I Do With You (Maple Creek)

Chapter 4 BEN

Chapter 4

B EN

I struggled for a ridiculous amount of time on what clothes to leave for Hope. A Midnight Destruction shirt is a stupid risk that has the potential to lead to questions I can’t and won’t answer, but there’s no way she could know it’s my band, and even if she got curious enough to google us, there’s absolutely nothing that’d tie the band to me. Still, I held the shirt in my hands for more minutes than I’d like to admit until the idea of wrapping around her in comfort made me decide to take the chance. When she reappears with wet hair and a bare face, wearing my clothes, I know I made the right call.

She seems small—not in size, though she’s probably five-five at best, but in presence, like she’s trying to shrink away from ... everything. She’s a walking, talking beautiful disaster. Or at least, she is today, but I get the feeling that’s not her usual MO. At least not the disaster part.

“Hungry?” It’s the one thing I do know about women: if they’re having big emotions, they want comfort food. My mom did, anyway, and fuck knows I helped her through more breakups than I should’ve. She had a new man almost every other month, each one deemed The One—the guy who was going to marry her, be my dad, and save us from our woefully bereft lives. The only problem was, they never were, and over time, all I really wanted was for Mom to stop living like the two of us weren’t enough.

Hope shrugs. “If you are.”

I raise a brow. She knows whether she’s hungry or not but isn’t saying. Along with her repeated apologies and appreciation for the littlest things, I’m beginning to wonder if Hope has ever spoken her mind. But there was that moment in the woods where she snapped at me, and a completely soft person wouldn’t have the guts to run from their own wedding, so she’s got a spine in there somewhere. She needs to use it.

Pot, kettle. Black, much?

Yeah, but Sean and I are a completely different situation. Or maybe I’m just fooling myself and seeing in others what I refuse to see in myself.

I pull out the small snack tray that was left in the fridge for my arrival and set it on the counter before turning around. “It’s more Lunchable than charcuterie, but it fills a void. Beer or wine?” She’s got to have an opinion there.

“I’m fine.”

I harrumph and grab two beers. I pop the top on both, setting one on the counter to encourage her toward the food. After a moment, in which I take a solid swig of my own beer and simply look at her, Hope caves and approaches like a dog who’s been beaten and is scared the promise of food is a trick. It tugs at me inside ... and pisses me off.

How did she end up this way? Is it because of the guy she ran from? I hate men who use intimidation against women. It’s a sign of their own weakness, to need to bully someone that way. She said she’s worried her siblings might track down her fiancé, but I’m thinking maybe I could handle that for her instead. A solid lesson in how to be a good human would serve him right.

She takes a good swallow of her beer, long enough that I feel like she drinks the stuff occasionally.

“These are fucking delicious,” I tell her, hoping to entice her as I grab a toothpick holding a cheddar cheese cube. “I had a handful of them when I got here.”

She mimics my move, taking one and biting into it carefully. She chews slowly and hums. “Mm-hmm, they get these from the grocery store on Bennett Drive.”

Accepting the victory, I say, “Bring your beer.”

I’m taking charge here, for her own good. Because Hope’s day has been a shit show and I’m guessing she’s feeling some sort of way about it, but she needs a safe space to let those thoughts free. I move toward the living room, dropping the snacks on the coffee table before plopping down on the couch. I gesture to the chair where I’ve been sitting to play guitar. It’s warm, brown leather, with arms that’re perfect to lean against, and it’s situated right by the window. Seems like a great place to fall apart, given the fact that I’ve done it for the past few days, in my own way.

“I think I owe you a life story,” I remind her.

Do I want to share? Abso-fucking-lutely not. But is she going to jump right in and spill her guts to a stranger? Also no. I can give her an edited version that’ll keep my identity safe and help her feel more comfortable. Maybe it’s just pop psych therapy, but that’s about all I can offer.

Light comes into her blue eyes, and a warning alarm sounds in my brain. She’s dangerous. I could tell her things nobody knows just to bring that life into her.

“You do. What brought you to Maple Creek? And don’t say the titmice, because you already said you don’t actually bird-watch.” The threatening tease and the finger she points at me in warning are unexpected, and I grin back.

“Is that the plural form? I had a whole argument with myself earlier about titmice versus titmouses . Neither sounded right, and then I started muttering tit, tit, tit and giggling like I was fifteen again.” She laughs a tiny bit, and I feel like I won the fucking lottery, so I keep going. “Not that I was giggling about tits at that age. By then, I was solidly in the googly-eyed, wow stage.”

Her smirk says she doesn’t believe me.

