“As if you needed an opportunity.”I scoff quietly to myself as I rifle through my tote for my lip gloss.
“You’ll find I bring a lot more to the table than that.”The wand of my gloss slowly glides back and forth and back and forth over my chapped lip as I relive the bodily sensations that invaded me the moment Ben’s words left his pretty mouth. I’m lost in thought when I feel two broad hands cup my shoulders from behind. Will’s breath tickles the side of my neck.
“Hey you,” he says before pressing a soft kiss to the spot his breath caressed just moments before. Guilt inches up my throat and I swallow it down.
“Coffee?” I ask, tilting my head back with an innocent smile, focusing my brain’s train of thought on the present. My hand reaches out to the side in anticipation of the cardboard cup Will is about to place in it. Not a moment later, an icy Americano in sheer plastic is in my grasp.
“I figured it was too warm for a hot one.” It was.
Will was good at this, sometimes. Anticipating my thoughts and feelings when they weren’t too complex, making decisions in my best interest when they weren’t too high stakes. I slowly sip my midnight black iced coffee with one hand, passing my gloss to Will with the other. He slips it into my bag, and my heart skips a beat as I remember the wad of paper I’d shoved to the bottom of my tote just minutes ago.
It isn’t that I’m hiding my association with Ben from Will; he knows I’m writing this story, so I’ll obviously have to spend some time with him. And it isn’t that I’m afraid of what Will might do or say, though Iwouldrather avoid the fallout. I actually don’t know why, exactly, I’m so hesitant to let Will into this tiny pocket of my life right now. The attraction is unsettling, yes, butI’m also not some shallow whore, powerless in the face of an extraordinarily beautiful man. Genevieve comes to mind.
It’s that Ben both eases and unnerves me, and I don’t know what to do with that. I think the unnerving has to do with his intense attention to my relationship with Will. Every time Will comes up, I feel like he’s cracked open my head and taken a magnifying glass to it. His eyes get so earnest and thoughtful and I start to notice my chest aches.
Unnerving, to say the least. Anyone would say so. And the fact that he, every now and again, puts me at ease, isn’t so odd now that I think of it.Grant puts me at ease, and I’ve never contemplated my friendship with him.I’m being over analytical.
Will should have been more transparent with me about Ben.Who dates someone for over a year and doesn’t mention their literal brother? That’s the source of all this weirdness.
I smile, satisfied with my logic.
“Sip, babe. You’re catatonic over there.” Will’s voice pierces my thought bubble and I feel my awareness click into place. Here, with Will, on Mawbry Lawn, on a beautiful, albeit warm, Monday morning. I turn my head so I’m taking in all of Will’s boyish charm at once.
The sleeves of his Astor Hill Basketball crewneck are bunched up to his elbows, revealing bronzy, tanned forearms taught with the muscles he must’ve used while doing dribbling drills this morning. His hand reaches toward my face and his calloused thumb grazes an errant smudge of lip gloss beneath my lip.
“How were drills this morning?” I ask, snatching his hand with mine, pulling it into my lap. Rather than making contact with his usually smooth skin, I’m met by a rough gauzy surface. I look down, noticing slight bruising where the bandage fails to cover an obvious injury. It reminds me of the bruise I noticed on Ben’s cheek earlier this morning; my mind is racing, consideringall the explanations for what I’m realizing was a fight between Will and Ben.
“They were?—”
“Did you hit him?” I demand, dropping his hand from my grasp in disgust.
“Wait, hit who?” Will’s brows furrow in annoyance as the reality of who I’m talking about dawns on him. “Why the fuck do you care? It’s not like you know him.” I’m surprised by the irritation that overwhelms me.
He’s not wrong. I don’t know Ben, and I shouldn’t care. I should be relieved that he’s dropping his fixation on Ben even speaking to me, but part of me is disappointed that the person who is supposed to be consuming my thoughts doesn’t know that someone else is.
In an attempt to shield my unfounded fury, I rise off the grass, brushing debris off the back of my thigh.
“Are you serious? Why are you making this into something? Olivia, you’re being dramatic,” Will huffs, his non-bandaged hand wrapping around my calf.
Looking down on him, I shake him off. “Oh, I’m sorry. Would you rather me assault you when I’m annoyed?” I see him roll his eyes right as I start to turn away.
“Fine. Genevieve just texted me that she got me some ice from Nero. Pretty thoughtful, huh?”
“I’m surprised she didn’t get it from the food hall, considering her taste for sloppy seconds.”
The sly glint in Will’s eyes turns slightly feral. “Who says she’s the one getting sloppy seconds?” My eyes widen. I know he’s just trying to get a rise out of me but his blatant disrespect for me and our relationship seems to be the only consistency we have right now. Without a word I grab my bag and move to leave. “Wait—” Will says standing and dusting the grass off his jeans. “Chill— that was clearly a joke.”
I refuse to speak to him blatantly, looking away as to not make eye contact with him. His arm circles around my waist and I roll my eyes, my aggravation subsiding only slightly at his gentle touch. He kisses me tenderly on the cheek.
“I really am running late, but I’m sorry. Call me when you calm down?” He grabs his basketball duffel off the ground leaving me standing there looking after him, wondering how many times I’m going to have the same argument until I can’t anymore.
10
Ben
The gym door creaks open as my nostrils are assaulted by the familiar stench of sweat and rubber. The squeaking of sneakers fills the room as I hear thethump, thump, thumpof basketballs hitting the vinyl flooring. The door slams shut behind me causing an abrupt stop to the series of drills being run by my former teammates. Slowly, every player on the court turns toward me, forming a line in front of the wall displaying a jersey with the number thirty-two and “Cabot” embroidered in white. Grant moves to the front of the line pushing the corner of the frame with his index finger until it gives. Catching it with ease he pulls the Jersey out and approaches.
“Finally, we’ve been waiting for you man,” Grant says, so earnestly it makes my palms sweat with nerves, the men behind him beaming and clapping as if I had returned from war and not driven in from Boston.
