I Do With You (Maple Creek)

Chapter 2 BEN

Chapter 2

B EN

Maybe that’s the tufted titmouse I’m supposed to see in the trees?

Despite its name, the titmouse isn’t actually a rodent, but rather a bird. Not that I give a single, solitary fuck about birds or rodents, tits or otherwise. But here I am in the woods, hiking along a twelve-inch-wide dirt path with my eyes trained on the branches above me, looking for the bird in the What to Look For scavenger hunt picture book I impulsively grabbed at a gas station.

Vacation. That’s what this is supposed to be. Well, that’s what I’m calling it. Sean called it a “get the stick out of your ass and don’t fuck this up for me” break.

Three weeks in the middle of small-town nowhere, in a resort cottage nestled smack in the center of all sorts of nature, should be an amazing reprieve after the stress of the last few months. A headlining tour of the United States had been my dream since I was a teenager fingering my first guitar instead of the girls I was too shy to talk to. Instead, it was a long run of late nights, dirty clubs with people literally trying to rip the clothes off my body, and so many hours with my bandmates that we’re all done with each other. If I see Sean’s face anytime soon, I might punch him and smile as he gets the bloodletting he deserves. I’m sure the feeling’s mutual too.

It wouldn’t be the first time. He was right by my side with that first guitar, drumming on everything from tables to his thighs, learning and dreaming right along with me, which led to some arguments and fights back then. I thought those times would be behind us when we made it, but that dream has become a nightmare.

It’s not all his fault.

It’s not. He’s as done with me as I am with him, but given that we’re two of the mainstays of our metal band, Midnight Destruction, we need to get our shit sorted or we’ll both get fucked in the end. The contract we’ve signed basically guarantees it.

Fucking AMM Records. We thought they were genies granting wishes with one swoop of a pen when we signed on with them. It’s been quite a bit messier than expected, though, with them demanding rewrites of my lyrics, taking huge percentages of our sales, and leaking reports of the difficulties between Sean and me because it’s good for press since everyone takes a side, choosing their favorite bandmate to rally behind like we’re Pokémon characters in a battle.

As much as I hate all that drama, being out here in the sticks with a complete and utter lack of a schedule, expectations, and my bandmates is ... boring. I mean, fuck, is today’s highlight reel gonna be maybe, possibly, sorta seeing a damn bird that I don’t give a shit about?

Annoyed, I reach into my pocket for my phone, but when I don’t find it, I remember that I left it at the cottage on purpose. Be present in the moment, I’d told myself. Fuck past me. He’s an idiot.

It’s fine. Everything’s fine.

That’s been my mantra for nearly a year while my whole world was basically roaring sky-high in flames. Literal onstage pyrotechnics every night but also internal fires. Some dark, like my fights with Sean; some light, like the smiles and sing-alongs with fans; and some a combination of both, like when I’m inspired to write the lines and phrases that become our song lyrics.

All flames, all the same. Destructive, constructive. Watch me burn, maybe then you’ll learn.

Not bad, but by the time I get back from my hike, I’ll have forgotten the simple words since I can’t jot them down anywhere.

I take a few more steps along the path, the potential lyrics already fading, when I hear a crashing sound coming through the forest. Stupidly, my first thought is that a rabid fan has found me, which really is ridiculous, considering we wear masks and body paint onstage, so I wouldn’t be recognizable anyway. That was one of Sean’s earliest and best strokes of genius, which has given us some degree of anonymity and helped with my performance nerves.

Thankfully, my very next quick thought is, Are there bears out here? Because that’s no tufted titmouse. Or even a flock of ... titmice?

I step off the trail, ducking behind a tree that’s nowhere near wide enough to cover even half my body, and rack my brain for tips and tricks on how to survive a bear attack. Seems like that should’ve been covered in the gas station book, but I flipped through the whole thing and there was nothing bear-specific. I’m left with snippets from old cartoons, internet memes, and bullshitting sessions with the guys after watching Cocaine Bear , in which we bragged about how we would’ve handled ourselves.

Play dead? Look bigger than you are? Stop, drop, and roll?

