But now, as I watched him pacing the length of the room with his hands fisted on his hips, it seemed as though I'd made a mistake. There was work to be done, yes, but why was he alone? Why was he doing this? I was especially curious about that given he didn't know screwdriver basics. I'd spent five minutes on righty tighty, lefty loosey.
"Why don't we sit down for a minute?" I gestured toward a large ice chest, the one I'd left near the front door this morning. "I have some drinks and sandwiches. In case you're wondering, I didn't make them. My mother did. I told her I was working on a project today and she dropped by with all this food because she thinks I survive on takeout alone. If you knew her, you'd see that's an issue for her."
Ben stopped pacing but kept his fists on his hips. His sleeves were pushed up past his elbows, exposing his corded forearms. There was a tattoo peeking out from under his shirt, near his elbow. I couldn't make out the design.
God, those forearms. I needed a fan.
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"Food. I have food. Let's take a break and eat," I said. "Maybe outside? The snow is gone, it's not raining like the end of days, and I saw a sunbeam or two poking through the clouds on my way over here. In other words, a perfect spring day in New England."
Ben didn't say anything but edged me aside when I tried to collect the ice chest. He hefted it up and followed me into the backyard. The house sat on a deep lot with long-abandoned gardens and overgrown trees. We settled on the edge of the brick patio, in a sun-warmed spot.
I dug into the ice chest, setting the foil-wrapped sandwiches, fruit, and drinks between us. Ben popped the top on a black cherry seltzer and guzzled it down. "God dammit, this is awful. It's like drinking fizzy, fruity hairspray. No, I take that back. It's not even fruity. It's like fruit-inspired." He held out his arm, peered at the can. "Cherry. Huh. It tastes like it wasneara single cherry once for five minutes."
"You're disparaging my favorite beverage," I said.
"Maybe you should reevaluate your beverage choices. This is the worst thing I've ever put in my mouth." Then, he demolished a ham and Swiss sandwich in three bites. "That was good," Ben announced with a sigh. "Got another?"
I waved my arm over the spread between us. "I have a dozen more."
"That's what I'm talkin' about," he said, holding each package up to read my mother's precise printing on the foil.
I waited until Ben was halfway through his second sandwich to say anything. He seemed famished, and I needed the time to figure out how I wanted this conversation to go. That was the smartest way forward: knowing where I wanted to go and getting us there.
The only trouble with me and smart ways forward was that I always, always,alwaysfucked it up. But I was working hard at avoiding all manner of fuck up today.
Today, this month, forever.
"Let's talk about this place," I said, pointing toward the house and gardens with my seltzer. "Not that you've asked for my opinion on the landscaping but I'd build some rock features in here to break up the flat space and restore habitats for pollinators and other local species. Something to add a bit of depth and regrow the moss and lichen populations. They don't survive well in suburban lawns. I'd also prioritize drought-tolerant plantings. Hosta, sedum, chokeberry. Inkberry, maybe some American holly. If you added forsythia along the side of the property, you'd create a natural privacy fence from the street. Those are just a few ideas but they are more efficient but also require far less maintenance than your current setup. That might be something to consider if you don't want to spend your weekends working in your yard."
"Haven't asked my opinion on the landscaping," he murmured. "Sweetheart, I don't think I've asked your opinion on a damn thing but that hasn't stopped you yet."
I regarded him. "Shall I take my opinions—and my sandwiches—and go?"
"Don't even think about moving that fine ass of yours," he replied. "Sit right there and mouth off about all the things I'm doing wrong."
"It's not mouthing off when it's accurate."
"And that fizzy water, the kind that had a nightmare about cherries, is disgusting." He arched a brow. "We'll survive this disagreement."
"All right. Fine. How did you decide on this property? What are you looking to do with it?"
He stared at me as he tipped back another sip. "What am I looking to do with it?" he repeated, the words tinted with bitterness. "Get rid of it and get some of my money back. That's all I want. I'm not looking for a side hustle here."
"Then…why did you buy it?" I asked.
His gaze skated down my body and back up again. He winced, looked away. Staring into the yard, he asked, "What's going on with you and the suit?"
"We're talking about the house," I said.
"He seemed like a douchebag," Ben continued, glancing back at me. "Why would you be interested in a douchebag?"
It was fascinating how Ben seemed to toggle through attitudes when it pleased him. Impatient and angry when faced with remodeling issues. Arrogant and brash when faced with Rob. Friendly and decent when faced with my breasts.
"Not that it's any of your business but he's not a douchebag," I said. "And just so you know, defaulting to the argument that he's a douche because he wears a suit to work is as unimaginative as you can get. If you have a point worth making, I'll listen. Otherwise, save it for someone who appreciates low-hanging insults."
Ignoring me, Ben continued, "You should get outta that situation real fast."
