I desperately want to touch it.
My adrenaline spikes and my breathing shallows as I weigh the ramifications of him waking up and finding my hand molesting his face. It would not be good.
But if I can just do it softly enough . . . and if he stirs, I can snatch it away and pretend to be asleep . . .
I’m floating outside my body as I watch my hand reach out to his face. I trail my fingers lightly—ever so lightly—over his cheek, his prickly stubble rough under the pads of my fingertips. His skin is warm, and I gulp as my heart jumps into my throat.
He breathes out a small sigh and I freeze, drawing my hand back slightly. But he doesn’t stir, just sort of tilts his head fractionally closer to where my palm had been. I smile, the realization warming my belly: Maybe I’m not the only one hungry for human contact.
I replace my fingers and continue tracing them down his jaw to his chin, then brush my knuckles up toward his ear in a lazy circuit of discovery. I run my hand up and back for about as long as I dare, then cradle his cheek in my palm, testing the shape of him, and it’s as I suspected: His face fits perfectly in my hand.
I let it rest there for a moment, savoring the solid heat of him, because I know it’ll never happen again. I sear the memory on my brain before reluctantly pulling my hand away, breaking our contact.
He’s a peaceful sleeper, his breathing slow and deep and quiet. It’s surprising—I would have expected a guy his size to snore like a bear. I’m willing to bet he gives off so much heat that if I were wrapped in him, I wouldn’t need the thick electric blanket I use in the winter.
I’m such a creeper.
An uncomfortable sense of disquiet steals over me. The fact that I’m noticing—fine, appreciating—so much about Ben’s body is not good. Not good at all.
Okay, Kate, let’s recalibrate yourself here.
I look at him, trying to conjure up memories of all the rude and offensive things he’s said and done to me since I met him. I command myself to dredge up the feelings of hatred and annoyance that typically accompany his presence.
I dig deep.
But they just aren’t there. I can’t do it—and I feel guilty for even trying when he’s spent his whole night taking care of me. Consciences are the worst.
Am I really experiencing this inner turmoil all because Ben’s finally shown me a modicum of kindness? Am I willing to reevaluate his entire personality based on one night of human decency? Is that all it takes to forget the weeks of abuse I’ve suffered at his hands?
Or have I been wrong about him this whole time?
I cringe as I recall all the nasty things I’ve said to him, all the ways I’ve belittled him since I met him. I’ve reduced him to a stereotype, an archetype—basically, all the types. I’ve called him every name in the book, both to his face and in my head. I told him he was everything I hate about this town. The memory makes me wince.
How will I go back to hating him after this?
One thing’s for sure: I need to figure this out, or things are about to get really weird around the office.
I’m not sober enough for this level of introspection. I make a mental note to analyze it further when my head isn’t pounding. I resettle myself under the covers and—flicking away any lingering misgivings—scoot a little closer, cuddling up to him as much as I dare with me under the covers and him above. I relax against him, matching my breaths to his long, slow inhales and exhales.
His peaceful face is the last thing I see before I drift off again.
Chapter 13
I wake up to noises in my kitchen. I live alone; why are there noises in my kitchen?
I sit up but immediately regret it when my head screams in protest. I sink back onto the pillows, heart galloping in my chest, trying to figure out what’s happening.
Do I have an intruder? Or worse, did I bring someone home last night and . . . forget? I wince at the thought.
I smell coffee. If it is an intruder, they’re courteous at least.
I glance around my room in a daze, cursing the sunlight that’s filtering through my curtains and splicing into my throbbing head. My eyes zero in on a foreign object on the floor: men’s shoes. I stare at them for a moment before muddled memories begin to wash over me.
Me drunk. Ben carrying me. Me vomiting. Ben sleeping in my bed.
The images are hazy, blurred—I can’t remember much of what I said, what we talked about—but I do know Ben brought me home. The pit in my stomach all but guarantees I’ve said incriminating things.
And now he’s in my kitchen. Making or drinking coffee.
