Blank Pages

by Alice Darlington

  CHAPTER 28

  The next day was just as good. It took me much longer to get ready, to decide what to wear, and to work up enough courage to meet the Jacobs. I chose a yellow cardigan to cover my arms, which were bare in my sundress. It was white with gray polka dots, the A-line neck covered the girls, and the skirt flared out in a fifties style. It was the most modest dress I owned, and I figured the most important thing when meeting a boy’s grandmother is not to look like a slut. Yes, this dress definitely kept the slut vibes in check. I pulled my curls back into a high pony and left the sanctuary of Ben’s bedroom to face the mob that was his family.

  There were aunts and uncles and cousins, teenagers and toddlers and babies. It was a full day with way too much food and judgment, though in the nicest way. I tried to tame my awkwardness, and I was doing pretty well until his sister laid my insecurities on the table.

  “He doesn’t bring girls home, you know,” she said, attracting both mine and her cousin Jenny’s attention. We had just sat down to eat, and Ben was still filling his plate.

  “What?” I asked, confused.

  “He told me you think of him as some hotshot player—and he admitted he deserves it—but I just wanted you to know, he doesn’t bring anyone home. You’re special to him.”

  I nodded, unsure how much of this conversation was going to make its way back to Ben. “I know it’s different.” I shrugged. “I just worry about when it’s not anymore.” And there it was. My words surprised me, but as soon as I heard them come out of my mouth, I knew they were true, my inner fear finally voiced. Right now, this relationship was great, but what about when it wasn’t anymore? How broken would I be when he decided he’d rather go back to a variety of sources of happiness?

  I plastered a fake smile on my face as Ben approached, and he frowned, looking at his sister. Her lips were pulled into a pout, but she quickly masked it when she noticed him.

  I continued eating everything in sight to have something to do with my hands, and because the food was delicious. If you don’t use a fork, the calories don’t count, right? I told myself as I shoved more and more stuffed mushrooms in my mouth.

  Grandma plopped down at our table to do a full investigation, at least I thought that was what she was planning to do. Katie’s eyes widened and Ben squeezed my knee under the table.

  She looked at me, hard, and I could feel the heat crawling up my face.

  “How old are you?” she asked, never looking away from face. I wasn’t even sure if she was blinking.

  “Twenty-one, almost twenty-two.” It sounded more like a cough.

  “You graduate this May?” I only nodded. “What do you want to do after that?”

  Great, the question I hated most. Was she going to kick me out after I told her my degree was in creative writing? Forbid Ben from seeing someone so impractical? His hand, which he’d kept resting on my knee, squeezed. He knew how I struggled with questions about future employment.

  He was just about to jump in and save me when I found my voice, although it was barely a whisper. “I want to be a writer.”

  Grandma tilted her head to the side, studying me. Then she surprised me by saying, “That’s a great career for staying at home with the kids.” I wasn’t even sure what part of that sentence to concentrate on. My first thought was no one had ever actually thought it was a good idea, and then my delayed thought was, Kids? Third thought: Kids, plural?

  Katie snickered and Ben blushed, squeezing my knee again. I had almost lost my appetite when she warned me of wasting my prime childbearing years, even going so far as to pressure Ben into producing an heir. When she finally left our table—“in search of more wine”—Katie swore she was senile. She couldn’t stop the laughter that bubbled up long after Grandma had advised Ben to put a few swimmers away, just in case.

  The newest Jacobs, a four-month-old baby girl named Rose, had found her way to Ben’s arms. Ben holding a baby was like an aphrodisiac, better than any oysters I’d ever had. I did have ovaries, or at least I had before he kissed that baby next to the gigantic pink bow on her head.

  Watching Ben and his family laugh and play made everything inside my chest glow. There was so much love in the air, and I couldn’t help but get drunk on it. It was the worst kind of drunk, the addicting kind, and wouldn’t you know, I was on my way to developing an addiction.

  Our goodbyes were filled with promises of seeing everyone again soon, and I couldn’t help but hope it was true. Our drive home seemed quick, and when we fell into my bed, drained from the travel and socializing, sleep took us immediately.

