants that are at least a size too big and an oversized flannel jacket rolled up at the cuffs. He’s wearing a bright orange trucker’s hat, and a plastic orange vest practically glows atop the muddy brown flannel. At his feet is a dead dear, its head slanting at an unnatural angle.
I don’t know a lot about hunting, but whenever I see a gunslinger pose for a photo with his kill, he’s usually kneeling down next to it, hands wrapped around the antlers to hold the head up, a proud smile widening his features.
For some reason, this image shocks me. I mean, I never thought about it. But if it was something I were to think about, I never would have pegged Ben to be a hunter.
I peer up at him. “You don’t seem very happy in this.” Indicating the photograph, I twirl a finger over the image. “You didn’t do the whole hunter’s pose.”
Ben huffs. “That,” he says, “was one of the worst days of my life. And having grown up in foster care, well, that says something.”
I don’t know what to say to that, because even though I know what it feels like to be unwanted, I was never really on my own. I had security—in a sense, at least. Being fed and clothed and housed was never something I had to spend my younger years fighting for. Though I did have the wits about me to know it was only temporary. To know that everything I was being handed was out of obligation and not love. Still, abandonment was never something I had to worry about. The sudden absence of one of Cliff Renshaw’s daughters—even if I wasn’t a true Renshaw—would have led to gossip, to the neighbors talking, prattling to one another behind cupped hands and closed doors.