My headache is threatening to shut my brain down, so I swallow the two Advil I spot on my nightstand. Maybe I can just stay in my room until he gets the hint and leaves. It seems like a viable option.
I pull the sheets over my head and hide for a full minute. Two. I can’t really breathe. I’m hyperventilating. Eventually I poke my head out and hear the clinking of dishes. Yep, he’s still here. I’m going to have to man up. Woman up. Whatever.
I creep to my door and peek out. I see nothing. I open the door a little wider, slip into the hall, and peep into the kitchen. He must hear me because he instantly turns my way.
“Morning. How are you feeling?”
He’s all smiles, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Oh God—he’s a morning person. Of course he is. By this time, he probably would have run ten miles and caught his breakfast with his bare hands.
“Oh, uh. Um. Fine.” I pause. “So you actually are here. That wasn’t a dream.”
He chuckles as he gives me a once-over. I probably look like the Crypt Keeper. I cower farther into the hallway in shame.
“You need to eat something. Last night you said you hadn’t eaten.”
At just the mention of food, my stomach turns over. “Oh, I—I don’t think so. Need to eat, I mean. I just. Um, need to take a shower.”
I’m stuttering like a kid on her first day of kindergarten. I back away, fleeing down the hallway to the bathroom.
I lock the door behind me, turn on the shower, and crumple onto the closed toilet lid, cradling my pounding head in my hands. What am I going to do about this? How can I get him out of my apartment? I’ve embarrassed myself so epically, I will never leave this bathroom. It is now, literally, a panic room. I stare at my shower curtain as more of last night’s memories come flooding back, this time of my vomiting and his gentle hair tying. I groan miserably.
There’s a light rap on the door. “Kate?”
I jump a foot. “What!” I shout. Dial it down, Kate. “Um, yes?” I say, a bit more demurely.
“Are you okay?” A pause. “I can leave if you want.” Praise Jesus!
“Oh . . . well, okay. You can leave if you want. I don’t care. Whatever. I just—I need to shower.” Please, for the love of all that is holy, be gone by the time I get out.
Another pause. “All right, well, I’ll just finish making you breakfast. You don’t have to eat it, but you really should get something in your stomach.”
My belly growls a bit. Now I’m hungry? Why am I so all over the place? My body is a traitorous wench.
“Okay,” I call. I watch the shadows from his feet retreat from the door.
I throw myself into the shower, taking an extra-long time to wash and condition my hair. I shave my legs. I let the water stream onto my head endlessly in a pointless attempt to wash away my disgrace. When I’m done, I’ve steamed up the bathroom so completely I can barely breathe. I wrap myself in a towel and crack open the door, listening. I don’t hear anything.
I make a beeline for my bedroom and slam the door. I throw on a pair of my comfiest yoga pants and an old, soft V-neck tee, then brush my hair out slowly, wincing at the tender spot on the back of my head. Only I am talented enough to make a hangover worse by ensuring my head pounds in the front and back.
&nbs
p; I feel halfway human again, my headache dulled some, thanks to the Advil. I don’t look quite as horrifying, though I have dark circles under my eyes and my face is still leached of color. When I scan the floor, I notice his shoes are missing and breathe a deep sigh of relief. He must have left.
I open my door a crack and listen, hearing nothing. I’m satisfied that he’s gone, so I open the door fully and walk into the kitchen. A plate has been laid out with a piece of buttered toast, scrambled eggs, and a glass of ginger ale. I bend over and inhale. It smells heavenly.
“You’re looking better.”
I yelp in fright, peering through the opening of my kitchenette to the living room.
Ben’s sitting on my couch—which I now recall with a sinking feeling was the site of vomiting episode number one—sipping leisurely on a mug of coffee. He looks entirely too comfortable and familiar in my apartment.
I place my hand over my thumping heart and sag against the counter. “Jesus. I thought you’d left.”
“Apparently.”
He stands and saunters over to the breakfast bar, an amused smile lighting his face. I find it nearly impossible to maintain eye contact.
