For Those We Love

by Lisa Sorbe

  I’ve never seen Daniel this way. The man flits between modesty and arrogance so fast that sometimes I can’t tell one from the other. In the past, I wondered if it was all in my head. If his flickering personality was something my overactive imagination was, you know, imagining. Because by the time my brain processed what I was seeing enough to question it, the possessive intimidation was gone, and in its place was the rich, handsome, humble doctor I thought I was falling in love with.

  I’m afraid I’m making Daniel sound like a borderline abusive asshole. And he’s not. He’s never laid a hand on me, never so much as raised his voice in all the time we’ve been together. But then again, I’ve never defied him. Never put him in a situation like this.

  Daniel throws his hands in the air and looks around, a sneer loosening his handsome features like a screw, revealing a distorted version of the man I thought I knew.

  I’ve never seen this face before.

  “You’re not staying here, with that man, in this house, for another minute.” He swipes a hand down his face, his feet wearing a path in front of the fireplace. “I won’t have it. I promise you. I will not have it.”

  He doesn’t raise his voice; he doesn’t need to. His tongue alone is a sharpened dagger, the words so piercing they don’t need the rise in decibel to be heard.

  I stand my ground. Lord, help me, I stand my ground. “I’m not leaving. And that,” I say, drawing in a breath as I point toward the foyer where Ben was standing, “was a ridiculous display of machoism. You know that, right? And for what? What reason? You don’t even know him! The two of you have barely said more than a handful of words to each other since you got here! What could you possibly have against Ben?”

  If Daniel’s tongue is a sharpened dagger, the laughter he sprays me with now is filled with needles. A million tiny needles so thin that they dig past tissue, strike bone. And I feel it. I feel every single one of them, sense the sting, hear the ping as they strike.

  “If you can’t see it, Lenny, then…you’re blind. Or maybe you can see it, and that,” he jabs a finger at me, “is the very reason you want to stay.”

  I’m not blind. But apparently, I am that transparent. Because if Daniel has caught on to my, uh, little crush on Ben then, surely, he can’t be the only one.

  I straighten my back and lift my chin, though it takes everything in me to hold the stance. Guilt mixing with embarrassment threatens to crumble what little composure I have left.

  “It’s not that I want to stay, Daniel. I need to stay. We’ve been over this a thousand times. Why the hell are you suddenly not okay with it now?”

  “Not okay with it now.” Daniel repeats my words like he’s truly mulling them over. “Let’s see. I’ve never been okay with it. You’re obsessed with this inheritance,” he curls his fingers in the air, twisting the word in sarcasm, “and too blind to see that the looney old woman who left it to you is giving you the runaround. I mean, who does this sort of shit? Gives her own granddaughter an ultimatum like this? Expects you to just drop everything? She’s upending your life to satisfy her whim.” He’s still pacing, his frustration reminding me of agitated panther who’s been caged too long. “It’s like she’s mind-fucking you from the grave. It’s…it’s sick.”

  I don’t even know how to respond. Even though I should be exploding, rising up to defend not only myself, but Lenora as well, I…can’t. Because while his method of expression left much to be desired, his assessment of the situation—of Lenora and her will and the outlandish stipulation she put on it—is one that I’ve actually thought of myself. More than once.

  But unlike Daniel, I haven’t reached any set conclusion. I refuse to believe she was, as he put it, looney. Or that her intentions were sick. There’s a reason for this. For why I’m here. For Ben and the stipulation and the timing and…everything.

  Lenora wasn’t looney. Even with Alzheimer’s eating away at her mind, she knew what she was doing. I believe that. I have to believe that.

  “I understand how you can see it that way. I do. But you didn’t know her. Lenora is—was—the smartest person I’ve ever known. And she always had a reason for everything she did.”

  Daniel huffs. “Please, Lenny. Even you can’t be this gullible. She changed her will, what, a year ago? It was right around the time that asshole moved in here, wasn’t it?” Before I can answer, before I can even get out the words Yeah, but so what? he’s rushing on to his next argument. “I googled him, Lenny.”

  My mouth drops open in shock. “What the hell?”

