Shortcake

by Watson, Lucy

  “No.”

  “Then you won’t get it,” I say with a secret smile.

  He nods, turning his eyes to the tray, apparently not caring enough to ask me to elaborate. Alrighty then.

  I try to hold onto my smile, but it dies.

  My feet shift in the silence. I think about sitting, but I stay standing as I drop in a blue plastic measuring spoon full of sugar into each of our cups, feeling Ben’s eyes track my movements.

  My eyes flicker to his face to see his gaze is focused on my hands. Maybe he wants to see how to make the tea. Or maybe Rose made it different for him.

  I’m probably doing it wrong.

  I’m probably ruining it.

  I feel my cheeks heat, uncertainty slithering along my skin.

  “Do you want to make it?” I ask a bit too sharply, feeling a zing run up my spine as his gaze slices to mine.

  “I’m good.”

  To say the intensity in his eyes is making me nervous would be the understatement of the century.

  I set down the plastic spoon, hoping he doesn’t notice the tremble in my hand. Hands that are usually steady. I mean, they’re not surgeon-steady like Greg’s, but if I ever had to cut the red wire, I’m pretty sure I could do it. Unless Ben’s in the room. If Ben’s in the room, we go boom.

  I wipe my hands on my sweatshirt, which hangs nearly to my knees, and is starting to feel less comfy and more hot and stifling.

  Knowing I’m not even going to try to dollop the honey or pour the brandy, I say, “The tea needs to sit for a while. I’ll go ahead and bring you some. Cool?” Yeah, you know what’s not cool? Saying cool at the end of a sentence. That’s what.

  With a quick nod, he gets up from the table and disappears out of the kitchen without even a backward glance. Which is probably good, since he won’t catch me ogling his butt.

  Definitely going to burn those sweats.

  When I’m sure the coast is clear, I go to the couch, apologize to Deuce for cutting our night short, then grab my phone from the floor and send a quick goodnight text to Derek. I wait for a few breaths for him to text me back, which doesn’t happen.

  He said he wasn’t mad at me, so I just have to believe him and give him space. But it still sucks. Big time.

  I take the phone into the kitchen, setting it on the tray and pour the tea. It looks right. Vibrant red. And smells right. Fruity and sweet. A dollop with a stream of honey, and one dash of brandy and stir. Do I send a prayer to the Tea Gods? Maybe.

  I make my way down the hall, pausing for a breath, standing at the cracked bedroom door, and steel my spine.

  Here goes nothing…

  “Room service,” I call out in a terrible French accent before I can stop myself, and push the door open with my hip, stepping into the dim room lit only by a nightstand lamp. The room is spotless, and, of course, the bed is made.

  I haven’t stepped foot inside since moving my stuff to the guest room. It smells like Ben. Feels like Ben. It’s like I was never here. I wonder how long it will take for me to fade from this house altogether.

  Ben is sitting against the headboard, his feet crossed at the ankles, his white socks a little dusty on the bottom, his phone perched in his hand.

  I set the tray down on my nightstand. I mean, my old nightstand, on my old side of the bed.

  I grab his cup, but as I go to walk it to his side of the bed with it, he scoots from his side and stretches to take it.

  “Thanks,” he says, his rumbly voice having lost a bit of its edge from earlier. Our fingers brush as he takes the steaming cup, sending a small spark through my hand.

  I curl my fingers into my palm, resisting the urge to bite my nails, which I haven’t done since I was twelve. I don’t know why I’m nervous. I don’t know why I want him to like my tea. Or why I need it to make him feel better, but I do.

  “Careful… maybe blow on it first.” I cringe at the eager sound in my voice.

  To my surprise, he puckers his full lips and blows on it. Ever so gently. The action looks odd. This rugged guy, gently blowing on a cup of tea.

  If he holds out his pinky, I’m done.

  I pick up the other steaming cup, wrapping it in my clammy hands, feeling totally awkward standing there. I start to blow on my tea because it feels less weird than just staring at him.

  I realize looking at Ben then that he feels familiar to me, his body, his face, his voice, his scent, all things I recognize on a deeper level now. Maybe it’s because we kissed. Or maybe it’s because he’s pretty much starred in all my thoughts since the moment I met him.

