Cider House Fools, page 18
“Why don’t you just get to the point? Ask me what you really want to know?” My knife cracks against the cutting board. I chop the potato in half, guillotining the innocent root like French queen. I don’t owe him any answers, but I do owe Bennett. I can be civil. I’ll do anything to not add to her grief or increase her stress. I glance at Balthasar’s brother when he doesn’t answer right away.
His lashes are thick, curling back as if they were actively working to avoid his hard gaze. Intelligence sharpens the faceted irises that glint like the stone they emulate. Emeralds are know to be soft, often cracked and flawed, but Smith’s wouldn’t dare break without his express permission. Focusing on his eyes and letting the rest of his face soften into the periphery gives me the feeling I’m handling a brilliantly vivid snake. The prettiest ones are filled with fatally toxic venom. His intelligence is feral, not emotional, so his question is exactly what I expect. “I don’t understand why you aren’t with her.”
I nod, my lips pressed together in an effort to suppress the nastiness I’d like to spit back. I hold his gaze until he drops his. I resume peeling potatoes. I would answer the question, if I thought it would benefit Bennett in any way. But I’m not the one who needs to answer it. He is.
But is he the only one? I shift my weight, trying to displace the uneasy feeling that comes when I lie to myself. He drops his empty bottle back in the carton. The way he reads my silence is uncanny. He understands exactly what I’m thinking. “That’s fair.” He looks at his watch. “It’s early but,” he jerks his thumb at the back door.
I nod. He wants to go to the barn and feed the animals. Good. It’s long past the time Bennett should be back from the funeral home. I haven’t heard from either Bennett or Melanie, so I can only assume everything went smoothly. Smoothly enough that Bennett didn’t need me. It’s almost dinner time. I want to worry about her, but I know she’s somewhere with the tall, dark, and enigmatically handsome Whittaker. Is she reconnecting with him the way she reconnected with Balthasar? Are they working out their issues together? The thought of her with him quickens my pulse and thickens my cock, but then I think about her with Smith and my pulse beats in a whole different pattern. Cold sweat dots my face. My reaction sickens me. If this is what makes her happy and helps her heal, I should be applauding her reconnection with them. My mind churns out ways to interfere in her relationships with them, nasty plans that stick like starch in my psyche. I shake my head, peeling furiously, but I can’t dislodge the disloyal and unfaithful thoughts I’m having. I’m big enough to admit it. I know what this is. It’s jealousy, pure and simple. If I can’t have her, I don’t want them to have her either.
I attack another potato and tell myself it’s not my place to judge. It’s not my place to have feelings about who Bennett touches. About who’s name she moans. About whom she wraps her silky thighs around.
I don’t want her like that. I want her. I want her so damn bad I can’t stop thinking about tasting her.
Fuck. Those god damned creamy, silky thick thighs of hers. Right now they’re much thinner than I prefer them. Images of her dancing around my place in panties and a T-shirt with a messy bun and face mask smeared across her skin pirouette my brain. She’s got a glass of red in her hand and her eyes sparkle as we howl the latest country tune together. Bennett standing in the kitchen, laser focused as she plates. The tenderness on her face as she strokes mine after a breakup. The absolute triumph we shared as we held up the keys to our restaurant. The paralyzed set of her shoulders and the hurt in her eyes when I did my best to gently tell her I wasn’t interested in that kind of relationship with her.
What did she look like with her hands wound through Balthasar’s glinting curls as he buried his face inside of her? What would her pheromones taste like if I licked the bloom on her flushed skin as Whittaker spears her with his broody, intense gaze? How did she sound when she rode Smith’s cock, cocooned in the cab of his truck? I drop the peeler and lean on the table. I’m sick with regret that I’ve thrown away the chance for complete relationship with my person. I pull another potato out and realize I’ve almost peeled an entire ten-pound bag before tossing the vegetable back on the table. I shouldn’t be touching food with my filthy hands. I don’t deserve to cook the food that will pass through her perfect, plump lips when I’m having all of these selfish thoughts.
But I can’t stop them. They’re barreling down a mountainside of regret and gaining momentum. Did I push her so far away I’ve lost her for good? Did I carelessly toss aside my perfect pairing?
