Shortcake

by Watson, Lucy

  Not good.

  Somewhere along the way, long lines became one of my anxiety-triggers.

  My heart jumps to my throat.

  My chest feels tight.

  Please. Not now.

  Ben moves us in a line behind two guys with an overflowing flat-bed cart.

  The universe is not my friend. It’s been almost five months since my last full-blown panic attack. I should have known with my mini-attack at the mall that a big one was coming. I let my guard down. Like an idiot.

  I turn my eyes to my phone. My mind starts to race, so I frantically scroll through pictures trying to keep it occupied so it won’t go there.

  I come across selfies of Rose and me at all-you-can-eat spaghetti night. I smile, but it feels distant and fake. I wait on a hopeful breath that her sparkling eyes and memories of that night will calm me, then exhale when all I can think about is how this is the slowest moving line in the history of the fucking world.

  My face feels hot and pin-prickly. Is it red? The muscles in my legs start to tense, which means the countdown has begun. Except in this countdown, there’s no red or green wire I can cut to stop the clock.

  I give up on the phone and turn my eyes to see Ben who’s casually resting his forearms on the cart handle, looking like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

  Anxiety’s sadistic chuckle sounds low in my ear. It scrapes its claw up my neck, and I know I have to move fast before it takes hold.

  I step up to Ben, reach into my back pocket, pull out the card, holding it out to him. My hand trembles, even though I’m trying like hell to keep it still.

  “I have to make a call,” I rush out, motioning the card again for him to take.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks, standing from his slouch with his brows pinched; he doesn’t move to take the card.

  “Nothing. Take the card.”

  Please, just take the fucking card!

  “You sick, or something?” He grabs the card, his eyes narrow, studying me.

  “The pin is…” My mind blanks. “I’ll text it to you.”

  I don’t wait for a response. I turn and speed-walk from the line, bumping into a few people as I go, then out the sliding doors, sweat beading down my back.

  I move my hair from my suffocating neck, trying to focus on my surroundings, but my world tilts despite my efforts. When my vision fogs and my lips start to tingle, I move behind a display of potted plants and brace my hands on my knees.

  We’ve been here before.

  You’re going to be okay.

  I take deep pulls of air into my lungs and stand, forcing myself to focus as I look around.

  You’re going to be okay.

  Small trees with pink flowers.

  What if I pass out?

  Dollar Store across the parking lot.

  What if nobody finds me?

  Birds eating from a spilled bag of sunflower seeds.

  What if I don’t snap out of it this time?

  A scowling Ben walking my way.

  What if —wait, what?

  My eyes focus on Ben as he stops in front of me, the cart nowhere to be seen, his sharp brown eyes quickly taking me in.

  “What’s going on?” he growls.

  “Nothing.” My voice sounds small and distant to my ears. I brace my hands on my knees, again feeling faint, looking to the stains on the concrete.

  “You look like shit.” His eyes move over my face. And I know what he sees—pale, sweaty face, bluish lips, glossy eyes.

  “Let’s go.” He wraps his hand around my arm. It’s gentle but firm. “Come on.”

  I place my hand over his, looking up. “It’s a panic attack. I’m fine.” I drop my hand and stand up on shaky legs. Feeling the invisible barrier separating me from reality thicken.

  “Move it.” It’s an order. His hand blankets my lower back. The heavy weight of it somehow comforts me, so I don’t protest as he leads me from behind the potted plants through the parking lot.

  Walking helps to bring me back into my body, and I briefly wonder if he can feel the sweat on my back through my shirt. That thought, however embarrassing, helps to center me.

  The muffled noise of the parking lot starts to clear, and I zero in on the cars, people talking, the sound of metal shopping carts moving over asphalt. We stop at his Bronco. He opens the door and motions with his head for me to climb in. With my muscles still locked, it takes me a second longer than it should to get situated.

  I sit back, soaking in the scent of exhaust fumes and old stuff. It reminds me of a field trip I took in second grade to the oldest library in New York—it had the same musty smell coming from the walls of old books.

