by Watson, Lucy
I hold my breath, waiting for him to add something, and when it’s clear he’s not going to, I say, “You can’t just leave it like that.”
“Sure I can.” He gives me a crooked grin.
“Fine, be that way.”
“I will.”
“Are you okay now, though?”
“I had a problem with that shit when I was younger. Been clean for years. Got hurt and they kept giving me stuff for the pain and I kept taking it… but I’m good now.” He tacks on with a small smile. “Thanks to you.”
“What does that even mean?”
“You’ll never know.”
“Oh my god. You’re such a jerk.” I shake my head with a smile.
“Yup.”
We both rests our heads back, faint smiles tugging on our lips.
“I can’t believe we’re getting fake married.” I roll my head toward him, “How did this happen?”
He meets my gaze. “Got no fucking clue, babe. But I’ll find a way to break it to Betsy that it’s not happening, don’t worry. That shit’s on me.”
“Sorry about all this… And the will stuff.”
He nods and looks back to his cup. “I don’t think my grandma was all there at the end. Don’t think she would’ve done what she did if she were. But that’s not on you.” His gaze meets mine. “That’s on me. On my family. We should’ve been there to see that going down, but we weren’t.” His husky voice softens. “I was pissed at myself. Pissed that I wasn’t there when she needed me… I took that shit out on you. I’m sorry.” He exhales, his shoulders slump. “Saw those pics of you guys on your phone. She looked so fucking happy. You gave her that.” He flicks his gaze back to his empty cup. “I’m glad it was you with her. I’m glad she was with you too. To make you tea. To help you deal. She was good at that.”
I take in a shaky breath, blinking back tears at his words, and swallow past the glass shards stabbing my throat. I want to say something, but I don’t think I can.
He sets the cup on the nightstand. “When the time comes, you take what you want from the estate.” He swings his legs over and stands, looking down at me. “The house—you take it, not just to live in, but to keep, if you want. Take it all, if you want. As long as my dad doesn’t get shit, I’m good.”
His frame looks impossibly large from this angle.
Finally finding my voice I croak out, “I don’t want anything.”
He grabs his cup and exhales. “That’s up to you.” He rings the back of his neck, the action reminding me of the funeral, and looks to me with those same dark eyes. “I’m going back to Arizona, as soon as this is over. You can stay here, or not. Sell it. Keep it. It’s up to you.”
He walks around the bed to the tray on my nightstand. I hold my breath, trying to make sense of his words. I want to ask him why? Why doesn’t he care about the estate? Ask him how he’s able to afford to pay for a fake wedding, or have a black AMEX card on a mechanic’s salary, but instead, I just sit here watching him walk over to my nightstand.
“You want more?” He motions to the tea pot.
I shake my head.
He set his cup and phone on the tray, and hands me my phone, then picks up the tray, looking down at me for a breath. “Thanks for the tea.”
“Anytime.”
His gaze holds mine for a moment. “That kiss…” He glances down to the tray. “That’s on me too. It won’t happen again. He gives me a tight smile and a nod. “Night, Shortcake.”
My stomach dips at his words and goodbye. Of course, he’s not going to sleep in here with me. Of course, he’s going to sleep on the couch.
I’m such an idiot.
“Good night.”
He gives me another sealed-smile, turns and disappears out the door, taking the heat of the room with him.
My phone chimes with a text.
Derek: Goodnight.
I look at Derek’s words on my screen—and wait to feel less alone. Wait for my heart to feel less empty, but somehow seeing his text makes me feel worse.
I set down the phone on my nightstand, and scoot over to Ben’s lamp to turn it off, finding it suddenly difficult to keep my eyes open.
Soaking in the darkness, I shimmy my legs under the heavy covers on his side of the bed, and turn my head into his pillow, breathing in his scent.
I may or may not have hugged his pillow to my chest while I cried myself to sleep, thinking about Ben’s pain and my own.
Thinking about how my crush for Ben is morphing into something much more dangerous.