  Morning came too fast. It always does.

  Mornings are hard. The first thing I did when waking up was sit in bed and determine what I would do for ten more minutes of sleep, and then I ran through my plans for the day and decided where I could fit a nap in.

  Ben had yet to understand my morning ritual. He was what you would consider a “morning person.” I had always thought they fell into the category of mythical creatures, like unicorns and dragons.

  He set a cup of coffee on my bedside table and kissed my forehead. “Good morning, sleepyhead. What are your plans for today?”

  I mumbled incoherently into the blanket I had pulled up to my face.

  “What was that, babe?” He laughed.

  “I’m soooo sleepy and you’re soooo chatty,” I whined.

  “I’m sooo late and you’re soooo cute,” he said, crawling back into bed. I felt his arms wrap around me and he pulled me into his chest. I nuzzled my face into him and heard him chuckle. “What are your plans today?” he asked me again with his freshly brushed minty breath.

  “Class, and then I was going to cook you dinner.” He tried to hide his surprise, but I still saw the way his eyebrows rose before he could stop them.

  “Mmmmm, that sounds perfect.” He kissed my temple. I loved when he did that. “After class, I’ll be at the library until five. Then I’m going to the gym with Miles. I’ve got to grab some clean clothes before I come back.”

  “I cleaned out a couple drawers in my dresser…um, for you…if you want to keep some clothes here.” I could feel him looking at me, but I wouldn’t pull my head up to meet his eyes. “You’ve just been spending a lot of time here, so I thought it’d make it easier on you.” I felt bad because he kept having to pack bags and carry clothes—not bad enough to want to sleep without him, and not bad enough to want to sleep at the fraternity house, but bad nonetheless.

  “That’s even more perfect,” he said, pulling my chin up and pressing his lips to mine. “I’ve got to go. I’ll see you tonight.” He kissed me again quickly, leaving me to snuggle in an empty bed, at least for ten more minutes.

  After class and a long conversation with my mom instructing her to take down middle school pictures and any photo evidence of me pre-braces, I found out a hard truth: I didn’t cook. Why was it engraved in me to want to cook? I wanted to be domestic—except the cleaning. Ugh. I could do without that.

  I wanted to cook him dinner, though. I was failing miserably.

  Why was there so much smoke? Why had I thought this was a good idea? How had I not known I couldn’t cook? Okay, most of my meals only had three steps: order, deliver, eat. I was clearly in over my head with the steaks, potatoes, green beans, and rolls. Yes, I even made bread—if you could classify putting frozen rolls into the oven as making them. They were basically already baked, but I was taking some credit considering everything else was borderline inedible.

  The steaks were burnt, but the insides were far too red to even be labeled as rare. The green beans were from a can but tasted terrible, and I wasn’t even sure where I’d gone wrong there. The potatoes weren’t softening even though I’d left them in the oven far longer than recommended. Honestly the only thing worth trying were the drinks and ice cream I’d bought for dessert.

  “What’s for dinner?” Ben asked as he surveyed the wreckage I’d produced in the kitchen.

  “Root beer floats,” I told him
as I made my way down the hall to my room. “And we’re eating in bed,” I hollered back over my shoulder.

  We sat in the middle of my comforter with two tubs of ice cream and a two-liter of root beer, laughing about nothing.

  I’d always had an unhealthy obsession with my bed. The soft sheets, the fluffy pillows, the covers that blocked out all responsibilities. Now, it was worse. I’d lie in the comfort, and I’d smell him everywhere. His cologne was on the pillow I’d now deemed his, the smell of his body wash had permeated in the sheets, and on nights like this when he was lying next to me, breathing softly, I wrapped myself in him and pretended I wasn’t stupid in love with him.

  CHAPTER 29

  THERE IS MUCH to be said for small-town America. The southern states had it all: rolling hills, Sunday drives, worn blue jeans, and boots. I couldn’t imagine living in an area where you had to drive more than twenty miles to get to the next restaurant to buy a sweet tea, which probably says a lot about obesity in America.

