He looks at me, down at his desk, back up at me.“I don’t—”
“I’m still not taking it,” I say, and watch as his shoulders slouch a little. Is that—is he disappointed, or relieved? It doesn’t matter. I still need to get through this.“It’s not right for me.It’s not the kind of work that’s right for me. Something else might be, somewhere down the line, but it’s not this. But with you, I started to get all mixed up about it. Whenever you talked about the job, or about Texas, after a while, I didn’t know whether you were talking about work or about us, and I got—I got scared. About risking everything I’d worked for.”
“Kit,” he begins, but I stop him with a shake of my head.
“I know my own mind on this.And I choose to be where I am for now.”
“All right,” he says, and before he can say anything else, I walk farther into the office, set my briefcase on the chair in front of me, reaching in and pulling out the portfolio I brought along, the one I’d spent the last week preparing. I open it, remove its most important contents—a manila envelope, no marks on the outside, nothing to give it away. I set it down on his desk, then push it toward him with my index finger.
“I brought this for you.” At the moment I’d like to back right out of here and find the nearest closet or bathroom stall or, I don’t know, under a desk would do in a pinch, because I am so, so nervous about this. I hadn’t known, not for sure, whether I’d use these—when I’d come here, I’d promised myself I wouldn’t make the final call until I listened, really listened, to what Jasper had to say.
But I’d hoped I’d get to use them.
Ben looks down at the envelope, then up at me, his eyebrow quirking.“Should I—?” Everything is still so tentative with us. I hope so hard that it’s not this way much longer.
“Yes, please.Open it.”
He takes his hands from his pockets, sits down again, and scoots forward to pick up the envelope. It feels as if it takes him forever to pinch up those little metal tabs, to slide his finger along the flap, to pull out the stack of photographs enclosed.“Alex took them,” I say, to fill up the silence.“He—ah—I asked him to spend the day in town.”
I know every photo in that envelope. I spent hours choosing each one from the set Alex took at each place. I study Ben’s face as he goes through them.
The first, a picture of the hardware bins at the salvage yard, taken from below. Alex had done this one lying on his back, like the photo in my living room, and the effect was to make the wall look enormous, endless.
Second, also from the yard, a picture of the lighting room. I’d chosen one that was a little blurry, ethereal, orbs around each lit bulb.
Third, River, cheeky in black and white (his choice), holding a brick and looking right at the camera, unsmiling but not angry, a look of challenge in his eyes.
Next, Henry, bent over the pieces of an antique clock, his face a mask of concentration. Sharon, camera shy, a blurry form behind him.
Fifth, a crowd shot: Betty’s on a full night, Zoe’s outline barely visible at the bottom of the frame as she throws a dart, and Betty’s tattoos a bright mural in the center as she carries a tray.
Sixth, the front porch of my house, now newly painted, two white wood rockers facing the street.
Seven through fifteen—a few more of my house, that exposed brick wall, the begonias I’ve planted in a pot that sits on the back stoop. Some of the city, including one I took of Alex getting a hot dog at the Wiener Cart. Another of the elaborate doorway to the Crestwood hotel.
And finally, me.
I’m on my front stoop, a picture Alex took while standing above me. It’s close, tight on my face. My hair catches at the edges of the print, my eyes look right up at the camera—through my glasses, and through the goggles I’m wearing over them.
Ben smiles. I can see his dimple peeking out, but he keeps his head determinedly down.
The silence is so heavy I can hear my pulse thrum. Still looking down, his voice ragged, a little choked, he finally says,“Have you come to recruit me?”
He looks up at my silence. My throat is too tight to answer, so I nod. He gets up from his seat, but gathers up all the pictures first, holding onto them at the edges like he’s not ready to let go yet. Then he comes around his desk and stands in front of me, one hand coming up to my neck, his thumb touching under my chin, so he can tip my face up to his.“Kit,” he says.“I was coming to you.”
“What?”
“I guess Jasper didn’t say. I’m leaving Beaumont. I’m giving up my partnership with Jasper.”
“Your partnership…?”
“I didn’t tell you about that before, but I should have, and I will. I’ll tell you all about that. I did everything wrong before, with you. I went too fast, and I’m sorry about that. But I’m doing it right this time, Kit,” he says, and in spite of what he’s saying abouttoo fast, he’s talking faster than I’ve ever heard him talk, messy and disorganized and it’s so, so perfect. It’s Ben without anything in between us. It’s not Ben being charming or funny or anything else but honest, and this time, he’s not stopping himself or backing off.“I put in my notice here, but I’m tying up all my loose ends, and I’m working with Jasper on an exit strategy for him, and our colleague Kristen too. That’s going to take some time, but they—they’re going to do well. They deserve to do well. I’m going to work at the yard—well, if my dad will have me. I haven’t told him yet, but I’ve thought about it a lot, and it’s what I really want to do, to be in the business with my dad. Or I’ll do something else if that doesn’t work, or if I need to make more money, whatever I need to do. I’ve got a couple of places I’ve been checking out, apartments not too far from the university—I mean not because I wanted to bother you or anything, just because it’s a good location. I was going to come to you, ask you if you wanted to go out sometime…”
“Ben,” I say, setting my palms on his chest, stilling him, my heart squeezing at the deep breath he has to take after that haphazard speech.“You didn’t go too fast. I love you. I want to be with you. I want you to come back and be with me, and if you didn’t want to do that, I was going to try and sell you, but if it didn’t work, I was willing to negotiate…”
“You don’t have to sell me,” he says, setting the pictures down and tugging me to him, wrapping his arms so tight around me, lifting me so that he can bury his face against my neck.“You never have to sell me. Holyfuck, I’m so—I’m so happy you’re here.” He kisses me then, my shoulder, my neck, the spot behind my ear that gives me goose bumps, working his way to my mouth, as he talks to me, telling me how he’s missed me, how I smell so good, how he’s thought of me every second. When he kisses me, it’s perfect—it’sus, hot and sweet and the way it always is between us. Ben is tugging at the buttons of my blazer, moving me so he can back me against the desk, lift me onto it, and I want that, want to spread my legs so he can step between them, but Jesus, this pencil skirt. It is really tight. Nothing is going to happen unless I scoot this sucker up to my waist and put my bare ass on this desk. I mean, I am really turned on, but let’s be honest, not enough to keep myself from picturing the prints my butt would leave on glass.
“Ben,” I whisper against his mouth.“I don’t think we should do this here.”