19
RIP Ruffle
“Hey, Emelia…” An echo of a deep voice tugs me from my dream of a family of fuzzy rabbit-cat hybrids. They’re trying to tell me something, something I can’t quite make out.
I snuggle deeper into my pillow with a moan.
“Shortcake, wake up.”
“I need your help…”
Help? I crack open my eyes and focus on Ben standing at the side of the bed, looking down at me. Something about the tightness around his eyes makes fire-station sirens blare in my mind.
I push up on my elbows. “What’s wrong?” My words are slurred, and my voice is groggy, but my mind is alert.
“Can you fix this?” He holds up his hand with his other hand wrapped around it, bright red blood dripping between his fingers down his arm. His white T-shirt is spattered with it.
“Oh my god!” I screech, bolting upright, feeling my heart lodge in my throat.
Clumsily swinging my legs off the bed, I scramble to stand on jello legs. I bump into Ben who takes a quick step back, giving me room.
“What happened?!” My wild heartbeat shakes my voice. I grab his hand, turning it over, searching for the source of the blood.
“If I let go, blood’ll go everywhere,” he states in a smooth voice.
Maybe if I weren’t just jolted awake out of a dream about bunny-cats to see slaughterhouse Ben standing over me, I’d be calm too, but judging by the full-body tremble running through me, I’m the opposite of calm.
I grip the front of Ben’s T-shirt and pull him out the bedroom door. “What happened?” I repeat, speed-walking him down the hall.
“I cut myself.”
No shit.
“Yeah, I figured that.” I push open the bathroom door with my shoulder. “On what?” I’m proud my voice sounds steady because my insides are twisting and churning with worry.
“Metal.”
I let go of his shirt and grab a towel from the rack, setting it on the sink. “What kind of metal?”
“Steel”
“Rusty?”
“Yeah.”
I turn on the water while reminding myself to breathe, and reach under the sink to grab the emergency kit I bought off Amazon. I also bought eighteen-days’ worth of dehydrated meals and a water purification kit, too.
To say I was a little freaked-out about the whole “earthquake thing” would be an understatement. Rose cracked up when she saw my emergency stash. She thought it was a hilarious thing to worry about. I showed her the movie San Andreas to prove my point. She laughed harder.
Californians are weird.
“How did this happen?”
“Moving shit in the garage.”
I set the kit on the counter and click it open. Then I take his large hand in both of mine, opening it under the faucet. There’s a deep, jagged laceration in the pad of his thumb, shallowing as it travels to the palm. I prod it open a bit to see what’s going on. It doesn’t look like he’s severed a tendon.
“Can you flex your fingers for me, like you’re gripping a baseball?” I hold my breath until they move. Keeping it under the water, I continue to inspect the cut, watching his blood continue to pool. “You’re a bleeder.”
“I know.”
My eyes flick to his in the mirror, and I note the disaster that is my current state. A mop of hair that used to be on the top of my head is now slung over to the side and has doubled in size like a Gremlin. I’m also tented
in one of Ben’s T-shirts, which I vaguely remember changing into last night when my comfy sweatshirt got uncomfortably hot. Ben’s huge shirt coupled with my huge side hair gives me a shrunken-head vibe. Which is not a good look. At all.
I turn the water off and, instead of fumbling with my wet hands, quickly tear open the package of gauze with my teeth, set it down, and grab another one to do the same. Mid package tear, my gaze finds his in the mirror.
Taking in the pallor of his skin, and the intense look in his eyes, I spit the paper into the sink—not my most graceful moment—and ask, “Do you need to sit?”
He clears his throat. “I’m good.”
I nod and start to dry the wound, thankful the bleeding has started to slow. “You’re definitely gonna need stitches, and a tetanus shot if you haven’t had one in a while.”
His body shifts, his solid thigh brushing against mine.
“Thought maybe you could stitch me up. Try out your old-lady skills.” His gravelly voice is pebbled with humor.
Never gonna happen.