I glance around the kitchen. An expertly prepped meal waits to be finished. The meat sits silently, waiting to be roasted. How ironic. Naked, golden potatoes peer out of their cold bath, judging me. There’s no way I can chop these up right now. I might lose a finger.
The decisions I made in the past can’t be changed. I’m here to be support Bennett, to be the rock she needs, not to split the ground under her feet wide open. I refuse to add selfishness to my list of sins. I need a drink, a cold shower, and a reality check. In whatever order I can get them.
Chapter seventeen
December 1 Thursday
Bennett
I spent the whole drive preparing myself. The ride home was quiet, but not unpleasant. The mood in the truck was definitely different on the way home than it was on the way to Bellard’s. Whittaker’s enigmatic nature has always felt like home to me. I stop second guessing myself about his thoughts and emotions a long time ago.
I’m a realist. I know too much time has passed for me to make that claim now. I have no knowledge of the minutiae of his daily life the last ten years. But I don’t need to know those things right now. I know exactly where I stand with Whittaker. I’m a temporary distraction. We’ll enjoy our time together, hopefully, and then we’ll go back to our life apart.
There is no more room for pain inside of me. The loss of Gran fills every nook and cranny inside of my heart. There isn’t a single iota of space left for the boys to hurt me any more than they already have. I’ve lived with the loss of them for so long adding another layer over my long-callused wounds changes nothing. Besides, shouldn’t I take what I can? Don’t I deserve to have what little they can give me? Haven’t I earned the temporary respite? I simply have to choose to focus on the benefits, on the love we can share in the short amount of time we have, and not on the fact that this is going to come to another end.
The winter landscape flashes by, the view poking around my memories and stirring up feelings and memories I thought I had buried a long time ago. The Bennett I used to be had the world at her fingertips and carelessly threw it all away.. Like the barren Michigan fields covered with a sparkling, soft duvet of snow, my heart is full of loving friends. I have a fulfilling career. Every day is a victory after the battles I’ve won. But was the fight worth it? Beneath the pretty veneer I’m empty. I had true love and lost it. The people I want to share my victories with no longer belong to me. My heart is as barren as the buried fields we’re cutting through.
I don’t have to explain this to Whittaker. Just like he doesn’t have to tell me about the war he’s waging internally. I watch his callused palm and capable fingers drape over the steering wheel and feel a kinship with the circular object. We both know what it’s like to be skillful maneuvered and manipulated by those hands.
Was I dead inside and out before I answered that phone call from my mother? I was living what I thought was my dream life. Managing a career and business I’ve sweat blood and tears for, and going home to a carefully curated, safe roof over my head every night, while living life with a best friend who knows me better than I know myself. Sure, I was dating a selfish prick, but I wasn’t in love with him. that part of me was broken a long time ago. Relationship and love interests don’t factor into my spreadsheet.
A familiar white house with a wraparound porch fills the window before rushing away. “Do the Mawson’s still breed those giant rabbits?” I ask absently. Whittaker’s presence is wrapped around me like a blanket at football game. The blanket isn’t mine. I know I can’t keep it. But it smells really good. It’s so soft and warm. I know I have to give it back at the end of the game, but for now I can burrow down into and revel in the warmth it brings.
“They do. I saw Brian a couple of days ago. He asked me to pass on their condolences and to tell you’ll they will be at the service.” His voice curls over me, rich and smokey, like single malt scotch. He doesn’t look at me when he speaks. He’s singularly focused on the road, as if keeping his eyes off me might maintain the physical space between us. It’s obvious he’s torn. His response to me teetered back and forth all day. He doesn’t know if he wants to reach for me or pull away.
I don’t have a choice but to respect where he’s at.
And that’s okay. Our ship sailed a long time ago. Being able to think that without suffering like I did the first time he rejected me is a specific kind of freedom. I modulate my response, replying as benignly as I can. “I don’t doubt the whole town will be there.”
“Bennett, what are you going to do with the farm?” The words rush out, tumbling over one another. His eyes whip from the road, disrupting my cocoon of space. They invade the quiet, secret place where I make my rationalizations and expose me for the fraud I know I am.
