I stick my hands out in what I know are really lame jazz hands. “Surprise.” When he doesn’t move, I ask, “Can I come in?”
“God, of course. Sorry.” Ben pushes the door open, guiding me past the living room and into his bedroom. “Can we talk in here? Is that okay?”
“Yeah, this is fine.”
“Can I get you a diet cherry cola? Some chicken noodle soup?”
My eyebrow quirks. “You have chicken noodle soup? With the egg noodles?”
“No, but I can make some. I’ll make some for you,” he rushes out, standing with nervous energy dripping out of every pore.
I huff a laugh. “No, don’t go make me soup.”
“I would,” he whispers. “I would do whatever you want.”
“I know.” And I do.
“Listen, I’m so sorry about hiding my involvement in the grant,” he starts. “It was wrong to keep that from you, no matter how good my intentions were.”
I nod, biting my lip. He takes a seat on his bed and I sit across from him, swinging side to side in his desk chair so I have something to do. I have to sit on my hands so I don’t reach for him—something that was unfathomable a year ago and has now become second nature.
“There’s no way for me to trust that something like this won’t happen again,” I start.
Ben slides off his bed and onto his knees before me. “I will tell you everything from now on, I promise. I’ll?—”
“Wait.” I hold up my hand to stop him. “Let me finish.”
He nods, sitting back on his heels with a furrow between his brow.
“Like I was saying, there’s no way for me to trust you other than allowing you the time to rebuild that trust. Allowingusthetime to continue to build the relationship we’ve started. I want to do that, you are worth doing that with.”
There’s a look of relief that flashes across Ben’s face that quickly turns to panic when I say, “But I need you to explain the tattoo.” I have a weird feeling that his tattoo is meaningful in some way, and I think it’s the other thing he’s been hiding, but I can’t be sure.
He gulps, running a hand through his hair and breaking eye contact with me for the first time tonight.
“What are you afraid of?” I ask, quietly.
“That I’m going to scare you off,” he confesses, his tone just as gentle as mine.
“Ben, you proposed to me when we weren’t even dating. I think if I was going to be scared off, you would have done it by now.” The corner of my mouth lifts. A peace offering. An encouragement.
After a moment, Ben begins. “To explain properly, we need to go all the way back to that party after graduation. Even further back, if I’m being honest.”
“Okay…” That’s a long-ass time ago.
“You know how we always hated each other in high school? But how I actually didn’t hate you.”
“We’ve talked about it, yes,” I confirm.
“And when we made that pact, I had already been in love with you for quite some time.” He says it so matter of factly, like it was something as easy as breathing for him. “I knew you and knew that you wouldn’t be able to turn down a challenge. I also was fairly confident that you had never played a game of beer pong in your life.”
On that, he’s not wrong. “I didn’t exactly have time to learn,” I reply in mock defense.
“Fair.” He smirks and my heart skips a beat. Looking at him feels like when I drink cola too quickly—fizzy and effervescent, but it burns a little bit too.
He’s quiet for a long time. It’s unusual for this man who always knows what to say. I get the sense he’s gone somewhere uncomfortable in his mind, somewhere difficult to relive. He takes off his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose before he continues.
“It didn’t start right away. After the party, I mean. I had to go back and add some of the ones I missed.” I’m not following, but I hold space for him to parse through his thoughts. “College was hard. I was still here but you were gone. It felt like high school but wrong somehow. Broken. I didn’t have a name for it at the time, but I fell into a depression. I spent a lot of time alone, numb, feeling like I was aimless or purposeless.
