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I don’t know what to do with that.
So I do nothing at all.
“When I was little, she’d hold me, put on the music. Tell me the music scared off the monsters. I always had a wild imagination.”
“Music helps?”
“Yeah.” He moves off the bed, and I instantly miss his warmth, but then his hand is out to me.
“Come on.”
I could argue.
I probablyshouldargue.
But right now, that hand feels like a lifeline to safety, and my body is still quaking with the remnants of my dream.
He’s still holding my hand when he pulls me to an old record player he has set up in the corner next to his desk. I’m assuming it’s not what blares music late at night. I also expect him to have to search for the record he wants.
But once again, this man surprises me by just moving the needle and flipping the switch like the last record he listened to is the one he needs right now.
“Tiny Dancer”starts to play, the chords familiar and sweet, but the volume is low, only meant to be heard in this room.
As the words start, his arms wrap around my waist, first one, then the other, as he pulls me in close. My own arms wrap around his neck, getting the hint as he starts to sway us, my head resting on his chest and soaking him in.
I’m sure we’re a strange sight, me in his tee shirt, crazy bed head, tear-stained cheeks. Ben with boxers, tattoos on display, both of us swaying to Elton John in the middle of the night, lights dimmed.
“This song reminds me of you,” he says, breaking me from my own thoughts.
“I’m not tiny.”
“No, you’re not. Big heart, big dreams. Too fuckin’ brave.” I shake that off.
I can’t get caught in his words. That’s how I always get stuck. Caught in words and promises and pledges. My entire life is a sticky web of should-haves, could-haves, would-haves, and promises that melted like cotton candy.
Instead, I attack his choice of music, as one does. “I didn’t pin you as an Elton John fan. Not what you’re typically blasting when I’m trying to sleep at night.” His cheeks move in what I know is a smile, the scruff of his beard scratching my temple.
“No, not my normal style.” He pauses, his thumb sitting just under the fabric of the shirt I’m wearing, brushing my lower back. It’s not sexual, but calming. Sweet. Reassuring. “It was my mom’s favorite record when I was growing up. She insisted records were better than CDs and tapes even though my dad bought her all the fancy players. She’d break out her old records, set herself up on the back porch, and paint to the oldies. She’d set me up next to her with my own little paints, and I’d copy her. She loved this song best, though.” The vision is serene. I imagine a gorgeous, petite woman with Ben’s eyes in a sweet dress staring off into the woods from her back deck, peacefully smiling at her son sitting at a table with watercolors.
I can guess that’s where he got his love for art.
The vision reminds me of my mom, who lovingly taught me to bake, how to measure, and to add in extra love. Who would grab on tight when the stool would wobble, and we’d giggle wide-eyed at the near fall.
But Ben got to keep his mom, unlike me.
I wonder what that was like, having a mother who encouraged your passions when it truly mattered. When you were old enough to hear the judgment, to feel the doubt creep in.
“Tell me about her,” I ask, nearly greedy for the information. For insight into this man.
For anything to distract me.
No longer from my shitty night or my terrifying dreams, but from the past which has started to haunt me at all hours.
When he hesitates, I wonder if I went too far.
But then he starts to speak.
“My mom and my dad are polar opposites. He’s a pain in the ass, hard-headed, knows what he wants and won’t stop until he gets it.” A snort comes out of me, laughter bubbling at the perfect description of Ben. “My mom,” he continues, but I can feel his face moving into another smile in my hair. “My mom is sweet. Kind and gentle. Loves art and sees the beauty in everything. They don’t . . . They don’t fit. But it works, you know? They make it work. Because for some crazy reason, they love each other.” My mind moves to my own parents, my mom, who was kind and open and caring, and my father, who is . . . flawed, but she loved him with her dying breath. “I grew up in a small town—tiny fuckin’ town up north. My parents grew up there. A town like that . . . there are expectations. A family of boys, a family likeminewith boys? We were to be . . . men. Not artists. Football players. Homecoming kings, town heroes. My great grandfather started Coleman and Sons Construction there, and eventually, my dad took it over. It goes to the oldest son.” My brows scrunch together, confused.
