TWENTY-ONE
Ben leavesme in his living room as he goes into his bedroom to change. I wander around his condo, skimming over the bookshelves full of books and knickknacks. A small snow globe of Salt Lake City sits on one shelf, and I pick it up, shaking it and watching the glitter snow fall. I stare at a picture he has framed of his band. They look much younger and stand outside a brown, beat-up van.
Behind it is a picture frame of a man with his arms around Joan, Ben’s mother. Another woman is crouched down with her arms around a young Ben. He looks to be 7 or 8. Everyone is smiling in the picture. The trees and tents in the background let me know it was probably some camping trip or something.
“What a happy family, huh?” His voice makes me jump.
“Who’s that?” I ask, pointing to the woman with her arms around him.
“The devil,” he says. “Let’s go.”
I set the photo back down, knowing in my gut that whoever she is, is the one who hurt him.
Why he keeps a picture of it makes no sense. I already deleted all the pictures I had of Charles and me, and part of me knew I’d have no choice but to take him back but seeing him makes me ill. More so when he has his arms around me, but knowing Ben, it’s probably some kind of self-punishment.
I never thought someone who walks around acting like such a big asshole would secretly hate himself as much as Ben seems to. It makes me sad to think about how he carries around his pain in silence.
Part of me is jealous, because it’s becoming increasingly hard to carry mine quietly, and he seems to have it down to a science.
Ben weaves through traffic with such ease while I grip onto the door handle, hoping he doesn’t kill us both. He has music playing through the speakers, not so loud that I couldn’t talk, but loud enough to imply he doesn’t want me to.
That should make me happy. My plan is to make him hate me, but the idea he might without me having to do anything stings a little.
He is in pain, I tell myself. That’s why he wants silence. I can tell he is in a lot more than he wants to admit. It’s clear from the way he leans himself against the seat, trying to keep the seatbelt from touching his ribs. His cheek is black and blue. The gash is small, but the way his skin is raised makes it look worse.
“Aaron is the other guitarist?” I ask finally.
“Yes,” he says. “His fiancée is Stacy. I like her, she doesn’t tag along with us on tour very often, which means I don’t have to see her very much, but we recently all went to dinner, and I may have picked up on the fact she is pregnant and ruined the surprise.”
“You’re such an asshole.”
“Yes.” He nods. “I’ve apologized but they want me to grovel, so thus this lunch. And I’m just pathetic enough to do it.”
“Would you grovel for me?”
“Yes,” he replies quickly, and it makes my stomach tense. “Told you last night I’d worship you. I wasn’t lying.”
“Ben,” I say, and his eyes dart to me for a moment. “This doesn’t end well for us.”
“What doesn’t end well?”
“This. Us. Whatever we’re doing.”
“We are just friends who fucked, Prue. Don’t confuse my desire to worship you as more than a desperate plead to make sure you don’t do something stupid and reckless. Plus, your pussy is really fucking good.”
“You are lying.”
“How so?”
“You like me.” I smile smugly at him. His eyes dart to me, lips pressed in a firm line. I’m hoping to push him away with my accusation, but part of me also hopes he admits its true.
“You aren’t wrong,” he says, eyes drifting back to the road. “That’s why I’m making you my friend.”
“No.” I laugh. “You like me, like, like like me.” I keep my smug smile on my face, hoping he takes the bait. Daring him to push me away. There is no way, playboy Ben is going to stick around when I accuse him of having a crush on me.
“What do you want from me, Prue?” he asks. “You want me to say no and tell you you’re out of your fucking mind? That a guy like me doesn’t fall for a girl, ever? Want me to freak out and suddenly create some distance between us? Like I’m so fucking scared of the idea of commitment that I rather never talk to you again than have you thinking I like you?”
I shrug, taunting him with my eyes. He may be able to read me well, but can he resist his playboy ways?