I tear my gaze from the hypnotic rush of the view outside and latch onto Whittaker. My dark knight, my mystery, the boy who spoke to my soul without saying a word and blazed trips to the moon across my skin with his skillful hands and hot tongue.
My stomach turns as his question tarnishes the time we’ve just spent together. I swallow down a lump of disappointment, wincing as it scratches and tears at my throat like an unchewed tortilla chip.
“Why?” I whisper. Not why do you ask? Not why, do you want it? I don’t have to add anything else to my question. He knows what I’m asking.
He doesn’t answer. He stares straight ahead, and I know I’m sick in the head when I’m sad he isn’t staring at me anymore. So that’s what today is about. That’s what the brilliant smiles and intense eye contact was for. He was buttering me up and I absorbed all that attention from him like a hot croissant. He presses his foot to the brake pedal and slows, turning into my driveway. “I totally didn’t call that,” I whisper, clutching my chest. It hurts so bad I can’t breathe.
He comes to a stop and puts the truck into park. He turns, reaching over to pluck my hand away from my chest. “Stop.”
I know what he means. He means stop rubbing a hole over my heart. Stop overanalyzing. Stop thinking so hard. Stop the intrusive thinking. He draws my hand toward him, slowly. He pulls my arm, pressing my hand flat so it is resting over his heart, abandoning the question about the farm. “You’re thinking so hard it’s making my head hurt. Stop coming to the conclusions that you know will hurt the most. Don’t make this about anything more than it is. He presses my hand against his hard chest. “Be careful, Bennett, because I’m broken. You’re going home to Pennsylvania. I don’t know how I’m going to watch you go and say goodbye to Gran and this place.”
The emotional skin I have in this game is both old and new. Whittaker words are a knife, slashing through both the new, unblemished flesh and the burned, twisted scars of the past. He hasn’t given up. He wasn’t trying to rekindle us. He just wants the farm. I can’t even be mad about it. He has the right to love this place as much as I do. Knowing how much he’s invested into keeping the property going for Gran means he’s earned the opportunity to ask for the land. But his ask, right on the heels of the intimacy I thought we were sharing, is too much for me to process. “I know,” I say as gently as I can muster. He drops my hand and slides out of the car. Thick, boiling hurt sticks to my skin like burned caramel. I shake out my hands, but the frigid air does not soothe.
And here we are, sitting in Gran’s driveway. Just the two of us, in his truck. How many times have we done this? Sat here soaking up every second until my curfew, content to just be with one another. The divide between is too great to cross. The chasm between where he is and I am at is so deep, so terrible that the silence between us echoes. I want to throw myself at him, to wrap my arms around his neck and never let go. Instead, I sit here quietly, rubbing my chest, wondering how I could be so stupid. He doesn’t want me. He wants the farm.
I pull my hand back and he releases me, creating the space he seems set on maintaining. That’s when the inviting aroma of Franklin’s cooking hits my nose. Like a lure it hooks my traitorous stomach. The resulting gurgle is so loud we both here it. I clear my throat. Our afternoon has come to its conclusion. I say the only thing I can think of that doesn’t saddle him with any emotional obligation to me. “Thank you for being there for Gran Whittaker. I’m sure she appreciated it.”
Is it my imagination or does hurt flicker through his eyes? I swing open the door and slide off the seat. His emotions aren’t my business. He’s made that abundantly clear. I shouldn’t feel bad recognizing his presence today for what it was. He went to honor Gran and our past. He took me to the tree farm to pay his respects to our shared past. I’d say he was successful. He made cum so hard I saw multi-colored lights.
Today wasn’t about exploring a future or taking advantage of the present. No matter how much I want it to be. I cannot allow myself to read more into the afternoon. That isn’t how we work. Whittaker has set boundaries, and I’ll respect them.
Footsteps crunch around the truck. My eyes latch onto Smith. He’s got on a black Carhartt jacket and a black knit cap. A piece of hay is stuck to his jacket like a Scout badge. He must have been feeding the livestock. I’ve never been more grateful to see him my life.
