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Lacy
AfterBen’sdivabehavior,I’m convinced that he is indeed the jerky, entitled rock star I first expected. I should have known when I showed up to Rose Manor and found him camped out here, without even telling dad about it.
Who does that?!
I’d been warming up to him, thinking maybe he was more sensitive and thoughtful than I first envisioned. But after his harsh criticism of Jessica’s writing, and his inability to take any kind of critique himself, I’m convinced my gut instinct was right.
Oh well, guess it’s a good thing that I can write off that teen crush on my stepbrother.
I try to put thoughts of Ben out of my head as I furiously mop the floor in the upstairs bathroom.
Since last night’s writing fiasco, I’ve ignored Ben and thrown myself back into the task at hand—getting Rose Manor sparkling. Over the past week, I’ve cleaned pretty much the entire house, room by room. I just have one spot left, which I’ve been avoiding on purpose, my old childhood bedroom. I finish mopping the bathroom floor and step back to survey it with satisfaction. It’s shining. As Rose Manor gets cleaned up, no thanks to Ben, I’m starting to feel more optimistic about the house. Yes, there are still repairs to be made, but the entire project seems less disastrous than it first did.
With a satisfied sigh, I pick up the mop and the bucket full of cleaning supplies that has been my constant companion since I arrived here. Time to tackle that childhood bedroom and some old memories while I’m at it. I roll my eyes as I pass Benjamin’s closed bedroom door. He’s undoubtedly still sleeping. I decide that, after I’m done cleaning my room, I’ll grab the vacuum cleaner and pass it right by his door.Rise and shine, sleepyhead!I think to myself with a smile. I mean, it’s almost noon. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be so vindictive.
But when I open the door to my old bedroom, I’m surprised to find Benjamin is there, very much awake and sitting on my bed bent over a book, reading attentively.
“Ben!”
“Oh hey, Lace!” He looks up from the journal. He’s shirtless, as usual.
Is this guy allergic to clothing?
“What the hell are you doing in here?” I ask curtly.
“Well, you’ve chased me out of pretty much every other room in the place with your constant cleaning crusade,” he says, raising an eyebrow. “So, I ended up in here.”
“The ‘cleaning crusade’ would go a lot faster if you were more helpful,” I say in annoyance. But then I stop myself short, because I’ve just noticed what ‘book’ Ben has in his hand.
“Wait a second, is that my journal?” I squeal in horror, lunging for it and grabbing it out of his hand.
“Geez, Lace I didn’t think you’d care. That’s from ages ago!”
“Still,” I huff. “There’s private stuff in here.” If Ben was hoping to win my favor after his poor behavior with my writing group, this certainly isn’t the way to go about it.
“Come on, Lace, we both know you were a goody-goody in high school. There can’t be anything that scandalous in there.”
I roll my eyes in irritation, getting ready to lecture him. It’s been more than ten years, but this feels like just as much an invasion of privacy as it did when he snooped in my room when we were teens!
“There’s actually some really inspiring stuff in there,” he goes on, gesturing to the book. “I was just jotting down some notes,” he points to his own notebook and pencil, sitting on the bed next to him. “I thought I’d try setting some of these lyrics to music.”
“Inspiring stuff?” I ask in surprise.
“Yeah. You can tell, reading this, that you were a poet in the making!”
I gawk at him. There’s no way that the teen angst in my old diary has anything song-worthy to it. I look around the old bedroom. It’s pretty much empty, save for some dusty books on the shelves, and an old boy band poster on the wall. Backstreet Boys. My older sister Lyra was a die-hard N’SYNC fan, but I was always partial to BSB. We used to get into such intense fights about this issue when we were younger, our dad would have to intervene. I smile at the memory. But then I’m jerked back to the present moment.
“I highly doubt that my old teen journal has anything to inspire you,” I say coolly.
“Nah, it does! Listen to you go on about this guy in your class,” Ben says, grabbing the book out of my hands and thumbing through it eagerly. “Here,” he reads aloud…
“He’s got eyes you can dive into, like a swimming pool on a hot day. Staring at them quenches my thirst. It’s like I didn’t know I needed water until he came into my life, a tall glass of cool H2O. And now I’m parched and can’t get enough of him.”
“Yikes,” I say, recognizing the old words. “This is where you’re getting your inspiration from? You reallyaresuffering from writer’s block.”
“Yeah, look, I know it’s kinda over the top, but that’s just it. It’s so raw and real, you know? But it’s also not super romantic or flowery. Like, it’s kinda tortured,” Ben says with enthusiasm, waving the diary at me. “It’s really inspiring me! I’m finally feeling a creative rush, for the first time in six months!”
“What year is that from?” I ask, curious as to which old school crush I wrote this about.
