“Plenty,” he replies with a wink that spurs a whirl of jealousy in me. “But more importantly, I had a Daniel Chapman. Cigarette smoke would never have gotten past him. Someone probably offered it at a party in high school— not when I wastwelve—” he glances at me out of the corner of his eye, smirking, “but it didn't seem worth it to me. Dan was intense, but I’m also an athlete so it was pretty easy to say no.”
Will never talked about his dad, so hearing Ben bring him up so casually is completely new to me. The way we rarely spoke about his family seemed so commonplace to me at the time, but I realize now that beyond feeling offended that it seemed they didn’t want to know me, I didn’t actually care to know how Will felt about them.
The urge to know everything about Ben rests in my bones like the urge to breathe, the need I have to understand him almost overwhelming. It feels like there will never be enough time to memorize him completely, and that feeling didn’t exist with Will.
I recall the only thing Will did tell me about his father. “He played for Astor, didn’t he?”
Ben sighs, like the topic is cumbersome, and I wait for him to evade my question.
“Yeah,” he replies instead, and contentment unfurls in my chest. “He got injured in his senior year and couldn’t participate in the draft like he planned. Lucky for him, he got me when he married my mom, and then along came Will.” Bitterness laces his voice.
“I take it you’re not a fan?” I ask, gingerly.
“Of Dan? No,” he scoffs. “I’ve had a long time to unpack the shit he put me through, make my peace with it, but I’m his stepson so I can kind of rationalize how easy it was for him to be who he was with me. But Will… that’s his son. I can’t really forgive him for that.”
I tilt my head, silently urging him to tell me more, my heart already breaking for the both of them.
“Just a lot of emotional abuse…” he ponders for a moment, I assume to consider how much he should share. “I’m sure you can tell Will and I don’t have the best relationship. Dan kind of used rivalry as his chief parenting tactic. He really pitted us against each other, to the point that he wouldn’t step in when things escalated into violence.”
“Your mom didn’t do anything?”
He sighs again, his demeanor shifting slightly.
“She couldn’t, really. It’s complicated… my mom loves us but she, like the rest of us, has her shit too,” he shrugs like it isn’t a big deal, obviously trying to bring some levity back to the conversation, and I let him, humming in agreement.
“I guess we all do, don’t we?” I throw him an understanding smile, but the looks he gives me back I can’t interpret. “What?”
He shakes his head, unbuckling his seatbelt. “Nothing, Beckett.” It doesn’t feel like nothing, but I let it go, shutting the car door before walking around to the driver’s side to join him. He grabs my hand, claiming it, his grip slightly tighter than usual, so I rub my thumb over his in reassurance. And I know it registers, because I catch him smiling to himself out of the corner of my eye as we walk toward the museum.
This— anticipating what he might need and feeling like I can comfort or reassure him— is new to me. It’s not the way I operate, not usually. But there’s something about the way he is with me, the way he parses together what I might want to ask for but for whatever reason won’t, that makes me feel like I can be that for him. Like when he stayed well past the time he would’ve liked to stay at that Halloween party, just to keep me companyfrom a distance. It’s foreign and refreshing and feels sogood. I take him in, admiring the way his tousled hair is blown by the breeze. He notices me doing so, pressing a soft kiss against my cheek. This time, it’s my turn to smile.
As we walk through the lobby and out to the courtyard, I internally admit that Ben might be onto something with these museums. The Venetian architecture is so incredible, I forget we’re even in Boston.
We’ve only been to one other museum, and this already feels more my speed. We walk through the rooms, pausing without speaking at every other piece. And we can do this— just exist with each other, melting into our collective silence, not feeling the need to fill it with anything but us. I’ve lost count of how many dates we’ve been on now, but each one has only reinforced how right this feels.
I’m older than I was when I met Will, and that counts for something, but I’ve never been pursued the way Ben is pursuing me. When he told me there would be no one else, for him or for me, that was it. I was sold, convinced, ready to dive into this with him, but there is something so validating about how intentional he is being. Like he wants me to know that he doesn’t take me for granted. I could lie and say I don’t need that kind of validation, but I guess I do. There’s a part of me that feels like the other shoe is going to drop here, that there’s something coming I need to brace for.
I guess I have our status as a “secret relationship” to blame for that. Of course I agreed to keeping this private until we feel that Will can handle it, but the resentment is still there. It feels like I’m finally happy, finally secure about something, and the universe is telling me to hold my horses. And that would be the wiser way to approach my relationship with Ben, but instead, I’m swept away. Our on-campus abstinence only makes me want him more, only makes every private moment I have with himfeel like an oxygen tank that I can’t inhale fast enough. The most alarming feeling is realizing that until now, I hadn’t really been feeling at all.
I pause in front of a painting, entranced by the way the statue seems to come to life as a man kisses her. “So this is why you love it so much,” I say to Ben, tilting my head toward him but still studying the painting, but I feel his brows rise in question. “Museums,” I clarify.
“Mm,” he hums in acknowledgement. “Feeling something, are we?” His voice caresses my neck, and I realize he’s standing so close behind me it’s almost indecent.
I bite my lip to stifle my grin, looking over my shoulder to meet his gaze. “Maybe.”
“If you like this, you have to come look at something else,” he says, a suggestive twinkle in his eye. He takes my hand in his and leads me down a winding staircase; when we reach the bottom, I’m met by a janitorial closet to my left, but a sprawling library to my right. The stacks are close together, interrupted only by a few tables with bankers lamps. To my surprise though, it’s not dark, and when I look up the most intricate stained glass mosaic filters the sunlight into shades of pink, yellow, and orange.
“How?” I ask, in awe. “We went down the stairs…?”
“I’ll show you when we leave, but this doesn’t sit directly beneath the rest of the museum.” His smile is adoring, like it’s cute that I didn’t figure that out, and I nod like I would have come to that conclusion anyway. “The woman who started the original collection here had this imported from Italy. She imagined it as a cafe, but eventually it became the room that collects books.”
I make my way through the stacks, appreciating the warm hues that seem to bleed across the aging book spines. I find an early edition of one of my favorites,Wuthering Heights,and make a note to call about purchasing it later. Turning around toinvestigate the stack behind me, I find Ben leaning against said stack, his warm gaze on me.
“Hi,” I sigh, contentment washing over me as I return the attention. It feels like we’re the only people in this hidden library, like a single soul couldn’t exist outside of ours. “Thank you for taking me here.”
“I had a feeling it would make you happy.” He worries his bottom lip as he gives me a once over, his eyes heating in that way I’ve become so familiar with.
“Mm,” I hum, smirking at him, feeling bold. “I could think of a few ways you could make me even happier.” He pretends to look around the corner before pushing off the stack and closing the distance between us, his hand threading its way up the nape of my neck and through my hair.