“I fed and put up the animals,” he says, tilting his head as he looks back and forth between Whittaker and me. His brows knit as he senses the stiff tension. I don’t know why that would make Smith pause.
“Thank you,” I blurt. I spin, sliding sideways between the two men. A fantasy of them crushing me between the two of them flares bright and then dies, taken out by my empty, grumbling stomach. The aroma of gourmet cuisine makes me think of Franklin, and my mood improves significantly. I slide past Whittaker and Smith, just to have to come to a stop when Balthasar pulls into the driveway. The wound on my head throbs, reminding me I forgot to take any more ibuprofen. The ache spreads through my face and down the back of my neck, hooking up with the fresh heartache and my fear of facing all three of them.
Now might be the perfect time to curl up in a snow bank and take a long nap.
Balthasar turns off the truck and jumps out, slamming the door. The clap of metal on metal ricochets through my head like bullet. I close my eyes and swallow down the saliva that fills my mouth. The overwhelming urge to puke has me clutching my middle. “Jesus, Bennett, you look like shit. What’s going on here?” He glares at Smith, who throws his hands up.
“Don’t come at me. I just walked up from the barn. She pulled in with Whittaker.”
She. He can’t even say my name. I undo the tie to my coat and rewrap it around my body, just to give me something to focus on other than the three of them. My chest shudders, the night air so thin it barely fills my lungs. “I’m fine Balthasar. I just had a long day. It was hard planning Gran’s funeral.”
“I’m sorry Ben, truly.” He steps towards me, reaching for me, his eyes tight with concern, his jaw flexing as he tucks that ridiculously plump lower lip between his teeth. The sight of him, so effortlessly sexual and beguiling, so comfortable in his own skin, fills me with rage.
I wonder what number my episode of Snapped will be.
I step to the side, out of his reach. “I mean, that’s kind of a ridiculous thing to say, isn’t it?” I throw my hands up. “Who wouldn’t be? Who enjoys planning a funeral? I shouldn’t even be the one doing it. I haven’t seen the woman in the flesh for years, but here I am, right back where I came from, standing right between the three men who drove me out of here.” I laugh, throwing my head back, ignoring the pain. My laughter is grating, forced and hollow, with an edge of hysteria. I spin in a circle, stumbling a bit as I return to facing the three of them. Balthasar looks like a deer caught in the headlights of a barreling semi. Whittaker looks bored, staring at me like he paid good money for a freak show and all he got was a lady with an obviously fake beard. Smith just looks annoyed. Well fuck them!
I wonder, for a split second, what number my episode of Snapped! will be.
“What are you all doing just standing there? Balthasar, relax. Whittaker why are you staring? I’m not going to change into someone else. Ever. And Smith, wow, you’re still here. I have no idea what do with that.” I’m shouting at them, waving my arms around, every expression over animated. My face stretches until it feels like it’s going to crack. I completely ignore the pain radiating from forehead. A pounding headache and a little nausea is nothing when I’m caught up in being an absolute jerk to the men who have done nothing but help me in honor of Gran since I came home. I should shut up and go in the house, but I’m just getting started. “Have you guys had a chance to talk yet? I lift an arm and point my finger, circling it around them. “Talked amongst yourselves, maybe had a little tête à tête?” My eyes land on each one of them as I so graciously give them time to answer. “No? Smith did you tell your brother we got reacquainted in your truck the other day?” Balthasar’s head whips around to his brother. “Don’t you dare go getting pissed at Smith, Balthasar. You got your fill the other night. Or are you just pissed he got all up in it and you didn’t?” I laugh again, going for a sneer and falling miserably short. “And guess what your ex-bestie slash fuck buddy did today. He took me to the tree farm and played me like a fiddle.” Whittaker never takes his eyes off me. He shakes his head slowly from side to side, as if he knows what I’m going to say and he’s already disappointed in me. He’s practically begging me to shut up before I say something I’ll regret. He should know I’m far past the point of logical return and that kind of censorship is only egging me on. Balthasar, on the other hand, turns to Whittaker. Balthasar’s eyes skate over Whittaker’s face, looking for something. I gasp, loud and fake, covering my mouth with the tips of my fingers. “Don’t tell me you two are still fucking all these years later? Really? Fuck buddies for ten years? Is it just missing that one thing you lost and can’t seem to find?”