“Just wanted to make sure you were good before I head out.”
“I’m good.” I am not good. I am the opposite of good. “Thanks for . . . all this.” I sweep my arm through the air, gesturing to the food, but hoping he knows I mean everything involved in the last twelve hours.
Ben sets his mug on the counter and shoves his hands in his pockets, not acknowledging my thanks. “What’s with all the food in your freezer?”
Huh? Holy left field. “What are you talking about? It’s a freezer.”
He smiles patiently. “It looks like you’re hoarding meals for the apocalypse.”
I laugh, relaxing some, then cross from the kitchen into the living room so I’m standing next to him. “Those are just my leftovers. I intentionally make extra food at dinner so I don’t have to buy lunch every day.”
“Don’t you find it annoying to cook for one person?”
“Well, yeah, but that’s why I triple the recipe, so the effort pays off over multiple days.”
“Huh.” He scratches his chin. “Sounds like a lot of work.”
“I like cooking.” The next words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. “Would you want to come over for dinner sometime?”
We both simultaneously widen our eyes. What am I doing? Remorse must be written all over my face because the smile he gives me is guarded.
“I’ll allow you to take it back.”
I let out a stilted laugh, immediately feeling ridiculous. It’s only dinner. What’s the worst that can happen?
“No, it’s fine. It’s the least I can do to thank you for . . . your help.” I can’t even indirectly reference the events of last night. Just thinking about it makes me want to hurl myself out the window. “Plus, it’d be nice to cook for someone else for a change. Though knowing your appetite, it would probably be more like cooking for four,” I tease.
“You’re not wrong.” He looks . . . pleased. “All right, then, I accept. I have a policy of never turning down food.”
I grin. “I do know that about you.”
There’s an awkward silence as we appraise each other uncertainly.
“I changed a couple of your lightbulbs,” he blurts out, apropos of nothing.
“You changed my lightbulbs?”
“They were out. I thought I’d make myself useful,” he says sheepishly.
“I can’t reach them. I’ve been meaning to call the super.”
“I figured.” He points to himself and shrugs. “Tall guy. Super handy.”
I can’t help my laughter. Who is this person? Thoughtful and considerate are absolutely not what I was expecting.
“Thanks. That was sweet of you.” I reach out and brush his elbow in thanks.
He smiles, wide and unguarded this time, his eyes bright and bottomless. Seriously, how is this a real color? Against the green of his shirt, they’re practically electric.
I jolt like I’ve been shocked by a doctor’s paddles. Memories flood my brain and I’m left reeling. I remember my hand moving up his arm . . . down his chest . . . into his waistband . . .
My hand flies to my mouth. Oh my God. Humiliation rolls off me in toxic clouds. It’s the atomic bomb of embarrassment. I am the Fat Man and the Little Boy.
“Ah, I can see you’re remembering some things from last night.” His mouth holds an amused smirk.
“I—I’m so sorry . . . I don’t know what to say . . .”
“Don’t be sorry. It’s fine.” He waves it away, like the fact that I sexually assaulted him is nothing.
“It’s not fine. You helped me and I . . . I can’t believe I would have . . .” I can’t finish my thought. I’m brain-dead with embarrassment. “I’m horrified.”
His smile drops.
“I didn’t do— I mean, we didn’t—?”
His mouth falls open, his expression shifting from surprise to anger. “No. Nothing happened. Jesus, Kate, you think I’d take advantage of a sloppy drunk? Some of us have better decision-making abilities than that.”
I visibly flinch at his words, absorbing them like a physical blow. They tangibly hurt. But once I’m over the shock, fury builds in its place. Humiliation and rage churn inside me like a swirling tornado.
So I do what I know how to do. Like the reverse of a snake shedding its skin, I slip on my hating-Ben armor. Hitting back is familiar territory for us. As familiar to me as my own name.
“Thank God,” I say nastily. “Or else I’d need to take another shower.”
