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“Figured it would be good physical therapy. Work on your grip—shit, I was joking.” He ducks when I raise my hand for another playful smack to the side of his head. “Careful. You know I love your feisty side. We’ll never leave my apartment if you keep spanking me like that.”
“I didn’t spank you. I hit you.”
“God, tell me more.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“I’m getting hard. Keep going—ouch,” he howls. “Fine, you win. Let’s get this over with so I can get you back here. If you’re a good girl, I was thinkin’ about giving you a drawer.”
His last comment saves him from another beating. My own drawer. I know he said he wanted me to stay, but that was in the heat of an emotional moment. He really wants me to stay? I was dreading the end of our deal. The forty-eight-hour arrangement. I imagine staying. . . falling asleep and waking up next to him, exploring this crazy ride we’re on. A shiver of excitement courses through me.
“You cold? Want me to get you a hoodie?”
If he only knew. “No. Quite the opposite.” His eyes dilate. “But! That’s a problem for another time. Ready?” The way his lips twitch, there’s no doubt he wants to throttle me. My phone buzzes in my back pocket, saving me. I retrieve it and see an unknown number. “Hello? Hello?” The line goes dead.
“Who was it?”
“My secret lover wanting to know if I’ve gotten rid of you yet.” The way his jaw clenches is an automatic panty-drencher. “I’m kidding, Tarzan. It was no one. They hung up.” Like I said, his dominant side sure suits him.
We manage to get out of the house without any funny business. The ride over to his mom’s is quiet but nice. It’s been such a long time since I’ve been at ease like this. I’ve carried so much weight on my shoulders. Childhood trauma. My marriage. Packing my things and moving away from a place I used to call home. I never imagined my life taking this turn. And I can’t help but smile at where I’ve ended up.
I peer over at Ben. He looks at peace, his smile carefree. I take in our connected hands. Such a simple gesture, yet it creates a whirlwind of butterflies inside my belly. I haven’t felt this way in such a long time, I forgot that happy feels. . . good.
“What’s your mom like?” I ask, breaking the silence.
He looks over at me, then back to the road. “She’s. . . a lot of things.”
“What does that mean?”
He inhales, releasing a deep breath. “She’s lost a lot. And that hangs over her. Before my dad died, she was such a light in our house. She could turn any bad situation into good. And she loved to bake. Was obsessed with it. There was always fresh pie or pastries on our counter. She had a sense of humor too. If you ever wanted to know where I got my pranks from, it’s her. She would pull stuff on my dad all the time. And, God, her laugh. She would go on for hours. She thought she was the smoothest prankster in town.” He pauses, focusing on the road.
“You’re making it sound like she died.”
“In a way, she did. I haven’t seen that person in a long time.”
He doesn’t say anything more. And I don’t push him. A shadow passes over his features, and I feel a pang of regret at bringing it up. I squeeze his hand and spend the remainder of the ride staring out the window. When we pull into the neighborhood, it dawns on me.
“Wait. This is where you live?”
“Lived. I’m a big boy now and have my own place.”
“You know what I mean. This neighborhood connects to mine.”
“I know.” He pulls into the driveway of a simple two-story ranch house.
“I didn’t know we lived so close to each other growing up.”
He turns my way. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.” Without saying anything more, he gets out. I follow, my nerves setting in as we head up the walkway to the front door. What if his mom doesn’t like me? I look over myself in a panic. “Is this dress too short?”
“What? No, it’s fine. Not short enough—”
“I’m serious! What if your mom thinks I’m a hussy? I should have worn pants.”
Ben stops and cups my cheek. “She’s going to take one look at you and think you’re beautiful, intelligent, and then ask what the hell you’re doing with me. Stop worrying.”
Easy for him to say. Okay. Just smile, be polite, and compliment her outfit and décor. Got it. He walks up to the door and taps three knocks before letting himself in.
“Mom?” he calls out. No one answers. “She’s probably out back in the garden.” I follow him through the quaint house. Pictures of Ben line the walls. Different stages of his childhood. His bad haircuts. His tough-guy expression. I halt at a picture. His hair sticking up—