His lashes are thick, curling back as if they were actively working to avoid his hard gaze. Intelligence sharpens the faceted irises that glint like the stone they emulate. Emeralds are know to be soft, often cracked and flawed, but Smith’s wouldn’t dare break without his express permission. Focusing on his eyes and letting the rest of his face soften into the periphery gives me the feeling I’m handling a brilliantly vivid snake. The prettiest ones are filled with fatally toxic venom. His intelligence is feral, not emotional, so his question is exactly what I expect. “I don’t understand why you aren’t with her.”
I nod, my lips pressed together in an effort to suppress the nastiness I’d like to spit back. I hold his gaze until he drops his. I resume peeling potatoes. I would answer the question, if I thought it would benefit Bennett in any way. But I’m not the one who needs to answer it. He is.
But is he the only one? I shift my weight, trying to displace the uneasy feeling that comes when I lie to myself. He drops his empty bottle back in the carton. The way he reads my silence is uncanny. He understands exactly what I’m thinking. “That’s fair.” He looks at his watch. “It’s early but,” he jerks his thumb at the back door.
I nod. He wants to go to the barn and feed the animals. Good. It’s long past the time Bennett should be back from the funeral home. I haven’t heard from either Bennett or Melanie, so I can only assume everything went smoothly. Smoothly enough that Bennett didn’t need me. It’s almost dinner time. I want to worry about her, but I know she’s somewhere with the tall, dark, and enigmatically handsome Whittaker. Is she reconnecting with him the way she reconnected with Balthasar? Are they working out their issues together? The thought of her with him quickens my pulse and thickens my cock, but then I think about her with Smith and my pulse beats in a whole different pattern. Cold sweat dots my face. My reaction sickens me. If this is what makes her happy and helps her heal, I should be applauding her reconnection with them. My mind churns out ways to interfere in her relationships with them, nasty plans that stick like starch in my psyche. I shake my head, peeling furiously, but I can’t dislodge the disloyal and unfaithful thoughts I’m having. I’m big enough to admit it. I know what this is. It’s jealousy, pure and simple. If I can’t have her, I don’t want them to have her either.
I attack another potato and tell myself it’s not my place to judge. It’s not my place to have feelings about who Bennett touches. About who’s name she moans. About whom she wraps her silky thighs around.
I don’t want her like that. I want her. I want her so damn bad I can’t stop thinking about tasting her.
Fuck. Those god damned creamy, silky thick thighs of hers. Right now they’re much thinner than I prefer them. Images of her dancing around my place in panties and a T-shirt with a messy bun and face mask smeared across her skin pirouette my brain. She’s got a glass of red in her hand and her eyes sparkle as we howl the latest country tune together. Bennett standing in the kitchen, laser focused as she plates. The tenderness on her face as she strokes mine after a breakup. The absolute triumph we shared as we held up the keys to our restaurant. The paralyzed set of her shoulders and the hurt in her eyes when I did my best to gently tell her I wasn’t interested in that kind of relationship with her.
What did she look like with her hands wound through Balthasar’s glinting curls as he buried his face inside of her? What would her pheromones taste like if I licked the bloom on her flushed skin as Whittaker spears her with his broody, intense gaze? How did she sound when she rode Smith’s cock, cocooned in the cab of his truck? I drop the peeler and lean on the table. I’m sick with regret that I’ve thrown away the chance for complete relationship with my person. I pull another potato out and realize I’ve almost peeled an entire ten-pound bag before tossing the vegetable back on the table. I shouldn’t be touching food with my filthy hands. I don’t deserve to cook the food that will pass through her perfect, plump lips when I’m having all of these selfish thoughts.
But I can’t stop them. They’re barreling down a mountainside of regret and gaining momentum. Did I push her so far away I’ve lost her for good? Did I carelessly toss aside my perfect pairing?