  But Daniel bushes me off. “Really? Like I wasn’t going to try and find out everything I could about the stranger who was living under the same roof as my girlfriend.”

  I cross my arms, but keep my lips zipped. I can’t really blame him for the act. In fact, I’m shocked I didn’t think to do it myself.

  “There’s nothing on him. Nada. Not until he came here, anyway. The guy is a complete ghost on social media. He doesn’t even have so much as a Linked-In profile. And what kind of professional doesn’t at least have a Linked-In account?”

  I shrug, not really caring about all that. Ben isn’t into appearances, doesn’t give a rat’s ass about things like followers and likes and comments and subscribers. He, unlike so many of us, doesn’t need the ego boost. Though, I have to admit, not having a Linked-In account is a bit strange. Hell, even I have one, albeit the only title under my name is Influencer. Weak, I know. Not that I’ve been doing much influencing lately, anyway.

  “Lenora trusted Ben. And like I said, she had a reason…”

  “…for everything she did. Yeah, you mentioned that.” For a moment, he faces the windows, the icy reflection brightening his eyes and dousing the heat. “Well, I’d sure as shit like to know what it was.” Then, turning, he assesses me, his demeanor dropping to match the temperature of the frozen landscape outside. “But this isn’t about her. Regardless of what her motivations were, you’re the one choosing to entertain them. So you know what? Stay if you want. Stay up here and rot in this shithole. Because I’m done giving a damn.”

  “Oh, that’s rich,” I spat. “If you think Lenora is so manipulative, what about you? Huh? So cooly suggesting we take a break and then, weeks later, showing up here out of the blue with some trite apology? You only told me what you thought I wanted to hear. And the only reason you suggested spending time apart in the first place is because you thought it would scare me enough to come running back to California. You’re only here because I called your bluff.”

  Daniel can’t even form an adequate response to that. After a few seconds of silence, he goes with an old standby. “Whatever, Lenny.”

  “Yep, Daniel,” I smart back. “Whatever.”

  And that’s how we end.

  Not with a bang. Not with a whimper.

  But with a flippant, pathetic whatever.

  Daniel’s words have wormed their way into my brain, eating away at the trusting image of Ben I’ve built up in my head over the last month and a half. I haven’t gone back to square one exactly, but I am wobbling between certainty and doubt. You know, one step forward, two steps back. It’s a shuffle, and I’ve been going back and forth between the two since Daniel stormed out three days ago.

  But, strangely enough, all of that hasn’t stalled my desire. A fiery heat still blooms throughout my body whenever we’re in the same room together.

  Like now.

  It’s Saturday night and, once again, I’m up to my elbows in flour. My laptop is propped open on the kitchen island, streaming a video on how to make a unicorn cake. My supplies are scattered around me—new cake pans and ingredients—and even though taking this order is putting me in the red, I’m having the time of my life.

  Or maybe it’s the wine that’s lifting my mood to new heights and, for the moment anyway, allowing me to forget the complete shitshow of the past week—starting with that stupid dance with Ben and escalating into a bad breakup with Daniel.

  Just thinking about it now
causes my mood to dip, so I take another swig of merlot and bump up the volume on my Spotify playlist. From the corner of my eye, I catch Ben glance up from his spot at the kitchen table, shooting me a look over his laptop that I can’t quite read. Next to his elbow are two beer bottles, both empty, like he’s trying to drink himself into a better mood, too.

  Because these past few days, he’s been Oscar the Grouch.

  The night Daniel left, of course, he was contrite, seeking me out the minute he got home from work and offering an apology. But when I told him that Daniel left, that we broke up for good this time and he was currently holed up at the Lost Bay Motel waiting for the storm to pass, a shadow fell over his eyes and his jaw tightened. And he’s basically been grumpy ever since.

  I would have thought having Daniel out of the house would have put him in a better mood, but…well…nope.

  And it’s annoying. Though I don’t know why. Maybe I’m angry at him for the way he behaved this past week, as angry as I still am at Daniel. Or maybe it’s the fact that he had the audacity to dance with me the way he did, to hold me the way he did, to light a fire in me the way he did, and then, when it was over, act as if nothing happened.

