Ben:Because you're in love with me
Me::)
Ben:Back to denial? Back to just one kiss?
Me:It was never going to be just one kiss
Ben::) Nope. Meet me upstairs at 4 p.m.
Me:I think we're pushing it. Not safe
Ben:I have to show you something
Me:Uhum? Like what? Anything I haven't seen before?
Ben:Guess you'll have to risk it
After I spotted the camera aimed straight at us on the rooftop, I lost it and yelled at Ben like he'd personally installedit, even though he hadn't noticed it either. But my blood went so cold that I swear my bones knocked together.
We met back there the next morning. I paced like I was about to testify in court, while Ben lied on the same lounge bed, fingers tracing our leftover marks.
He was annoyingly serene, telling me to breathe, like we weren't seconds from becoming the city's next viral scandal. André apparently swore on his kids that the camera wasn't even plugged in yet.
Would I be shocked if someone tried to blackmail me with my moral failings, though? Not at all. I'd deserve it for being a love-drunk fool with no concept of consequence, because the truth is—we kept meeting. Rooftop evenings, 5 a.m. gym sessions. Five times that week, if we're counting. For the record, squats and deadlifts shouldn't be performed with Ben in the vicinity. He flips into predator mode in seconds, and when he does, my protests don't mean much—to myself most of all—and teeth marks bloom all over my chest like proof he's been there. And no, I'm not bragging. Nothing justifies this. Not even the fact that my nightmares finally took a holiday.
The night I came back, Richard wasn't home. So I turned the shower into a slow cooker while waiting for guilt to land like a punch. It never came. Instead, when I swiped the fogged mirror, I saw a monster in love staring back.
But monsters shouldn't get away with things—it's inevitable that I tell him. I just didn't know how to start a conversation that breaks someone's heart.
This morning, over breakfast, I started edging towardcoming clean, asked him if he ever wondered how well two people could know each other, even after years, and laughed in that brittle way that begs someone to ask what's wrong.
He didn't. Instead, he mentioned that he saw Lisa at one of his events, and the words lodged deep in my gut.
"What was she doing there?" I asked instead.
"Promoting. Good products, but their numbers don't add up, which isn't surprising. Her partner, Philip, is a known scammer. I wouldn't trust that guy with Monopoly money—" He caught the tilt of my head because that wasn't what I freaking asked. "Oh, I invited her."
"You invited her?" I frowned and blinked hard. "Wasn't she an 'opportunist'?"
"Absolutely." He shrugged in that collected way. "She must have got my phone number from Ben. We started talking—"
"I'm sorry—" I cut him off with a pissed flick of my hand. "Back up. You've been talking to Lisa? This whole time?"
"Yes." He took a sip of his coffee. "Strictly professional, and she came with Philip, so don't worry."
I cleared my throat, realizing how hypocritical I was to question him. "No. I don't worry about that."
"Even if you did worry—which you don't have to—she'll probably move back to New York anyway," he added, which caught my attention.
"Why?"
"Ben wants to move back."
The spoon clinked in my cup louder than it should. "What? Why? They just moved here?"
"Exactly." Another slow sip. "She's upset that he's so inconsistent."
I wanted to laugh, scream, shove my spoon through the nearest wall, but instead, I nodded.