I glance around the kitchen. An expertly prepped meal waits to be finished. The meat sits silently, waiting to be roasted. How ironic. Naked, golden potatoes peer out of their cold bath, judging me. There’s no way I can chop these up right now. I might lose a finger.
The decisions I made in the past can’t be changed. I’m here to be support Bennett, to be the rock she needs, not to split the ground under her feet wide open. I refuse to add selfishness to my list of sins. I need a drink, a cold shower, and a reality check. In whatever order I can get them.
Chapter seventeen
December 1 Thursday
Bennett
I spent the whole drive preparing myself. The ride home was quiet, but not unpleasant. The mood in the truck was definitely different on the way home than it was on the way to Bellard’s. Whittaker’s enigmatic nature has always felt like home to me. I stop second guessing myself about his thoughts and emotions a long time ago.
I’m a realist. I know too much time has passed for me to make that claim now. I have no knowledge of the minutiae of his daily life the last ten years. But I don’t need to know those things right now. I know exactly where I stand with Whittaker. I’m a temporary distraction. We’ll enjoy our time together, hopefully, and then we’ll go back to our life apart.
There is no more room for pain inside of me. The loss of Gran fills every nook and cranny inside of my heart. There isn’t a single iota of space left for the boys to hurt me any more than they already have. I’ve lived with the loss of them for so long adding another layer over my long-callused wounds changes nothing. Besides, shouldn’t I take what I can? Don’t I deserve to have what little they can give me? Haven’t I earned the temporary respite? I simply have to choose to focus on the benefits, on the love we can share in the short amount of time we have, and not on the fact that this is going to come to another end.
The winter landscape flashes by, the view poking around my memories and stirring up feelings and memories I thought I had buried a long time ago. The Bennett I used to be had the world at her fingertips and carelessly threw it all away.. Like the barren Michigan fields covered with a sparkling, soft duvet of snow, my heart is full of loving friends. I have a fulfilling career. Every day is a victory after the battles I’ve won. But was the fight worth it? Beneath the pretty veneer I’m empty. I had true love and lost it. The people I want to share my victories with no longer belong to me. My heart is as barren as the buried fields we’re cutting through.
I don’t have to explain this to Whittaker. Just like he doesn’t have to tell me about the war he’s waging internally. I watch his callused palm and capable fingers drape over the steering wheel and feel a kinship with the circular object. We both know what it’s like to be skillful maneuvered and manipulated by those hands.
Was I dead inside and out before I answered that phone call from my mother? I was living what I thought was my dream life. Managing a career and business I’ve sweat blood and tears for, and going home to a carefully curated, safe roof over my head every night, while living life with a best friend who knows me better than I know myself. Sure, I was dating a selfish prick, but I wasn’t in love with him. that part of me was broken a long time ago. Relationship and love interests don’t factor into my spreadsheet.
A familiar white house with a wraparound porch fills the window before rushing away. “Do the Mawson’s still breed those giant rabbits?” I ask absently. Whittaker’s presence is wrapped around me like a blanket at football game. The blanket isn’t mine. I know I can’t keep it. But it smells really good. It’s so soft and warm. I know I have to give it back at the end of the game, but for now I can burrow down into and revel in the warmth it brings.
“They do. I saw Brian a couple of days ago. He asked me to pass on their condolences and to tell you’ll they will be at the service.” His voice curls over me, rich and smokey, like single malt scotch. He doesn’t look at me when he speaks. He’s singularly focused on the road, as if keeping his eyes off me might maintain the physical space between us. It’s obvious he’s torn. His response to me teetered back and forth all day. He doesn’t know if he wants to reach for me or pull away.
I don’t have a choice but to respect where he’s at.
And that’s okay. Our ship sailed a long time ago. Being able to think that without suffering like I did the first time he rejected me is a specific kind of freedom. I modulate my response, replying as benignly as I can. “I don’t doubt the whole town will be there.”
“Bennett, what are you going to do with the farm?” The words rush out, tumbling over one another. His eyes whip from the road, disrupting my cocoon of space. They invade the quiet, secret place where I make my rationalizations and expose me for the fraud I know I am.
I tear my gaze from the hypnotic rush of the view outside and latch onto Whittaker. My dark knight, my mystery, the boy who spoke to my soul without saying a word and blazed trips to the moon across my skin with his skillful hands and hot tongue.
