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Even Zamboni seems confused, his sweet eyes shifting from one of us and back to the other. Tongue lolling like a question mark. And when he pulls one of Ben’s socks out of his burrow bed and brings it into the living room, we both suggest a walk. It should be a return to the usual easy that we’ve been waiting for, an opportunity for me to bring up New York.
But no.
Tension is radiating off us in waves as we let Zamboni walk as many city blocks as he likes and then bundle him into his little chariot when he tires.
And by this point my mind has started to spin with the kind of nonsense I know better than to believe…
Maybe he feels like I was ignoring him.
Maybe the days apart gave him some perspective he couldn’t get when we were seeing so much of each other.
Maybe he doesn’t feel the same way about me he did when I left.
But I can’t believe that’s true.
I know it’s not.
On the walk back, I keep watching how Ben’s shoulders are ratcheted so tight they look like they are going to snap. I’m officially freaking out.
Up ahead is Mel’s Corner Market. Ben cuts me a look, one brow pushed high in silent question…
Want to stop?
I reply with a listless half nod, half shrug.
Zamboni stands inside his three-season porch on wheels, wiggling his body from head to tail and making the decision for us. He loves to shop.
Mel’s behind the counter ringing up some guy when we go in. Her eyes light up, and she shoves the change across the counter before shooing her patron out with a scowl.
Climbing down from her stool to come around the corner, she ignores Ben and me completely, as usual.
Then it’s all, “Baby!” and “Did you miss me?” and “Have I got a special treat for you,” as she takes the stroller from me and begins pushing our dog through the aisles, telling him about all the products, picking items off the shelves at random and holding them close to the mesh so he can smell each one.
Ben’s shoulder brushes mine, and we turn to each other with a private smile, and in this one unguarded moment, the ease and connection that is so much a part of our relationship surges back in. He searches my eyes, an almost wounded look in his before he stalks toward the cold beverages.
That’s it.
I can’t take it another second. The sweetness layered beneath this bullshit is more than I can stand.
Stomping after him, I take the Eye-C-T he’s pulling from the cooler and return it.
“I don’t even want the tea.”
His head swings around, and this time there’s no imagining the devastation etched in the lines of his face. “You don’t want the fake tea?”
My temper erupts.
“What the hell is wrong with you!”
* * *
Ben
I blink. Blink again. Start to sputter as the half dozen responses that have been locked in my chest all day start climbing over each other, fighting for freedom all at once. Then fucking get a hold of myself, and demand, “Are you breaking up with me?”
Her chin snaps back. “What?”
“You told me you stopped drinking the fake tea when you didn’t want to be reminded of me… and now… you don’t want the fake tea! So is this it? Because if it is, it’s going to be really fucking awkward when I’m in New York this summer and we’re broken up!”