Ben stares at me for a long, loaded moment. “Really? That’s how you want to play this?”
“I’m not playing at anything. Listen, I never asked you to—”
“Do you have any idea what could have happened to you last night if I hadn’t shown up? Who could’ve seen you?”
Outrage spikes my blood. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“What if one of our colleagues had walked in and seen you like that? How do you think it would look for one of Senator Warner’s top aides to get caught fall-down drunk the same week her signature legislation gets killed? What if that guy at the bar had been a reporter? Shit gets around this town. You may not care about your reputation, but I’ve seen people get fired for a lot less.”
I’m incensed. “Are you kidding me? I go out drinking one time and suddenly I’m publicly shaming my boss? I don’t know who appointed you the morality police, but I can take care of myself. Have been for years now.”
“You can take care of yourself. Really.” He barks a loud ha! and too late I realize how I’ve set myself up again. “Which part of last night demonstrated that you can take care of yourself? Was it when you drank enough for six people on an empty stomach? Or was it the part where you couldn’t walk without falling? Or when you thought it was a good idea to flirt with slimy barflies scouting for an easy target?”
A fireball of indignation lodges in my chest. “Oh, you’re so self-righteous. I forgot I was talking to Mr. Perfect. Well, you can take this caveman act and shove it. I don’t need this crap in my life.”
“I’m a caveman?” He’s incredulous, anger pluming off him like smoke. “This caveman picked you up wasted at a bar and carried you home. This caveman held your hair back while you threw up. This caveman made sure no one took advantage of you.”
He’s practically spitting the words at me, his entire body coiled in restrained anger. He’s the Hulk building into a frenzy, and at any moment there’ll be an explosion of fury and ripped clothing. He’s standing so close to me that I glimpse the flecks of yellow and blue in his eyes colluding to give them their otherworldly glow. He doesn’t deserve those eyes.
“If I was a caveman, I would’ve taken y
ou up on it when you threw yourself at me.” He wields the proof like a sword, and it slices clean through me.
“I did not throw myself at you.” I nearly choke on the words.
“Could’ve fooled me. Or I guess all friends paw each other?”
I think I’m going to be sick again. A high-pitched alarm crescendos in my brain. Escape, it screams. Run. But there’s nowhere to go. I’m a deer in the headlights, an animal in the crosshairs.
He takes a step toward me and his eyes are cold, the teasing twinkle gone, wallpapered over by bitterness and contempt.
“You’re reckless and irresponsible and God forbid someone calls you out on it. It’s the worst kind of privilege, the way you walk around like nothing will ever happen to you. You think you’re the first person to have a bill go down in flames? You think you’ve wasted nine months? I’ve been doing this for eight years. Grow up, Kate. Most people pick themselves up and fight harder, but you, you’d rather lash out at me and make every bad decision in the book.” He shakes his head in disgust. “I knew you were stubborn, but I didn’t think you were stupid.”
His harsh words echo in my head like a skipping record. I take a ragged breath, trying to loosen the tight fist of hurt in my chest.
“Wow,” I say, shaken. “Tell me how you really feel, Ben.”
I watch the darkness drain from his eyes, his hard look replaced by one of blinking surprise. He seems a little shell-shocked, like even he is stunned by what just came out of his mouth.
“You know what, I am stupid,” I say as I step back, silently cursing my wobbly voice. I can’t let him see how much his words have hurt me. “I’m so stupid, I actually thought we were becoming friends. But thank you for reminding me why that won’t ever happen.”
He starts to speak but I raise a hand to silence him. “You showed me who you were the first time I met you: a rude, arrogant prick. I should have believed you then. But I’ve got good news for you.” I sidestep away from him and cross to my door. “You don’t need to worry about me anymore. Thank you very much for your help last night, but no further assistance needed. I don’t need to be saved, by you or anyone else. You’re not my knight in shining armor, you’re not my brother, you’re not my bodyguard. You’re not my anything.”
Meet You in the Middle Page 12