  I’d watched The Never-Ending Story for the first time the night before the trip and was convinced there was a magic book in there for me too. After coming up empty-handed my first trip, I begged my mom to take me back so I could find it.

  “You need water?” he asks, his deep voice cutting through my memories.

  I shake my head. “Just need a minute. Go ahead and get the supplies. I’ll be fine.”

  He pauses for a moment, his eyes taking me in. “Give me your phone.” He holds out his hand.

  I hand it to him because in my still-foggy mind I can’t think of a good reason not to. The upside-down selfie of Rose and me appears as he swipes open the phone. His fingers still for a moment before the picture disappears and he continues messing with it. He hands it back, seeming satisfied with whatever weird shit he did.

  “You good?” he asks, his brows raised, his eyes searching mine.

  I nod. He studies me a beat longer, pushes down the lock, then shuts the door.

  My gaze follows him through the window as he walks back to the store. There’s a cool confidence in the way he carries himself, like if this were a movie he’d be the dude walking away from an explosion in slow motion without a backward glance.

  I wonder if he’s ever felt insecure about anything, or messed-up-beyond-repair, which seems to be my new default setting.

  Probably not.

  Birds sound from my phone, pulling my attention to the screen and a YouTube video he must’ve put on. It’s of a golden pond at dusk, set in a grassy knoll with a snow-covered mountain in the distance. It looks like a meditation clip, I guess to help calm me, which as much as I hate to admit, is a sweet thing to do. And it works as I feel my breathing start to mellow and my muscles relax.

  In the face of Ben’s unexpected kindness, my cock-blocking joke seems childish and stupid.

  Thinking about his harsh words, I try and remind myself that he thinks I coerced Rose into leaving me money. Hell, if it were reversed I’m pretty sure Ben would be sporting a full body cast right now.

  I release a heavy sigh, thinking about the torture I’m about to endure over the next several weeks, wondering if I had it to do all over again would I still take the job with Rose. If I had never taken the job, I never would have met Ben.

  The answer is swift and absolute. My memories with Rose are worth whatever hell I face with Ben.

  I have to smile as the soft background music chimes in, even though it pains me that he’s the reason it’s there. I rest my head against the seat, listening to the birds chirping and leaves rustling in the breeze and the gentle sound of someone skipping rocks. I’ll have to remember to save this video to my favorites.

  After zoning out for a bit, my blurry gaze focuses on the delicate gold locket hanging on the rearview.

  Setting down my phone on the seat, I lean forward to pry it open with my nails—glancing out the window to make sure Ben’s not coming—feeling like I’m rifling through someone’s medicine cabinet. Not that I do that.

  When it opens, I’m met with a tiny picture of a young Ben and his mom. She’s beautiful. They’re looking at each other, her smile bright and proud, his crooked and innocent. The inscription reads,

  Happy Mother’s Day

  Love, Benny.

  I close the locket and sit back, trying to def
lect the unwanted emotions slamming into me.

  Turning my gaze out of the window, I struggle to take in a deep breath with the memory of the picture sitting heavy on my chest, feeling like an asshole for sneaking a glimpse into his private life. Rose never talked about Ben’s mom. I know that she passed, but how, when, or why, Rose never said, so I never asked.

  After what feels like an eternity, I hear the back hatch open and feel the truck gently jostle. I turn around to see Ben loading the gallons of paint in the back.

  “Need some help?” I call out, thankful my voice actually sounds normal. I don’t know why I’m still trying to be cordial after all the shitty things he’s said. Maybe it’s because he’s my last connection to Rose. Or maybe I’m just tired of fighting.

  “I got it,” he replies without a glance my way, quickly loading the paint two-by-two.

  I face forward, settling in for what’s sure to be a long ride home.

  Ben slams the back shut, and I peek from under my lashes as he returns the cart. Not noticing his wide back with his perfectly sculpted lats tapering into a sexy V.

  A few women walking past aren’t noticing either.

  I read an article once that said people who return carts are less likely to cheat. Greg always just pushed his cart over the nearest parking curb. Go figure.