  His eyes flicker to mine as he takes a sip. He doesn’t slurp. Thank god. I’m not a fan of slurping noises. I guess the tea passes his “special” test because he scoots over a bit in what I think is an invitation to sit.

  Feeling a flutter of nerves, I take a seat scooting my back up against the headboard, careful not to spill any on the new comforter. I’ve learned the hard way that hibiscus stains are impossible to get out.

  We sit side-by-side, sipping our tea like a pair of stodgy old ladies. Stodgy old ladies that don’t like each other much. The room doesn’t have a TV or any hanging pictures, so we’re basically staring at white walls.

  It’s crazy how life works. One minute, you’re tucked into a book, getting ready to go to your first motorcycle club barbecue. The next, you’re drinking special tea while staring at walls with a guy who you’re pretending you didn’t share an earth-moving kiss with, who thinks the kiss was a lot of things.

  Wanting to ease into a conversation before the growing silence pushes us too far apart, I ask, “Do you know anyone in a motorcycle club?” I tried for casual and ended up with kooky.

  I hope the fact he works on motorcycles, makes it feel not totally random…

  “Why?” His husky voice wraps around me as his gaze meets mine. His top lip is tinged a little pink from the tea. His shoulders seem more relaxed, so maybe it’s working.

  I shrug. “Just curious.”

  “I know a few.” He rests his head back, closing his eyes.

  “Cool.” I take a sip, and in an attempt to keep the dialogue going I say, “You ever think about joining one?”

  “Already got my brothers,” he answers with his eyes still closed. “Don’t need more.”

  “Oh,” I whisper. I want to say sorry about his team, but I’m too afraid it will come across as a conversation-filler, so I keep it to myself.

  “Why you asking about clubs?” His eyes crack open, his tired gaze meets mine, but there’s a quite alertness in them at the question.

  I shrug, feeling suddenly shy. “I’m reading a book about a motorcycle club and their old ladies.”

  Something about that bit of information earns me a corner lip twitch that lifts my heart a little.

  “A book about old ladies,” he says like it’s the punchline of a joke.

  “A book that came with a trigger warning,” I counter, like that somehow changes everything, and turn back to my tea, then add for no reason other than I say odd shit around Ben, “I think I’d make a good old lady. I can stitch the guys and extract bullets and stuff.” I take a sip before adding, “And I make an awesome Creole potato salad for the barbecues.” I finish like that cements my old lady worthiness.

  Ben chuckles to himself with a shake of his head. “You’d make a terrible old lady. Too stubborn.” He takes a sip of his tea like he didn’t just dash my motorcycle club dreams.

  “I’m not stubborn.”

  He raises his dark brows and gives me a pointed look, amusement gleaming in his eyes. The playful look sends a zing of glee through my body, the feeling bubbles up my throat.

  “Fine. I might be a little stubborn,” I concede with a mock glare.

  This earns me a loud scoff-snicker that feels like a warm, fuzzy blanket against my soul. I feel so proud of that freaking scoff-snicker, you’d think I’d just spent days in labor giving birth to it. I stand on a cliff, raise my arms, and hold it up like a baby Simb
a.

  “A little?” he volleys.

  “Kettle meet pot,” I tease.

  “It’s pot meet kettle,” he counters not even trying to fight back his smirk.

  The fact that we’re bantering like this warms me on the inside and makes me feel a little less cold, a little less alone.

  “If I were stubborn, I’d totally argue with you right now.” I take a sip of my tea giving him a pointed look and a half smile.

  He tilts his head back and lets out a rich laugh, his thick Adam’s apple moving with it, and I know then if we had met in a different life, we’d have been friends. Maybe good friends.

  Maybe more.

  “Whatever you say, Shortcake.” He takes another sip of tea, remnants of a smile still playing on his lips as his gaze turns back to the wall.

  I’d be lying if I said when he says my nickname like that it doesn’t do funny things to my belly. And my heart.

  There’s a comfortable silence that I’m almost afraid to ruin with the sentence forming on my tongue. My gaze flickers to his sharp profile, causing butterflies to migrate from my stomach to my chest. He’s so freaking gorgeous when he’s not plotting my murder.