No, the last one is when you’re on fire. Not being stalked by a bear.

“Go, go, go ...,” I hear a voice panting.

Do bears talk? Is that something I’ve missed while I’ve been hibernating with a sole focus on music? Or maybe it was grunting I heard, and I imagined that it sounded humanesque.

“Shiiiit,” a definitely human—not ursine—voice hisses. In fact, it sounds rather like a feminine voice who’s in trouble.

So I step out and nearly run headfirst into ... a bride?

“Aaaahhh!” she screams in terror at my sudden appearance, her arms flailing wildly like she’s trying to fight off a bear attack herself. Her dress swirls around her noisily, trapping her legs, and her veil is hung up on a tree branch a good foot behind her. “Friend, not food!” she shouts, and I think she’s trying to tell a bear not to eat her. Which is sort of ironic, considering my thoughts three seconds ago.

When she swats at my face, I catch her arms in my hands, forcibly holding her still. Bending down to look her directly in her eyes, I try to keep my voice calm because Miss Bride is completely hysterical. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

“You’re not a bear,” she says wonderingly, like she doesn’t quite believe what’s right in front of her. She’s still looking at me as if she’s not sure of her assessment, like maybe I’m hiding pointy teeth and a fur pelt under my skin. I know some women are into the whole shape-shifter thing, but I’m just me. Human.

I stare back at her in confusion. “Where did you come from? Are you okay?” I ask again. She doesn’t look it. I’d guess at some point today, her hair and makeup were professionally done, but now? She’s disheveled and messy, with sticks in her brown hair, mascara and eyeliner running under her eyes in telltale rivers of tears, and dirty smudges on her white gown.

I take a mental snapshot because whatever is happening with her, she’s an entire song.

Tear-soaked angel, vision in white. Wasted and washed away. Promised tomorrow slips into disarray.

I must have drifted off into my head for a moment, because she starts struggling in my hands, fighting to break free of my hold. “Who are you? Are you just creeping in the woods like a creepy creeper?” she demands, like I’m the one who obviously doesn’t belong here, with my jeans, T-shirt, and boots, while she’s wearing an actual wedding gown.

While her descriptive language leaves something to be desired, I answer her question anyway. With some of the truth. “Hiking. I’m taking a walk, supposed to be looking for tufted titmouses—titmice?—but instead got run over and attacked. By a bride.”

“Oh,” she says, startled by my framing of the last few moments. “Sorry. I’m ...” She smooths her dress, like that’s going to do a fucking thing for the mess it’s in, and then horror strikes her face. “Oh my God! I ran away from my wedding!” she whisper-screams as she slaps her hands over her mouth.

“Okay,” I drawl out, not sure what to do with that information. I mean, it makes sense. Why else would she be out here in a wedding dress, running for her life? It’s not every day one gets dropped into the middle of a Hallmark-meets-horror movie. All I know is that if a secret prince or a motherfucker in a hockey mask shows up, I’m bailing faster than you can say, He always seemed so normal. “Is your fiancé an asshole or something? Are you in danger?”

She blinks rapidly, her eyes getting sparklier with every flutter of her lashes. “No, he’s ... Roy’s fine. Nice. But I couldn’t ...” Big baby-blue eyes land on me, pleading with me to understand what she’s saying, though it makes less than zero sense. “I couldn’t marry him.”

“Do you have to? Can’t you say no?” It’s a logical question—reasonable, even, given that it’s the twenty-first century and we’re not in cult territory. I don’t think. Though that probably wouldn’t have been highlighted in the scavenger hunt book, so what the fuck do I know?

She narrows her eyes, pinning me in place with a cold stare. There’s a newfound thread of strength as she snappishly informs me, “I thought I wanted to marry him, but then I wasn’t sure. I was standing there; he said his vows—which sucked and were not the sweet, romantic things he was supposed to say—and when it was my turn, I ... ran. And now here I am.” She looks at the trees around us. “My mom’s gonna kill me. Do you have a phone so I can call her? I need to tell her I’m okay, just crazy.”