  I turn my eyes back to my phone when Ben approaches. He slides in and shuts the door. I hate that the air shifts with his presence. The weight of his stare presses down on my neck, but I keep my eyes glued to my phone.

  “You know they got medication for that shit,” he says on an exhale.

  Let the awkwardness commence.

  I look over at him, expecting to meet gloating eyes. But instead, his steady gaze looks almost concerned, which makes me feel worse. The embarrassment I was too exhausted to feel before comes crashing down.

  “It’s been a long time since that’s happened.” I try for a casual shrug. “And I’m not really big on meds, so…”

  I turn my attention to a little boy walking out of the Dollar Store with his mom holding a handful of balloons dancing in the wind.

  Ben starts the engine. I welcome the rumbling sound and vibration.

  “Maybe you should rethink that,” he scoffs while he backs out of the space.

  Umm…excuse me? “Didn’t know you were a psychologist.”

  Our eyes lock as he puts the truck in gear. “Don’t gotta be a psychologist to see you got issues.” Each word is sharp and cutting. “You should get help.”

  I stare at him as he gives me his profile and drives. It’s hard for me to believe someone can really be this big of a dick. The sixteen-year-old in me wants Derek to kick his ass. I’ve never seen him start a fight, but I’ve seen him finish them. All.

  Anger bubbles like lava in my chest. “Says the grown-ass man whose family has to pay people to babysit him because he can’t be left alone.” My brows raise. “Maybe you should get help.”

  He looks over and his jaw ticks. Oops, did I hit a nerve? Too bad.

  “Says the girl who’ll apparently do anything for a buck.” He hits the gas, turning onto the main street.

  Oh, no he didn’t…

  “Says the guy whose dad seems to think he likes pills a bit too much. Care to share why that is, Benny Boy?”

  He shifts gears without a word, his jaw clenched, his narrowed eyes focused on the road like lasers.

  The silence that follows is stifling. My words hang in the air between us. The sweet rush of victory is replaced with the bitter tang of guilt. I try to push the shitty feeling aside, but it stays put.

  This person I am with Ben isn’t me, or at least it’s not the person I want to be.

  Not the person Rose believed I was.

  Deep down, I know why she left us her estate. It’s the same reason why she had me read his emails to her. She hoped that after she was gone, Ben and I would be friends.

  She thought her Sweet Benny would be safe with me. She was wrong.

  I’m so sorry, Rose.

  7

  Iceman vs. Maverick

  After a few red lights, I set my phone back on my lap and turn to Ben, a heartfelt apology ready on my tongue. It dies when I see he’s steering with his knee, glancing at the road between gear shifts while texting.

  If you ever see a crazy lady yelling and honking at texting drivers, there’s a good chance it’s me. Like many nurses, I’ve seen too many lives lost or forever changed because of a single text to sit back and do nothing.

  “Would you mind not doing that,” I bark out. Instinct has me reaching for his phone, but his tourniquet-tight seatbelt keeps me put.

  He looks over and grins. “Sure thing, Shortcake.” He slips his phone into his pocket, looking back to the road, his cocksure grin still in place.

  “Thanks,” I say, uneasiness crawling up my neck. I look out my window to the row of tall willow trees shading the golf course, which, thankfully, means we’re getting close to home. I need to use the bathroom, down a handful of Advil, and maybe grab a slice or two of leftover pizza, then chase it all with handful of Tums.

  My phone dings with a text.

  Derek: What the fuck?

  The last time he’d said those words to me, I was fifteen and drunk at his best friend’s house party.

  Me: What?

  A picture of my morning cuddle with Ben appears on my phone.

  My heart stops. I look over at Ben. He meets my gaze with a grin. A fucking grin.

  “Something wrong, sunshine?”

  “Not a thing, sugar lips.” I smile brightly, refusing to give him the satisfaction of showing the panic I’m feeling as my phone chimes with rapid-fire texts.

  Derek: Why the hell is he sending me pictures of you two?