“I just decided I’m not cut out for that life,” I mumble in a dry, scratchy voice, while I do my best to butterfly the edges together before I wrap it up.
I think about dunking my head under the faucet to take a drink but decide my level-ten cottonmouth will have to wait.
“Sorry I woke you.” His voice is soft with sincerity.
“Don’t be,” I say, giving him a small smile, my eyes flicking to his.
When I’m confident the tape will hold, I grab the bandage and start wrapping, noticing how childlike my hands look maneuvering around his large weathered ones. Hands that bear the scars of battle and hard work.
“What time is it anyway. It feels late,” I ask, my head pulsing with that hungover feeling of too much sleep. Or maybe it’s an emotional hangover from last night.
“Almost eleven.”
My eyes flash wide. “Jesus.”
I can’t remember the last time I slept in this late.
“You got somewhere to be?” he teases.
“Right now, I’m taking you to urgent care.”
“I’m good. Had a tetanus shot a few months ago.”
I clip the bandage and step back, giving him my best don’t-mess-with-me look. “We’re going,” I say, leaving no room for argument in my clipped voice as I gather the empty gauze wrappers. “I’ll call an Uber.” I finish tossing them into the wastebasket.
He scoffs and starts to wipe down the sink with the towel. “Not taking a fucking Uber.” He says Uber with the amount of disgust usually reserved for pickled eggs. “I’ll drive.”
I grab the emergency kit and squat down to put it back under the sink. “You can’t drive a stick with your hand like that.”
“We’ll take the bike.”
I look up, seeing his dark eyes cast down at me while I’m on my knees, crotch-level. Heat crawls up my neck.
Bow-chicka-wow-wow.
I bite the inside of my cheek, shaking away the image of my fingers tugging down his zipper, and stand a little too quickly. “I’m not riding with you when you’ve lost this much blood. It’s dangerous.”
He gives me a crooked smile and holds up his bandaged hand. “‘’Tis but a scratch.’”
My lip twitches. “Did you just quote Monty Python at me?”
“Maybe.” He gives me a boyish smirk before turning for the door. My feet automatically follow his out of the bathroom like I’m trapped in his magnetic field.
“I’ll call Derek. Maybe he—”
“Not calling Derek.”
“I’ll drive, then. A stick can’t be that hard,” I say, distracted by the way his shirt hugs his broad shoulders and loosens around his tapered waist.
This earns me a deep chuckle. He glances back at me, his brows raised. “I’ll drive.”
I follow him into the bedroom, glancing to the rumpled sheets on his side of the bed. Even though I tell myself he won’t notice that my side’s completely untouched, I fight the urge to cover my tracks.
“Wouldn’t put you on the back of my bike if I wasn’t good.” He tosses the towels into the hamper, then peels his bloody T-shirt off, giving me a view of his back. My eyes go to the pink puckered scars snaking out from his side.
I’m only alive because I had to take a piss…
“But… I just performed emergency services on your hand. That’s gotta be worth me getting my way just this once.” Emergency services? Who the fuck says that?
He grins. “That’ll get you dinner.”
“Dinner for practically saving your life,” I deadpan.
“And dessert.” He gives me look that sends an unwanted thrill through my body.
He grabs a black T-shirt from the dresser, pulls it over his head, and reaches for his wallet. Slipping it in his back pocket, he turns to face me, his gaze running down the length of my body. It’s a quick trip.
“My shirt looks good on you,” he says with a half grin.
“I’ll go change—”
“Naw, stay here. I’ll be fine.”
I search his eyes for a heartbeat. “You won’t go. You’ll probably just have Jesse try to weld it shut or something. I’m going.”
This earns me another chuckle and a shake of his head. “Fair enough. I’ll get the bike ready. There’s coffee made.”
My stomach does a happy flip at the thought of coffee.
“Give me ten minutes.”
“You got it, babe.”
I flush at the gentle timbre in his voice.
