I giggle at the odd expression and try to imagine his father—a strong, kind, quiet wilderness man who speaks in an even stronger drawl than Ben—speaking those words, even in jest. Ben always saysdadrather thanfather, even though most people in the Central Cities won’t use that outdated term anymore. Teresa and I did sometimes when we were young, but it’s faded out of usage as the years have passed.
Ben only ever speaks of his mother and father withdeep affection. I’d know even if I hadn’t met them and seen him interact with them that Ben loves his parents. Sometimes I wonder if he misses them, why he’s spent so many years of his life away from them, but the thought of asking makes me nervous, so I never have.
Instead, I say lightly, “Well, I guess that’s an appropriate way to describe what we’ve been doing, but it’s better than nothing. I’m not sure where or how we’d get any private cuddling time even if we were like that.”
“What are you talkin’ about? We’re like that.”
“Maybe you are. But I’ve never been a cuddler.”
He resettles me across his lap, pulling me back into his arms fully. “I think you are. You’ve just never let yourself be. And if we want longer private time, we can always set up a tent.”
“Right. You’re going to trust a piece of canvas to block what we’ve been doing from everyone else.”
“I wouldn’t mind if they knew.”
“I would.”
“I know.” He sounds resigned but not upset or resentful. If he expressed any unhappiness at all in the way we are together, I’d have to do something. Change things.
I’d have to end it.
And merely the idea of such a thing crushes me like nothing ever has.
The truth is that, more and more, I’ve been wishing to have more privacy with Ben. Wishing we could share a bed all night. Wishing I could sleep with him, not onlyfuck him. I’ve been wanting him to hold me like this as much as he’s evidently wanted it too.
“Maybe one day…” I murmur before I realize I’ve said it out loud.
My voice is soft. Hardly more than a loud exhale. But Ben hears it.
His body tightens very briefly. “Maybe what?”
Something inside me resists being so vulnerable. The same part of me that’s never admitted wanting the things that other women want, that never shows fear or fatigue or grief or despair, that always,alwayspretends to be strong. But I push through to answer the question honestly because not doing so would hurt him.
“Maybe one day it will be different. We’ll have a space to… to be together, to figure this out.” I gulp after I get out the hoarse words. And, being me, I can’t help but add, “If that’s what you want?”
Ben’s response isn’t what I expect. He’s been soft and affectionate as he holds me, stroking my messy braid and my back, but now he stiffens, freezes. He says soft and slow, “You know I don’t get offended easily, but if you ask a question like that to me again, I will be.”
He’s hurt after all, and I did it to him—even when I was trying not to.
“I’m sorry. But you’re the one who kept saying this thing is casual, that it’s just sex and there’s only one string. What do you expect?”
“I expect you to know me better than that. I said itcouldbe that because that’s what you needed it to be. I never said that’s what I wanted.” He takes a few raspy breaths. “You already know this, Annabelle. Don’t pretend you don’t.”
“Y-yeah.” My heart is galloping wildly now. Fear and exhilaration both.
“So we can take this slow. As slow as you need. I’m still only demanding the one string. But don’t ask me ridiculous questions again.” He sounds almost stern.
It’s silly—not like me at all—but I don’t even mind.
I kind of like that stern tone in this moment.
“Okay. I’m sorry. The last thing in the world I’d ever want to do is hurt you.”
“I know that. And I went into this with my eyes wide open, knowing damn well there’s a reasonable chance I’ll be left in broken wreckage when it ends. But everything I said to you before still stands. There’s no pressure. No expectation. No strings except you not fucking anyone but me. But you’ve got to know by now where I stand on this. You must know what I really want.”
I gulp. Hide my face in his shirt, breathing in the scent of him. “I… I do. I think… I think I feel the same. But I still don’t know whether it can work, whether it’s possible to have that sort of relationship with who I am and what we’re trying to accomplish. I guess…”
“What do you guess?” he asks very gently, retrieving my face from his shirt so he can see my expression.
