“It’s no trouble,” Ben says.
Henry grunts as he leans forward in his chair, and Ben reaches to grab the four-point cane that’s in front of the fireplace. To watch Ben lean down, offer his arm for his father to grip as he lifts himself, stiffen his body against the weight—it’s hypnotizing. When Henry is up, good hand braced on the cane, Ben stays right as his elbow, one hand cupped underneath it, but not touching Henry at all. He’s watchful, prepared, careful. It makes my heart clench to see the way he does this, the way he’s so attuned to Henry’s care. I walk out with them, following behind, and we’re all quiet as Ben helps Henry descend the steps to the walk, Henry’s breathing growing more labored with the effort.
“Holy hell,” he says, once he’s at the curb.“That was hard! Wasn’t worth the dirt cakes and lemon beer, I’ll tell you what.”
“Told you,” says Ben, opening the door for Henry.
I’m not really needed here at this point, but it feels strange to walk away. I don’t want Henry to get the sense that I’m in a hurry, and I also don’t want him to feel that I’ve turned his slow pace into a spectator sport.
And I don’t want to leave Ben.
My phone rings from the clutch I’m carrying—I thought I’d set it to silent, but at least it hadn’t rang inside the party. I use the opportunity to look away while Ben helps Henry into his seat, buckling him in.“Oh!” I exclaim, catching sight of the screen, my voice high and excited.“It’s my brother!”
Ben looks over his shoulder at me, the corner of his mouth hitching up, that dimple showing again.“I have to take this,” I say, even as I’m swiping across to answer.“He doesn’t always have reception.”
“It’s all right,” Ben says, closing Henry in.
I pick up, say a quick hello to Alex before asking him to hold on, lowering the phone to my side. I don’t eventhink—I just talk.“Ben,” I say.“I really could use help with that light, sometime. If you’d still want to.”
Full dimple. I know what it means now, when books talk about“swooning.” I’m about to swoon right into that dimple.
“I’d still want to.”
“Okay, then. Call me tomorrow?”
“I’ll call you tomorrow.”
I wave at Henry, putting the phone back to my ear. Alex has called, finally! Right now, everything feels so good—well, make thatalmosteverything. I balance the phone between my shoulder and ear, lean down to slip off these truly maniacal shoes. And then I’m tiptoeing across the street, Alex’s voice in my ear, Ben’s laughter soft behind me.
Chapter 10
Ben
My week has gone from shit to sunshine since Jeff and Eric’s party, and that’s all because I feel back on track with Kit. By Saturday morning I was at her place, two coffees, a box of donuts, and my toolbox in tow, ready to hang her new pendant. When I’d finished the work—I might have drawn it out a little—she’d stepped onto the porch, then down to the sidewalk, then back into the house again, so she could see it from all angles. She’d clasped her hands in front of her chest in delight, and it’d been just about the most successful I’d felt in days.
And then she’d asked me to come out tonight.“I mean, with me my friends,” she’d said quickly, her face flushing.“I told them about your job offer, and they want to meet you. Really,” she’d added hastily,“they’re more family than friends.”
The side of me that’s working for Beaumont knows this is an opportunity. I’m excellent, I always brag to Jasper, at the kitchen table, at those moments when you’re meeting with a hire’s spouse or kids, when you’re trying to give them an insight into the new life you’re offering. It’s not quite the same, meeting up at a bar with Kit’s friends, but it’s something.
But the side of me that has been picturing Kit in that green, silky top from the other night? That side’s just happy to get to see her again.
The heat’s finally broken, but that’s only because it’s been raining since this afternoon, so by the time I get to the place now called One-Eyed Betty’s—it was a fish-and-chips place when I was a kid—my t-shirt is splattered with raindrops, my hair wet. I run a hand over it as I duck through the front door, scanning the room for Kit. Before I spot her, I hear a voice call out to me.“Ben Tucker! I can’t believe it!”
Liz—that’s what I always called Elizabeth Trenton, before she became the I guess now-famous Betty—looks nothing like I remember her. She’s got her hair dyed jet-black and pulled into a tight ponytail, blunt cut bangs framing her face, and bright red lipstick painting her lips. When she walks over to me and smiles up into my face, I see that she’s got black eyeliner painted thick around her eyes, a little cat-eyed swoop to it at the edges. It’s such a shock to my system that I say,“Holy shit, Liz.”
She laughs, swats my arm. In school, Liz was quiet as a church mouse, her hair a pale brown, her skin freckled and given to flushing, her glasses out of style, one lens thick and bifocaled, the other, thin and clear, just there for symmetry. She got a fair bit of teasing, a lot of kids calling her“three-eyes,” since everyone knew about the accident that had taken out her left eye when we were in second grade. Me, I never teased Liz. Our alphabetical homerooms all the way through high school meant I almost always sat next to her, and over the years we became friends.
She fluffs her ponytail and winks at me, and I take in the space.
“Damn, Liz, it looks great in here.” It’s full up, all the barstools and every table I can see taken, and there’s a robust staff milling about, carrying trays full of drinks and food, smiling and interacting easily with customers they seem to know. There’s certainly an aesthetic about the place—all the women working share Liz’s retro fashion, and the men have beards that probably require some kind of special hair product. Hipsters everywhere, but I’d noticed a lot of this in Barden since I came back—it seems to be a younger, more creative, more vibrant town than the one I’d grown up in.
“I do a good business.” I’m happy for the way she says that, so unapologetically confident about her success. Liz used to be the type to immediately cover up all the A+s she got on her papers when the teacher handed them back.“What’re you doing back home?” she asks.
“Ah, my dad had a little accident, so I’m helping him out for a while. It’s temporary.”
It’s not that I’d mind catching up, hearing about how Liz transformed this former dump into an urban hangout, but my eyes are already drifting, looking around for Kit. I find her weaving through the crowd toward me, and I feel a quiver of anticipation go through me. She’s wearing slim, cropped jeans, and a simple loose black tank top, and I swallow past the lump of anticipation in my throat, the same one I got when I’d first seen all that smooth, pale skin on her arms and shoulders—the skin I try not to notice whenever I see her.
But I always notice.