My stomach turns as his question tarnishes the time we’ve just spent together. I swallow down a lump of disappointment, wincing as it scratches and tears at my throat like an unchewed tortilla chip.
“Why?” I whisper. Not why do you ask? Not why, do you want it? I don’t have to add anything else to my question. He knows what I’m asking.
He doesn’t answer. He stares straight ahead, and I know I’m sick in the head when I’m sad he isn’t staring at me anymore. So that’s what today is about. That’s what the brilliant smiles and intense eye contact was for. He was buttering me up and I absorbed all that attention from him like a hot croissant. He presses his foot to the brake pedal and slows, turning into my driveway. “I totally didn’t call that,” I whisper, clutching my chest. It hurts so bad I can’t breathe.
He comes to a stop and puts the truck into park. He turns, reaching over to pluck my hand away from my chest. “Stop.”
I know what he means. He means stop rubbing a hole over my heart. Stop overanalyzing. Stop thinking so hard. Stop the intrusive thinking. He draws my hand toward him, slowly. He pulls my arm, pressing my hand flat so it is resting over his heart, abandoning the question about the farm. “You’re thinking so hard it’s making my head hurt. Stop coming to the conclusions that you know will hurt the most. Don’t make this about anything more than it is. He presses my hand against his hard chest. “Be careful, Bennett, because I’m broken. You’re going home to Pennsylvania. I don’t know how I’m going to watch you go and say goodbye to Gran and this place.”
The emotional skin I have in this game is both old and new. Whittaker words are a knife, slashing through both the new, unblemished flesh and the burned, twisted scars of the past. He hasn’t given up. He wasn’t trying to rekindle us. He just wants the farm. I can’t even be mad about it. He has the right to love this place as much as I do. Knowing how much he’s invested into keeping the property going for Gran means he’s earned the opportunity to ask for the land. But his ask, right on the heels of the intimacy I thought we were sharing, is too much for me to process. “I know,” I say as gently as I can muster. He drops my hand and slides out of the car. Thick, boiling hurt sticks to my skin like burned caramel. I shake out my hands, but the frigid air does not soothe.
And here we are, sitting in Gran’s driveway. Just the two of us, in his truck. How many times have we done this? Sat here soaking up every second until my curfew, content to just be with one another. The divide between is too great to cross. The chasm between where he is and I am at is so deep, so terrible that the silence between us echoes. I want to throw myself at him, to wrap my arms around his neck and never let go. Instead, I sit here quietly, rubbing my chest, wondering how I could be so stupid. He doesn’t want me. He wants the farm.
I pull my hand back and he releases me, creating the space he seems set on maintaining. That’s when the inviting aroma of Franklin’s cooking hits my nose. Like a lure it hooks my traitorous stomach. The resulting gurgle is so loud we both here it. I clear my throat. Our afternoon has come to its conclusion. I say the only thing I can think of that doesn’t saddle him with any emotional obligation to me. “Thank you for being there for Gran Whittaker. I’m sure she appreciated it.”
Is it my imagination or does hurt flicker through his eyes? I swing open the door and slide off the seat. His emotions aren’t my business. He’s made that abundantly clear. I shouldn’t feel bad recognizing his presence today for what it was. He went to honor Gran and our past. He took me to the tree farm to pay his respects to our shared past. I’d say he was successful. He made cum so hard I saw multi-colored lights.
Today wasn’t about exploring a future or taking advantage of the present. No matter how much I want it to be. I cannot allow myself to read more into the afternoon. That isn’t how we work. Whittaker has set boundaries, and I’ll respect them.
Footsteps crunch around the truck. My eyes latch onto Smith. He’s got on a black Carhartt jacket and a black knit cap. A piece of hay is stuck to his jacket like a Scout badge. He must have been feeding the livestock. I’ve never been more grateful to see him my life.
“I fed and put up the animals,” he says, tilting his head as he looks back and forth between Whittaker and me. His brows knit as he senses the stiff tension. I don’t know why that would make Smith pause.
