I push my wineglass away. “It’s time for you to tell me what this overprotectiveness is really about. Every time I ask, you deflect and evade.”
“Deflect and evade, huh? You’ve been watching too much CNN.”
I fold my hands in front of me, pinning him under my gaze. His smirk falls away when he realizes he’s not getting out of this without talking. He sips his beer, staring at a point somewhere over my right shoulder. I’m about to snap my fingers in his face and shoutBenjy!when he clears his throat and speaks so softly, I have to lean forward to hear him.
“When my sister was in college, she was date-raped at a fraternity party.”
I gasp and recoil, my hand flying to my mouth. I wasnotexpecting that.
“Oh God, I’m so sorry. You don’t have to—”
He waves me off. “No, you’re right, I can be a little nuts about things and I’ve taken it out on you, so...” He trails off, shrugging as if to say,It is what it is.“It’s a story I’m sure you’ve heard before. She liked the guy, they were drinking, he didn’t stop atno.”
The raw pain in his voice clenches my heart.
“Shelby didn’t tell us right away, but she ended up coming home a couple months later. She was a mess. My parents made her report it, butthere wasn’t anything the police could do at that point. It wasn’t like there was any proof.” His voice is flat.
“Ben, I’m so sorry. I can’t even imagine what it must have been like for your sister. For your whole family.”
“I was a senior in high school at the time. I was so filled with rage. I wasn’t there to protect her and there was nothing we could do about it. Just completely fucking helpless. I wanted to murder the guy. Still do.” His mouth tightens. “Anyway, that’s when I got more into guns.” He flicks his eyes toward mine, then away.
An icy fear grips my insides. “Did you... confront him?” Images flicker across my mind like some bad revenge movie. By the look on his face, I wouldn’t be surprised if Ben tells me he killed the guy and buried him in the backyard.
“No. I was enraged—I’mstillenraged—but I knew it wouldn’t change anything. Not that I don’t picture his face on that target. Shooting was more about channeling my anger. I needed an outlet, to feel like I was taking control back.”
“I get it.”
“It was a rough time for my family. He got off scot-free while Shelby walked around like a zombie for two years.” He white-knuckles his beer.
“I don’t know what to say.” I can’t believe I forced him into telling me this. I am the world’s worst person.
“There’s really nothingtosay. There are a lot of bad guys out there.”
Realization dawns. “This must be why you get that look on your face every time I mention my sorority.”
“I’ve never been much for drinking.” He nods toward the half-full pilsner glass he’s been nursing.
Memories fall into place like dominos. His agitation over my walking home alone. The insistence that I carry a weapon. Showing up at thebar that night—and his visceral anger at the “slimy barfly” who was circling me. His anger atmefor dismissing his concerns. It all makes a sad sort of sense now. What I’d thought was overprotectiveness and chauvinism was actually fear; scar tissue from a deep wound. The righteous indignation I’ve spent weeks indulging evaporates in a puff of smoke.
I’m not used to seeing him like this. The Ben I know is a rock, a bulletproof tower of strength and fortitude. Resilience is his currency. In contrast, the man in front of me seems to have shrunk. His shoulders sag as if they can’t bear the weight of this memory. His eyes are empty, devoid of their usual playfulness and spark. I wonder how often—or evenif—he talks about this, with anyone.
I’m not sure what to say to comfort him, so I reach out and take his hand, brushing my thumb over his knuckles. He gives me a tight smile that’s more of a grimace, then wraps his big hand around mine and squeezes. I don’t let go.
He clears his throat and shakes his head, as if jogging himself loose from his melancholy. “Anyway, I’m not some seventeen-year-old kid anymore. And I won’t let something like that happen again to—well, I just won’t let it happen again.”
I’m certain he’d been about to saysomeone I care about. I wish he’d just let himself say it.
“Now you know why I get so pissed when you blow me off.”
My response is instant. “I won’t blow you off anymore.”
His eyebrows arch in surprise. “Thank you,” he says sincerely, squeezing my hand again.
“Thanks for trusting me enough to tell me all this.”
He nods in acknowledgment, then exhales a long, slow breath, like he’s exorcising a ghost. I watch his shoulders relax, a calmness spreading over him. Is my acquiescence the reason for this lightness? Is it possibleI hold this much power over him? If so, it’s a relief—I feel like he holds so much power overmethat it’s like a balancing of the scales.
I cough, trying to dislodge the ball of emotion clogging my throat. “So how is your sister doing now?”