  Yep. I think that’s it. Ben made me feel something that I’ve never felt before, made me feel a way that I never believed was possible to feel…and then took it all away. And, to go a step further, his lack of acknowledgment about the whole thing is making it that much worse.

  In a nutshell, I’m mad at Ben for making me out to be a fool.

  I’m a girl who likes a boy who doesn’t like her back. And my ego is raging because of it. Which is another thing that ticks me off. I’ve never cared one way or another about whether or not someone liked me. If they did, great. If not, then move the hell on.

  As Mimi would say, I ain’t got time for that shit.

  But now? Ben’s rejection is all I can think about. Even when Daniel was here, it consumed me. Turned my thoughts to one man when, maybe, I should have been focusing on another.

  Daniel wasn’t right about everything. But maybe he did have a right to storm off the way he did. I mean, how would I feel if the shoe was on the other foot? If he was sharing a house with a beautiful woman and couldn’t steer his attention away from her long enough to focus on a conversation with me? If I could read every glance he threw her way, interpret every little nuance of body language?

  Of course, there were other issues that instigated our breakup. But that one, my swoony reaction to Ben, was my doing, and at the very least I need to take responsibility for it.

  This pathetic crush is pointless and unhealthy, and it needs to stop.

  Now.

  But, hey. That’s sober Lenny talking.

  Tonight, the buzzed part of me, the part that’s been marinating in wine for the last two hours, just wants to lash out. To pull a reaction from the man who is hellbent on not giving me one.

  Up until now, I’ve been pulling music from my Indie playlist, the songs of Fleet Foxes and The Tallest Man on Earth soothing my ire while I measured and stirred, frosted and smoothed. And since Ben has been sitting in here for the same amount of time, doing whatever it is he’s doing on his laptop, I can only assume he doesn’t mind my choice of music. Otherwise he would have left.

  Well, maybe he’ll mind this.

  I scroll to the search bar (because Lord knows I don’t have the damn song on a playlist) and, my fingers leaving traitorous prints of flour on the keys, find what I’m looking for and hit play.

  Satisfied, I look up just in time to see Ben’s features twist in disgust. “What the hell is this?”

  “It’s techno.” I bop my head along to beat, whip my ponytail from side to side as I whisk batter. “What?” I widen my eyes, feigning surprise. “You don’t like it?”

  Ben scowls. “It’s obnoxious.”

  I shrug. “Potayto, potahto. To each his own.” Personally, I couldn’t agree with him more. But this song, this remix of “Barbie Girl”, is the only techno song I even remotely know the words to. So I sway my hips and swill more wine and pretend to enjoy the shit out of it.

  Actually, the song isn’t so bad when you’re drunk, and I’m damn near just about.

  When the look Ben gives me is sharp enough to cut glass, I acquiesce. “I take requests, if you’d prefer something else.”

  Instead of answering, Ben rises from his seat and slowly, as if he has all the time in the world, as if this music isn’t making his ears bleed, makes his way to my side.

  The look on his face causes my breath to catch, and I have to remind myself that the intensity hardening his features is just a byproduct of the responsibility he carries. The way he shoulders the world. Still, he’s a force to be reckoned with. One that, in my humiliated, inebriated state I feel obligated to poke away at.

  I smile up at him pleasantly, like being this close to him has no effect on me whatsoever.

  Without a word, he bends over the laptop, bangs away at the keys for a few seconds, and steps back. Rock, hard rock, screams from the speakers. Not recognizing the song, I squint at the screen, mouthing the band’s name as I read it. Black Sabbath. The song is “N.I.B.”

  I cross my arms over my chest and nod along, listening to the lyrics, never once allowing my gaze to stray from Ben’s. It’s sung from Lucifer’s perspective, at least from what I can tell, who is challenging the object of his affection to give up everything she knows and love him instead.

  “Isn’t this song from, like, the ‘70s?” I ask, doing my best to sound bored. “Kinda dusty, if you ask me.”

  He smirks before twisting around, reaching across the short distance for the refrigerator door. Pulling it open, he grabs another beer, unscrews the cap, and leans back against the counter. “To each his own right?” He takes a long drink from his bottle, his eyes on me the entire time.