“Thank you,” I blurt. I spin, sliding sideways between the two men. A fantasy of them crushing me between the two of them flares bright and then dies, taken out by my empty, grumbling stomach. The aroma of gourmet cuisine makes me think of Franklin, and my mood improves significantly. I slide past Whittaker and Smith, just to have to come to a stop when Balthasar pulls into the driveway. The wound on my head throbs, reminding me I forgot to take any more ibuprofen. The ache spreads through my face and down the back of my neck, hooking up with the fresh heartache and my fear of facing all three of them.
Now might be the perfect time to curl up in a snow bank and take a long nap.
Balthasar turns off the truck and jumps out, slamming the door. The clap of metal on metal ricochets through my head like bullet. I close my eyes and swallow down the saliva that fills my mouth. The overwhelming urge to puke has me clutching my middle. “Jesus, Bennett, you look like shit. What’s going on here?” He glares at Smith, who throws his hands up.
“Don’t come at me. I just walked up from the barn. She pulled in with Whittaker.”
She. He can’t even say my name. I undo the tie to my coat and rewrap it around my body, just to give me something to focus on other than the three of them. My chest shudders, the night air so thin it barely fills my lungs. “I’m fine Balthasar. I just had a long day. It was hard planning Gran’s funeral.”
“I’m sorry Ben, truly.” He steps towards me, reaching for me, his eyes tight with concern, his jaw flexing as he tucks that ridiculously plump lower lip between his teeth. The sight of him, so effortlessly sexual and beguiling, so comfortable in his own skin, fills me with rage.
I wonder what number my episode of Snapped will be.
I step to the side, out of his reach. “I mean, that’s kind of a ridiculous thing to say, isn’t it?” I throw my hands up. “Who wouldn’t be? Who enjoys planning a funeral? I shouldn’t even be the one doing it. I haven’t seen the woman in the flesh for years, but here I am, right back where I came from, standing right between the three men who drove me out of here.” I laugh, throwing my head back, ignoring the pain. My laughter is grating, forced and hollow, with an edge of hysteria. I spin in a circle, stumbling a bit as I return to facing the three of them. Balthasar looks like a deer caught in the headlights of a barreling semi. Whittaker looks bored, staring at me like he paid good money for a freak show and all he got was a lady with an obviously fake beard. Smith just looks annoyed. Well fuck them!
I wonder, for a split second, what number my episode of Snapped! will be.
“What are you all doing just standing there? Balthasar, relax. Whittaker why are you staring? I’m not going to change into someone else. Ever. And Smith, wow, you’re still here. I have no idea what do with that.” I’m shouting at them, waving my arms around, every expression over animated. My face stretches until it feels like it’s going to crack. I completely ignore the pain radiating from forehead. A pounding headache and a little nausea is nothing when I’m caught up in being an absolute jerk to the men who have done nothing but help me in honor of Gran since I came home. I should shut up and go in the house, but I’m just getting started. “Have you guys had a chance to talk yet? I lift an arm and point my finger, circling it around them. “Talked amongst yourselves, maybe had a little tête à tête?” My eyes land on each one of them as I so graciously give them time to answer. “No? Smith did you tell your brother we got reacquainted in your truck the other day?” Balthasar’s head whips around to his brother. “Don’t you dare go getting pissed at Smith, Balthasar. You got your fill the other night. Or are you just pissed he got all up in it and you didn’t?” I laugh again, going for a sneer and falling miserably short. “And guess what your ex-bestie slash fuck buddy did today. He took me to the tree farm and played me like a fiddle.” Whittaker never takes his eyes off me. He shakes his head slowly from side to side, as if he knows what I’m going to say and he’s already disappointed in me. He’s practically begging me to shut up before I say something I’ll regret. He should know I’m far past the point of logical return and that kind of censorship is only egging me on. Balthasar, on the other hand, turns to Whittaker. Balthasar’s eyes skate over Whittaker’s face, looking for something. I gasp, loud and fake, covering my mouth with the tips of my fingers. “Don’t tell me you two are still fucking all these years later? Really? Fuck buddies for ten years? Is it just missing that one thing you lost and can’t seem to find?”
