I should tell him there’s nothing I like about him. It’s only fair. But it wouldn’t be the truth.
“Your hands,” I tell him. “I’ve always liked your hands.” And I guess the dam is open now because the rest tumbles out like it’s been waiting for this very moment to free itself. “They’re kind of rough, but you look after them. Your nails are always clipped short, buffed. And you’re tactile, even when you’re not working, like you can’t help finding the edges and imperfections and wanting to sand them down. You always tap your fingers when you’re thinking, and when you really don’t want to answer a question, you’ll scratch behind your ear. But mostly, I like them because of what they can create. I know you hate getting compliments, but, God, Benji, your work … you put so much into every piece, no matter how small it is or who it’s for. I once watched you spend an hour re-carving a single corner because it wasn’t symmetrical.”
He’s staring with the look of a man who just discovered something incredible. I’ve missed that look. Every time I imagine falling in love, that look is all I picture. How dare he?!
“We can skip the next part.”
Benji jolts like I struck him, hurt straining his features. “Why do you say that?”
He’s really asking me why?
“Because”—I can’t believe he doesn’t get it—“I want to take this seriously, Benji, and getting to know you takes three different types of dynamite and spy-level skills I don’t possess.”
“It’s only two types of dynamite,” he jokes. I stand, and he catches my wrist. “Hold up. I want to take this seriously too.”
He caresses my pulse point with his thumb, and my eyes flutter closed. I wish I hated him more.
Pulling my wrist free, I sit back down. “I’m still mad at you.”
“That’s okay. At least you aren’t trying to kill me,” he says.
“Not yet.”
“I deserve that.” He holds my gaze. “I need you to know how sorry I am. I hurt you, and that was the last thing I’d ever wanted to do.”
“You keep saying you’re sorry, but you haven’t explained why.” An apology is good, necessary, but doesn’t he see that he’s still holding back? Unless anything has changed, saying sorry doesn’t fix anything. “Tell me, please”—just put me out of my misery—“why did you leave?”
He takes a deep breath, and I’m expecting him to deflect, but I have to know. Have to hear himtell me he didn’t want me anymore before I drive myself insane with it. It’s the only way I can get over him.
He drags a palm over his mouth once, twice. Struggling. I fight back the urge to let him off the hook, to take back the question and ask something simpler. Easier.
I wait him out.
“When we met, I was coming out of a very bad relationship.” He rests his elbows on his knees, looking down at his feet with his hands clasped together. His voice is low, every word a confession. “Nothing abusive, but Millie and I were two hurt people, seeking miserable company with each other. And, boy, did we find it.”
My breath catches in my chest, thick. It sticks and holds there, suspended between my ribs, in fear that even one move, one blink will shatter this rare moment of vulnerability.
“I knew I needed to deal with it, with everything I was ignoring in my own head, but, uh …” He blows out a breath and rubs one hand over his scalp. “I convinced myself I could do it on my own. Forget it. Put it behind me. Move on.”
I know the feeling.
“She, uh … she called me last year.”
“When?”
“The day before I left.”
Tears prick my eyes. I remember. I saw the missed call the last time I saw him. The same night we …
“I didn’t answer it,” he rushes to add. “I blocked hernumber and deleted the voicemail, but it was enough to remind me of what I had been ignoring. Paige …”
I jolt when Benji takes my hand, but I don’t pull away.
“I didn’t leave because I wanted to. I left because I needed to. I needed help, and I knew if I stayed, I’d just keep distracting myself, and then I couldn’t … I couldn’t be the man you deserved.”
“You didn’t get back together with your ex?”
“What? No. Is that what you thought this whole time?”