  So I try another tactic. Turning my back to Ben, I bend over the island and shuffle through my playlists. “Personally,” I say, holding the position for longer than I really need to, “if we’re gonna go old school, I prefer this.”

  “Crush” by Garbage croons through the speakers, the sultry, suggestive lyrics giving voice to a dark and dangerous game I’m now in too deep to quit. I sway my hips for a beat before straightening. Then I tug the rubber band out of my hair, allowing the waves to spill wild over my shoulders.

  Shameless? Yes, I am.

  Taking a cue from Ben, I reach for the fridge, brushing my chest against his as I do. Then, snagging my wine, I take a drink straight from the bottle, licking my lips when I’m done.

  Ben sets his beer on the counter, his eyes on my mouth.

  “You really want to play this game, Lenny?” His voice is daring, husky; it brushes over my skin, raising goosebumps.

  “What game is that? Huh, Ben?” My voice is a teasing whisper.

  He swallows. Hard. I watch his Adam’s apple bob, and it suddenly hits me how much I want to run my tongue up his neck. Over his jaw. Right into the shell of his ear.

  And we’re close now. So close. Our chests heave with heavy breaths, the rise and fall pushing us that much closer, closer, invading what little personal space we have left until, when I’m certain I can’t take it any longer, I feel Ben’s hand on mine. I look down in question as his fingers grip my bottle, pulling it easily from my grasp before depositing on the counter next to his.

  The song continues but, like before, when we were dancing at Jasper’s, the room melts away, and the music is just a hum somewhere in the back of my mind. Ben’s hands are suddenly on my hips, the pressure both light and heavy, gentle and firm, the weight soft, yet magnified by his intention.

  My chest is swelling, swelling with so many things that I just might burst from the enormity of it all. It’s every feeling, every sensation I’ve ever had, the good and, strangely enough, even the bad, like everything is lumping into one big ball of emotion and I have no idea what to feel, how to be. But maybe that’s what Heaven is, taking every feeling you’ve ever
had in your whole entire life and coalescing it into one big, unquantifiable emotion. Because everything is everything, and everything is.

  For the first time in my life, I get Nirvana. I get the I am message that so many spiritual adepts tout.

  I am.

  I am, I am, I am.

  I am because I have to be. Because Ben is kissing me, his lips are on my lips, and my world is spinning, spinning, spinning. I’m dizzy from desire, dizzy from his touch, dizzy from the way his tongue is parting my mouth, eager to reach mine. And after eternity fades and forever takes its place, when I finally slide away from his kiss and press my mouth to his jaw, feeling the tickle of stubble against my lips, he moans.

  “Lenny.”

  It’s my name, but it’s so much more.

  It’s a plea.

  It’s a warning.

  It’s a promise.

  • • •

  For the first time since arriving in Lost Bay, I’m hot.

  I’m hot from the inside out.

  Grabbing the blanket at my waist, I give it a tug, lifting it and flinging it over the edge, where it puddles on the floor in front of the fireplace. My too-hot-to-handle cotton underpants embroidered with pink rhinos fly with it, making me snicker.

  “If I knew that some hot guy was going to ripping my clothes off tonight, I would’ve worn something sexier.”

  Ben growls, pulling me close and bending his head to suck at my neck. “What are you talking about,” he says, his voice muffled. “Those rhino pants are off the charts hot.”

  The stubble from his beard tickles my skin, sending a ripple of chills all the way down to my toes, and I press my hands against his chest, laughing. “Stop! Seriously, stop— Ben…that tickles!”

  But he doesn’t stop. Just continues his torture, moving from my neck to a supersensitive spot just behind my ear that, less than an hour ago, he discovered is my weakness. Granted, lying skin to skin with a gorgeous man who is hellbent on giving me my third (tenth?!) orgasm for the night can hardly be considered torture. But considering what my body has been through in such a short amount of time, to say it’s overly sensitive at the moment would be putting it mildly. And right now, Ben is strumming my sweet spots as if turning me into a quivering mess is his sole reason for existing.