  “I know we’re not really… friends, but I’m here if you ever want to talk about anything.” I keep my voice soft and easy-going, trying not to ruin this tea-sipping wall-staring moment.

  “I’m good,” he says with a tinge of hardness returning to his jaw.

  The logical side of me says to let it go. That whatever has him in a mood isn’t something he wants to talk about. To shut up and enjoy this rare moment of peace between us. So, what do I do?

  “I don’t think you are. I think you’re far from good, Ben.”

  His narrowed eyes slice to mine. “How ’bout you? You good?” he says with a bite in his voice.

  The mood changes from something light and bantering to something heavy that presses down on my stomach.

  “I wasn’t the one tearing apart the kitchen for Rose’s tea.” Feeling the connection between us starting to disintegrate, I soften the sharpness in my voice and continue, “If you don’t want to talk to me about it, I totally understand. But I’m here, if you need me. To talk. About whatever.”

  His gaze bores into mine for a moment. “What if I want to talk about you?” His brows raise. “You good with that?”

  “What about me?” My fingers tremble around my cup, anticipation flutters my heartbeat. This is either going to be good. Or bad. There’s no in between with Ben.

  His voice softens. “Why didn’t you tell me about the shooting?”

  My heart stops. My soul swooshes from my body and back.

  He knows about the Night That Shan’t Be Named.

  “You checked into me?” My voice is quiet. Of course, he’d check into me. I’m the girl who conned his grandma out of her millions.

  He nods. “Yeah. Not me, but a buddy.”

  He knows my secret. His buddy knows my secret.

  I shrug. “Well, then I guess there’s nothing to tell.” I want to leave, but I don’t trust my legs to carry me.

  I drop my gaze to my cup, watching a few tea leaves floating at the top, feeling trapped by his words.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  My eyes flash to him. “Why do you care?”

  “Because I do.” He cares. My heart reaches out to grab the thought, but it slips through its fingers. “Did you know him?”

  The question hangs in the air between us.

  I fill my lungs and wait for panic to take hold, but when it doesn’t come, I realize I feel safe with Ben, which makes no sense.

  I turn my gaze back to my red tea and willingly travel to a night I’m cursed to relive. Like Satan’s version of Groundhog Day.

  I take in a deep breath, surprised how steady it is. “His wife was a patient under my team’s care.” I picture his soft brown eyes, and the tender way he always looked at his wife. His name is on my tongue, but I can’t bring myself to say it.

  I pick invisible lint off my leggings. “He was usually there on my shift, so we talked about his wife… and other stuff. They were childhood sweethearts, but only married for a few years.” I don’t know why I add that, but I do. “I helped him sneak in their French bulldog… He thought it would help to wake her.” I exhale. “I knew it wouldn’t.”

  I meet Ben’s eyes and clarify, “She had a massive hemorrhagic stroke in her sleep and never regained consciousness.”

  I turn back to the tea, thinking of my mom. “But sometimes you just have to do something, so every Wednesday we’d smuggle Bosco in.” I don’t want to feel sorry for the man who took so much, who caused so much terror and pain, but remembering the hope and ultimate devastation on his face, I can’t help it. And I hate myself a little for it. “After a few months of zero cognitive improvement, the hospital got a court order to end her care. He came back a week later and, well, you know the rest…” I take a sip of tea, and add my biggest secret. “I’m pretty sure I’m only alive because of Bosco.”

  I breathe through the barrage of images that fly at me. Surprised when none of them pierce my heart—usually, that’s their first target.

  “I’m alive because I had to take a piss.” He shrugs. “It is what it is. You keep thinking about that shit, it will fuck you up. Trust me.”

  There’s so much guarded pain in his voice I feel it like a punch to the gut. “I’m sorry, Ben. I know you’ve lost a lot.”

  He nods. “Yeah. I’m sorry, too. Had I known you’d been through that…” He exhales with regret and a shake of his head.

  “I’m glad you didn’t. People act all weird when they know.” I tilt my head with a shrug. “Or maybe it’s just me.”