I bite my bottom lip, feeling his Bathroom of Doom ghost kiss, his ghost hand, his ghost body against mine. My gaze turns down as he walks past, “Unchained Melody” playing in my mind.
I’m so fucked. So, very, very fucked.
I’m pretty sure only one of us is getting off of this island.
Spoiler Alert: it’s not me.
* * *
If I thought Ben shifting gears in a vintage Bronco was rugged and sexy, then Ben handling a rumbling motorcycle like he’s Jax Teller is off the freaking charts. Especially when you’ve got your hands gripping the ridges of his six-pack. Especially when his heavy hand covers yours at each red light (which may or may not be some kind of safety thing).
Especially when he revs the engine for apparently no reason other than to mess with me…
I lean back in the chair, cross my ripped-boyfriend-jean-clad legs at the thought, and stare blindly at the wall-hung TV, trying not to notice the scent of lemony disinfectant mixed with rubbing alcohol. It’s a trigger that I’m in no mood to deal with.
This is the quietest urgent care I’ve ever been to in my life. It feels strange sitting here in this cavernous room alone, like being the only person in a movie theater.
“Happy Birthday!”
My eyes slice from the TV to the admittance window to see the older woman beam up at Ben as she enters his info into her computer.
“Thanks,” he mumbles in return.
It’s his birthday? A pang hits my gut.
It feels like I should know that. Like I should know his birthday, his age, his favorite movie, favorite color, what music he likes, but I don’t know any of it. I thought reading Ben’s emails to Rose meant I knew him, even more so after our spill-the-tea talk, but the truth is, I still don’t really know Benjamin Crawford at all.
The realization sinks my heart and presses down on my shoulders. I bet Kate knows this stuff.
“Have a seat, birthday boy. We’ll be right with you.” She gives him a bright smile and hands him back his card.
He puts it back in his wallet, slips it in his back pocket. “Thanks. How long do you think?”
“Not long.” She smiles.
He nods and turns. His eyes immediately find mine. I flick my gaze back to the TV.
His arm pushes against mine as he takes a seat, his spicy scent effectively canceling out the lemon disinfectant. Both are hazardous to my health.
I want to say happy birthday, but for some reason, i
t feels wrong. Like admitting out loud how little I know about him makes it somehow more real.
“You alright?” His deep voice is low and tinged with concern.
My gaze slices to his at the question. His brows are pinched as he leans back and slouches in the chair, his thigh bumping into my knee with the motion.
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t look good.”
I cross my arms over my ugly-ass puffer vest—the closest thing I own to a jacket—feeling insecure. It was either makeup or coffee. I chose coffee.
Also, it turns out boyfriend jeans look cute on everyone but me. Not to mention helmet head is actually a thing, apparently just not for Ben. His dark hair looks perfectly soft with perfectly formed thick waves on top of his perfect head.
I’m sure Angel Kate doesn’t get helmet head.
I huff. “Thanks.” And turn my eyes to the TV.
He chuckles. “I didn’t mean it like that. Just that you look… off.” I can tell he really wanted to say “like shit,” but didn’t.
I shrug with my eyes still glued to the infomercial. “Whatever,” I mumble, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice.
He leans his shoulder into mine and asks in a soft rumbly voice, “You anxious or something?”
I meet his searching gaze, not knowing what I feel. I don’t think I’m anxious, but I feel something. Like a balloon filling up my chest, making it hard to breathe, kind of something.
A deep voice fills the waiting area. “Benjamin Crawford.”
We both look over to see a middle-aged man standing in front of the automatic door, wearing scrubs and holding a clipboard.
Ben gives him a chin nod, stands, and turns back to me. “You good?”
No.
“I’m fine. Go.” I shoo, my hand flicking toward the waiting nurse.
After studying me a breath longer, he turns and follows the nurse through the automatic door.
“Sure got yourself a good-looking one there, hun,” the admittance woman calls out to me with a good-natured smile.
I return her smile with a nod of thanks.
If there was any way to feel worse about the current state of my life, that was it.