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“Come on,” he says, stepping back and wrapping his fingers on my wrist “Ben—”
“Come on. I have something to show you.”
I want to argue, of course. It’s incredibly hard for menotto argue, but somehow I manage it, and I let him twine his fingers with mine.
He pulls me into his bedroom, to that little desk in the corner.
When he lets go of my hand, he opens the drawer and pulls out a battered leather journal. It’s one of those nice ones, the kind with thick paper.
“Do you know what this is?”
“Your journal. Hattie told me about it.” She did. I have no idea why, but one drunken night Hattie told me Ben has this journal he draws in every morning. His ritual, she called it. His mom gets him the journal every year. I remember thinking that was sweet since he told me his mom was the one to encourage his art.
“Hat’s big fuckin’ mouth,” he says with a shake of his head and a small smile. “You know what I do with this?”
“You draw in it.” Why does my voice sound so weak? Why are my hands shaking?
“Every single day. I date it. Draw tattoos, inspiration. Little things. Gets my creativity flowing.” I nod but still don’t understand why he’s saying this. What does this have to do with anything? “Okay? And?”
“When was your opening day?”
“What?” I feel my eyebrows come together with confusion, hissing as the one tugs at stitches. Ben looks at the spot and moves a hand like he wants to touch it before shaking his head.
“When was your opening day?”
“What does this—” He sighs, shaking his head and cutting me off.
“Jesus Christ, never mind. Do you have to argue with absolutely fucking everything?” He starts to flip through pages, looking for . . . something. “Your opening day was June 5th.” He’s right, of course.
“How do you remember that?”
“Because I started drawing these,” he says then turns the journal to me.
At the top of the page, June 5this printed in fancy cursive. It’s a dated but unlined journal.
And on that page is a little cupcake. It’s shaded like an old school tattoo he might have, the swirls and lines in varying shades of gray pencil.
“What? I don’t understand,” I say, looking from the simple drawing to him. June 4thhas an anchor, a flower tangling through the chains. Completely unrelated.
“Take it. Turn the pages.” My hands go out carefully, like this might be a test or a trap, but I grab it anyway. The pages shake with the tremble in my hands.
And I turn the page.
June 6this next to the 7th, and both pages have a cupcake. One is wearing headphones. The other is giving a peace sign. All three drawings are different.
I keep turning the pages.
Cupcakes. Page after page. One on a skateboard, one drinking a cup of coffee, one eating a cupcake.
“That’s kind of fucked up,” I whisper, looking at him and pointing at the cannibalistic cupcake. He’s looking at me, face full of . . . emotion. Some kind of emotion that I can’t quite pinpoint is glowing in his eyes.
“I’m kind of fucked up. I also haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since the day I met you. You drive me insane, but fuck if you haven’t gotten under my skin.” I start to open my mouth to argue, but he stops me, grabbing the journal and tossing it to the desk like he doesn’t care what happens to this precious thing.
Then I’m in his arms, wrapped tight, his face in mine, one hand on the back of my head, tangling in my hair and holding me still. “If you say it’s because I hate you I’m gonna lose my fuckin’ mind, Lola.” I open my mouth to speak, to argue, but he keeps talking.
“We are fucking volatile. That’s what we are. We will pick at each other, make each other angry, and push each other until we break. That's what we’re gonna be, Lola. That’s what I’ve alwaysneeded, baby. You? You’re everything I didn’t think I was looking for. Exciting and sweet and challenging.” I open my mouth, but heknows.Somehow he knows every argument I’ll make and how to counter it.
“Now you’re gonna say that I only want a challenge. That I’ll get bored.”How does he do that?“But that’s not it, Lola. Do you think you’ll ever sit down and do what you’re told? Doubt it. You lived that life and used up your emotional availability to listen to any man telling you what to do. Now you’re your own person. But while you’re that, you’re also going to bemine. And you’re going to drive me up a fucking wall, and I’m gonna say dumb shit, and it will make you slam a door in my face, and we’re gonna fight, and you’re gonna wake me up too fucking early, and I’m gonna use my mouth to convince you to stay in bed longer, but we’re gonna live the good life, Lola. And we’re gonna do it together.” I blink at him, his words not processing. What is he . . . Is he saying what I think he’s saying?