  “It’s not you.”

  I take a sip of my tea. My hand steadier this time. I’ve talked about that night before. But never about Bosco. Not even with Derek. Not even with the therapist.

  “Your last name was different,” he says over his cup, before taking a sip.

  I take in a deep breath. “I was married… before. But things changed after… I changed.” I turn to him with a small smile. “You got a taste of it at Home Depot,” I say on a soft laugh. “He couldn’t deal with that. With me.” I shrug. “I don’t blame him. I was a mess.” I widen my forced smile and tease, “I wasn’t always this put together, you know.”

  He doesn’t return my smile, if anything he looks even more pissed. “He’s a fucking dick.”

  I raise my brows, feeling defensive for some reason. Not that Greg isn’t a dick, but still. “Not all guys are as sweet as you, Ben. What was it you said about me needing medication at Home Depot?” I tease, letting the echo of his harsh words hang in the air.

  “I may talk shit, but there’s no fucking way I’d leave you for that. No way.” He shrugs. “We’re all dealing with shit, some more, some less, but we all got something.”

  We resume our old-lady positions as we sip our tea.

  I glance over at the tray on the nightstand, glad there’s more. This is a two-cup night. Maybe three.

  “So, what shit are you dealing with?” I ask.

  “Hmm?” His eyes slide from the wall to meet mine. I wonder if I’ll ever meet his gaze and not feel it on my skin.

  “You said we’re all dealing with shit… what are you dealing with?”

  He huffs out a laugh. “We’ll be here all night, babe.” He refocuses on the wall, a small grin tugging at his generous lips.

  I match his grin. “It’s not like I’m going to sleep anyway. The couch sucks. Big time.”

  “You can crash here, if you want,” he says in his deep, rumbly voice.

  I know this isn’t Ben wanting a repeat of the bathroom moment, à là Emmy. This is an olive branch, or possibly an extended hand of friendship, and you better believe I’m gonna snatch that sucker up.

  “Thanks,” I say, meeting his gaze with an easy smile, not wanting to make a big deal out of it, but my insides are partying down.

  He gru
nts with a nod.

  There’s a moment of silence, then he says, “Is that why you moved here? To get away from all that?”

  I think back to the blur of Derek stuffing random shit into my suitcase. His mouth moving, but his words were lost to the sludge of my mind. I remember him putting on my shoes for me and grabbing my hand, rolling the suitcase behind him as we left my old life behind.

  “Derek didn’t really give me a choice.” I flash a small smile. “He saved me from disappearing into a pretty dark place. I owe him a lot.” My eyes flicker to the tea. “Rose saved me too.” I’m almost afraid to say her name in front of Ben. Like I don’t have the right to.

  “What about family?” His voice is softer, deeper.

  “My mom passed away when I was young, so Uncle Rick and Derek are my only family,” I say, praying he doesn’t ask about my dad. I don’t know why it’s harder for me to talk about him than the shooting, but it is.

  He gives me a thoughtful head nod and signature grunt.

  “You grunt a lot,” I say, trying to lighten the mood.

  After a breath, he gives me a deep grunt with the corner of his lip twitched up.

  I smile. “Let’s talk about you.” I rest my head back against the headboard. “I’m totally done talking about myself.”

  “What about me?”

  I want to ask him why he was tearing apart the kitchen for special tea, about his team, about Kate, about his mom, but I’m a chicken shit, so I say, “Tell me something you’ve never told anyone.” Did I really just say that?

  Like we’re freaking teenage girls at a sleepover.

  Yep. Sure did.

  “Never told anyone, huh?” he repeats, his voice tinged with humor.

  I shrug. “I’ve never told anyone about Bosco, so it’s only fair.”

  His eyes turn to the wall. “Alright.” His white teeth roll over his bottom lip. “When you thought I had the flu, I was detoxing off oxy. Should’ve stopped that shit months ago.” He sighs and takes a sip of tea.

  My stomach clenches thinking back to that night. Back to his dad’s words.

  His gaze slides to mine. “Guess, I got you to thank for helping me pull my head out of my ass.”

  My eyes go wide. “Me?”

  He nods. “Yup.”