  The two-hour drive home was fun until we got off the interstate. Ben volunteered to drive my car to my hometown in Fentville. Despite it being his first time meeting my parents, he seemed less nervous than me. When we started into the subdivisions, I started to worry. Ben must have noticed the tension because he rubbed small circles onto my hand, which made me feel better. Jules and Tay rested in the back seat, both focused on their phone.

  Not wanting to talk out loud, I was trying to communicate with Ben solely through hand squeezes. Our fingers interlaced in my lap. I wrapped his hand in both of mine. Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze. Squeeze, squeeze. His grip on my hand tightened and relaxed in the same rhythm and he continued massaging with his thumb until he cut the engine.

  When we pulled in front of the garage of my childhood home at the end of a cul-de-sac, I tried to picture it from Ben’s point of view. It was a nice house. My dad had worked very hard to put us in a safe and secure neighborhood in a good school district, probably with hopes that I’d put more effort into my education, another layer to my guilt.

  The home was welcoming to me. The grass was mowed, the tall Sycamore tree in the front yard was full, and the rockers on the front porch swayed a little with the leaves. The house looked the exact same as it had the last twenty-one years. The tree was a little taller, a little wider. The white siding was a little dirtier, though I would never have told my mom that.

  The front door swung open hard for my mom’s greeting. She looked like an older version of me if I shrank three inches and dyed my hair blonde like she was still doing. She was such a babe. Her petite five-foot-three build was adorable, and her shoulder-length hair only added to the look of youthfulness. As soon as I hit the front step, her arms wrapped me up tight.

  “Hey, Mom.” Her hugs always made everything better. This was the woman who’d pushed me out of her unmentionable area and she still gave me the world, every day.

  She hugged me tightly, whispering in my ear, “I’ve missed you so much, Lex.” The guilt was heavy since I hadn’t made it home as frequently as I usually did. Having a boyfriend had been more time consuming than I’d realized.

  “Me too,” I told her honestly. I hadn’t even known how much until I felt her arms around me.

  “I’m so glad you’re home.”

  “Of course I’m home. You did go through eight hours of labor for me. It’s our special day.” She laughed at that, turning her attention to her other visitors. Tay and Jules bounded up the steps behind me, Ben shyly following.

  “So good to see you again, girls, and so nice to meet you, Ben. We’re so excited Lex finally brought someone home.” I palmed my forehead. “Oh, right,” my mother continued, unperturbed by the embarrassment of her only child. “She warned me not to embarrass her.”

  “There’s my girl.” I stepped into my dad’s arms when we went into the house. As young as my mom looked, my dad was the reverse. His salt and pepper hair gave him a more distinguished look, perfect for the courtroom, he claimed. He’d worked for the district attorney’s office for most of his career. Now, he’d cut back on his hours and handled family law for his own office downtown.

  “Come on in, I’ve got a pot roast on the table.” My mouth was already watering. It felt like I hadn’t had anything non-microwaveable in weeks. “I’m just happy you’re dating and not spending so much time with fictional boyfriends,” she continued. Jules snorted, and Tay bit her lip, trying to hold in a laugh.

  “Fictional boyfriends don’t hurt, Mom,” I mumbled. Clearly, she’d forgotten the talk we had about not embarrassing me in front of Ben. I refused to make eye contact with him, hoping he’d somehow missed the last two minutes of conversation.

  Unfortunately, he hadn’t. “Says the girl who stays up crying in the middle of the night because of the book she’s reading.”

  Apparently he did pay attention to my midnight mourning of fictional characters.

  After dinner, my dad retired to his office, promising he didn’t have to work at all the next day. My mom sat with us in the den until her bedtime, which she pushed back to ten o’clock.

  “Good night, baby. I’m so glad to have you home.” Her hug almost cut off my circulation, but I let her. She smelled as I always remembered, like fresh-baked cookies and cinnamon. She’d told me once, when I had gotten older, that it was from her lotion, not from baking. It had been a revelation that had me questioning my entire childhood.