Those two things do not sound the same, but I’m not going to argue with the lady in the forest. On second thought, maybe this is one of those If you see something in the woods, no you didn’t situations. But if she’s a skinwalker, I’m already a goner, given that I’ve not only acknowledged her but also talked to and touched her. She felt real enough, warm and a little sweaty beneath my hands, so she’s probably real.

And she really needs help, of one kind or another.

Is it bad that my first inclination is to walk away? As bored as I am out here, I don’t want to get tied up in more drama when I’ve got enough of my own, and this woman has Drama Queen written all over her, from the intricate beading on her dress to the silver-toed white boots I can see peeking out beneath the hem.

But I don’t abandon her. Despite my misgivings, I can’t. It’s not who I am.

Unfortunately.

Thanks a lot, Mom. You raised me to be a too-nice fuckup, and now I’m gonna die at either Psycho Bride’s or her fiancé’s hands and end up as an urban legend for Maple Creek—wherever the hell this is.

I shake my head. “I left it. Communing with nature, you know,” I say dryly as I wave my arms around us at the encircling trees. “But you can walk with me to get it. It’s not far, about thirty minutes that way.” I point back down the trail from where I came, toward the cottage I’m renting.

Miss Bride looks at where I’m pointing and then looks behind her, in the direction she hauled ass from.

“Or you could go back?” I suggest, halfway hoping she chooses that option.

That seems to be unacceptable, because she hitches up her fluffy dress in both hands and gestures down the trail with a stubborn jerk of her chin. “Lead the way.”

I hesitate to give her my back because for all I know, she’s the bait in this bait-and-switch deal and I’m the dumbass mark about to get mugged. But I don’t get that vibe, so I start walking, taking care with my pace since she’s got the huge dress to contend with. I’m quiet for a few minutes as we walk, letting her think, because I’m sure there’s a lot going on in her brain right now. Mine is definitely going like a shredding guitar solo.

Runaway. Lost in love. How bad were this guy’s vows that they sent this woman careening off into the forest in satin and lace?

“My name’s Benjamin, by the way. Or Ben. Either’s fine,” I begrudgingly offer after a bit.

“Hope,” she replies.

I think it’s her name, not that she’s hoping for something. Though, given her current situation, she’s probably got some hopes being shattered with every step farther away from her wedding.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask, peering over my shoulder.

She cuts her eyes my way. “No.” It’s a complete sentence, leaving no room for waffling or misinterpretation.

“Fine. However, I’m an uninvolved, nonjudgmental third party,” I say, if only because some talking might make this weird mindfuck of a situation a bit more normal. “I can listen if you want—hype you up and give carte blanche agreement that Roy’s a complete shitstain who doesn’t deserve an amazing woman like you.” I’m rambling to ease the awkwardness because Hope has started sniffling a bit. And while tears seem like a reasonable reaction to skipping out on your wedding, I hate to see a woman cry.

It works. She huffs out a small laugh, and it feels like a victory, although she stays quiet.

“Thanks for helping me,” she says as we round a curve in the trail. “And sorry for interrupting your bird-watching.”

I nod, accepting her apology even though I don’t give a fuck about birds. “Can I tell you a secret?” I ask, hoping to entice her. I glance over my shoulder again, this time finding her staring at my back with an inscrutable expression. Not waiting for permission, I divulge, “I don’t even like birds. Or the forest. Or being alone in the middle of nowhere, with no one to talk to but myself. It’s a dangerous place up here.” I smile as I tap on my head, which has been giving me all sorts of ideas about how to deal with Sean and AMM. “You’re the first person I’ve seen in three days, and I might start telling you my life story just to get my words out.”

That’s all mostly true. Especially the birds and forest part. As for being alone? I thought it was exactly what I wanted—a break from Sean, fans, the hustle and bustle of touring. But being alone gives my brain time to think about my part in the drama with Sean, and I’m not ready to face that yet.

The only lie in what I’ve said? That I’ll tell Hope my life story. That’s a closely held secret I don’t share with anyone, per my AMM Records contract. Apparently, “mystery” is good for press too.