  Derek: Why are you in bed with him?

  Derek: Hello????

  A million thoughts assault my mind. Like how the hell did he get Derek’s number? Who else did he send this picture too? I take in a deep breath. I’ll have to worry about that shit later. Right now I need to fix this. Come on, Em… fix this…

  My fingers fly over the keys.

  Me: Relax, D. He meant to send the pic to me, not you. I gave him your number as an emergency contact, and he must’ve entered it wrong. Pretty funny, right? Haha! :) :)

  I try and reread my text through Derek’s eyes. It makes sense. Total sense. How else would Ben have his number? Yep, total sense.

  When Derek doesn’t immediately respond, I release the long breath I’d been holding, relief washing over me.

  Until loud bagpipes sound from my phone—a ringtone I set for him after a group of drunk bachelorettes lost their shit thinking he was that guy from Outlander. I thought it was hilarious. Derek, not so much.

  I contemplate not answering, but if I don’t pick up, I’m pretty sure he’ll be waiting for me at home. So, I bite the bullet, keeping my voice light and airy. “Hey, D—”

  “Did you sleep with him?” he cuts me off.

  “What? God, no!” I exclaim with a forced laugh tinged with horror, like the thought of sleeping with Ben is as crazy as it is disgusting, which right now it is.

  “You just happened to be in bed with him.” His voice is accusatory and cold.

  “It was a joke, Derek.”

  “Did he touch you?”

  “Not in the way you’re implying.”

  “What’s that purple thing in your hand?”

  I’ve heard when you’re caught doing something, you should stick to the truth as much as possible, so here goes…

  “A vibrator,” I say, refusing to lower my voice, ignoring the grating sound of Ben snickering as he pulls into the gas station.

  “Why do you have a vibrator?”

  “Jesus, Derek, why do you think?” I say, completely done with this conversation.

  “You guys use it?” he asks, like he has the right to, which he doesn’t.

  My cheeks heat with his question. “Did you seriously just ask me that?”

  Ben
parks next to a pump and slides out, giving me some privacy. Thank god.

  “You seem to have it handy.” The hard tone in his voice throws me off. He’s never sounded like this with me.

  “I have it in my hand because he found it in my bed, and instead of being immature about it—like some people—we had a good laugh.”

  I certainly didn’t pretend there was a rabid raccoon chasing after me to create a diversion so I could retrieve said vibrator… because that would be crazy.

  I hear his sharp, defeated exhale over the phone. “Sorry, Em. The picture just caught me off guard.”

  “It was meant as a joke for me. Sorry you got it by mistake.”

  “Still stuck with the visual,” he says. I hear horses nickering in the background and know he’s in the stables.

  “A visual of me completely dressed, lying next to a guy who’s also completely dressed. Oh my god, the horror!” Time to bring out the big guns… “Remember Lizzy Hampton? Now, there’s a visual you don’t want.”

  When I was sixteen, I walked in on Derek and Lizzy legs-for-days going at it in the kitchen after soccer practice. His jeans were pooled around his ankles, her ass planted on the counter I’d made my Pop-Tarts on that morning, her long, tanned legs wrapped around his thrusting hips.

  I stood in the doorway, frozen like an idiot, Duran Duran’s “Hungry Like a Wolf” blasting on my headphones. The look of pleasure on his face, mixed with shock when our eyes met, will be forever burned into my retinas… and let’s just say, I haven’t listened to that song since. So, yeah, he can cry me a freaking river.

  “Yeah, alright,” he concedes, not wanting to go there.

  “I don’t want this to get weird, okay?”

  “Too late,” he mumbles, but his voice is almost back to normal.

  Ben moves the squeegee thing over the windshield, and I wave my hand and point to an invisible spot mouthing, “you missed a spot,” just to piss him off. I give him a wide smile and thumbs-up as he wipes the windshield clean. He shakes his head.

  “Want to grab dinner tonight?” I ask, eager to get back to a time before Ben decided-to-try-and-sabotage-my-life.

  “Sounds good.”