  Ben stood up to hug her, too. “Thank you for having me, Mrs. Baxter.”

  “Oh, please, call me Diane.” He kissed her cheek, and I promise you, she swooned. My fifty-three-year-old mother swooned, and I was fairly certain she winked at him, too.

  We said our goodnights to Tay and Jules not long after that and made our way to my bedroom. I realized I probably should have had my mom adult it up a little. Everything was so girly. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d even redecorated, probably my preteens—not a cool age for me, or for anyone, really. The room was painted pink and filled with children’s books and random knickknacks that hadn’t made it onto my college packing list. I was lucky my mom hadn’t turned it into a craft room or storage. She hadn’t touched it at all. It was still in all of its adolescent glory, and shame.

  Ben was sitting on the edge of my bed when I came back from washing my face and brushing my teeth in the bathroom. His hands were wrapped around a small present, and when his eyes met mine, I saw how nervous he was. I loved shy Ben. His adorableness made my heart flutter.

  “I wanted to give you your gift tonight, not in front of everyone.”

  Ben actually gave me a lot of gifts, little stuff here and there. Some gifts were more important than others.

  I had read a book the previous semester. I’d read lots of books, actually, but this one had been special. A girl in my British Literature class had been raving about it, and so, like I did with most book recommendations I heard, I read it. It was really good. Really, really good.

  As all book lovers know, a good book is like a gateway drug for that author. You read one, and you’re hooked, completely. Without realizing it, you’ve gone on a four-day binge, reading every available published work by that author, hoping to sneak inside their mind and live in the worlds they create. Obsession is fierce. Hair is frazzled. You haven’t eaten properly and those things that once seemed like necessities—responsibilities, friends, hygiene—are no longer important. The only goal is the next book.

  So, I read five books that week, all five books ever written by Sydney Region, each one adding to the love I had for her. And then it ended. Five great books and it was over, then I went through that post-book depression where I wanted to start reading something new but knew it wouldn’t be by the author I wanted so I was just kind of in this fog of disappointment. In day two of that fog, Ben had come over for a study date, which usually meant he studied while I read.

  When I opened the door, he had his backpack resting on his back, and stacked neatly in his hands were three more books.


  “What are those?” I asked him, smiling already, because hello, books.

  “I bought three books by William Lionel for $14.99,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “And who is William Lionel?”

  “Oh, he’s a really obscure colonel in some old war, but as it turns out, when Sydney Region first started writing, she wanted to use a man’s name, and she picked William Lionel.”

  Just like that, three more books. Just like that, he gave me something I couldn’t explain, something that opened my heart a little more.

  “You know I’m going to love whatever it is,” I assured him now, eyeing the birthday gift he had gripped securely in his hands. It was the truth. I’d never even gotten a birthday gift from a boyfriend before, though I wasn’t about to advertise that.

  “I know.” He nodded. “But I want you to really like it, and not just like it because I gave it to you.” His voice wasn’t the usual deep tone. It showed his nervousness, and I leaned over to kiss his cheek, hoping to calm him. His kiss always worked for me.

  I pulled the bow off the square box and opened the lid. A bronze plate was clipped to a black leather cuff. In pretty calligraphy, a Shakespeare quote decorated the plate: To thine own self be true.

  I loved it. Loved it.

  I fumbled with it, trying to fasten it around my wrist. He helped me buckle it then I stuck my hand out, admiring it.

  “It’s perfect,” I told him, hearing him relax with an exhalation. I kissed him again and pulled back the covers so we could crawl in.

  We were cuddled in bed when I started whispering. “You remember when you asked me what I wanted? And I told you I wanted this? I wanted a serious relationship, one with a future. I didn’t mean what normal people consider serious. I’m not normal. I don’t want to be what this society considers normal.” His breathing was soft and steady, but from his grip on my waist, I knew he was still awake. “I want my soul to take root in someone else’s and grow together until we’re so tangled that separating would take burning both of us to the ground. I want forever, not the forever that means until we grow tired. I want the crazy kind of forever, the one that means beyond everything, as long as I breathe.”