“Life story. You ready? It’s quick and dirty. Benjamin Taylor, twenty-seven, grew up in California in a town you’ve never heard of, to a single mom who was doing her best to keep a leash on a hellion like me. I’m on vacation in Maple Creek, which I found a week ago by having a buddy hold up a map in front of a wall at a bar and throwing a dart at it. Literally. I’m a city kid, so this whole outdoor-trees-and-fresh-air thing you have going on here is really fucking me up.”

Hope stares at me, waiting for more. When I stay quiet, she tilts her head. “That’s it?”

“What else you want?” I’m usually super protective and private, and have even gotten a kick out of outright lying when it didn’t matter. The most entertaining is telling waitresses we’ll never see again that we’re professional jugglers or something equally ridiculous. But every word of what I told Hope is true. It feels oddly good to say it aloud, even if there is a tiny wiggle of nerves that shoots through me at revealing so much.

“Did you actually choose your vacation spot with a dart at a bar? People make reservations a year ahead of time to come here, and you expect me to believe you got one of the resort’s rentals last-minute?”

I did. It wasn’t easy—or cheap—but money talks, and once my dart hit Maple Creek, I wasn’t changing my mind. I needed to escape, and it felt like this was the place to do it. Maybe it’s the same for Hope.

“Lucky, I guess. Maybe they had a cancellation?” I shrug like I’m not sure how it worked out so well, when I know damn well that after the travel agent said the owner was responsive to additional funding and would consider my reservation for a price, I paid up and he canceled on the other guests.

Was it shitty of me? Yes. Am I sorry I did it? Nope. Desperate times call for desperate measures, and I was desperate to get away. From everything.

“Hmm.”

She doesn’t sound convinced. I’m not ready to give her more details on my own background, so I go for broke to distract her.

“Your turn. What’s your story?” I prompt, but when she turns her scared eyes on me again, I soften the ask. “Not today, but in general. You from here or what?”

She relaxes visibly when she realizes I’m not prying into the wedding fiasco. “Yeah, born and raised in Maple Creek.” Her fingers start fidgeting with a button on the flannel shirt, and then she confesses, “We were supposed to go into the city tonight. Stay at a fancy hotel, visit swanky bars, and eat at five-star restaurants for the week.”

I don’t press, letting her spill as she wants to. “Sounds awful. I’m more the beer-and-cheese-cube type myself.” She looks up at me through her lashes, and I make a show out of grabbing another toothpick and sticking it between my teeth to pull the cheddar free. I wink as I start to chew. “Yep, better than fancy-schmancy any day.”

Her smile is slow, but it grows until she laughs a little bit. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Benjamin Taylor, but how would you know if that’s better, Mr. Beer and Cheese?” She looks pointedly at the tray of food.

She’s not wrong. I’m not the five-star type. Doesn’t mean I haven’t been wined and dined by business types, blown ridiculous amounts of my own money on stupid shit, and don’t know the difference between government cheese and good stuff. “Best guess,” I reply, adding a noncommittal shrug to make it believable. “Plus, company’s better.”

It’s not necessarily a brag, considering she ran away from the guy she was supposed to be with tonight, but she ponders my assessment. “Roy’s probably worried about me. And mad.”

I stay silent but lift my brows in question. I don’t know this Roy guy, but I’m 99 percent sure I hate the fucker. If for no other reason than he put that questioning tone in Hope’s voice. Any man who makes a woman cower like a scared chihuahua over any expression of her opinion deserves a swift kick in the nuts.

“We’ve been together since high school, everything going exactly to plan—until this morning, when I felt ...” She trails off like she’s searching for the right word. “Trapped.” She shakes her head, then corrects herself: “That’s not true. I’ve felt it for a while, but this morning felt like I’d been tied up in a straitjacket and dunked in a tank of water, Houdini-style. But I couldn’t get out.” Her eyes go glassy, disturbingly unseeing as she describes her panic. “That doesn’t make sense, though. This is what I want. The guy, the dress, the wedding. Even the marriage. It’s everything I want.”

“You can get everything you want only to discover it’s not what you thought it was. That’s okay, Hope,” I say gently, not sure if she’s ready to hear that yet. Hell, not sure if I’m ready to hear it yet, because I’m facing those same scary demons.

“What do you do, then?” She meets my eyes like she’s hoping I have some mystical, magical answer. But I’m no Magic 8 Ball or Ouija board. I’m just a lucky kid from Cali who can scream in tune and write lyrics people relate to.

Except not lately, according to AMM.

“Go on vacation to Maple Creek,” I answer honestly, letting my gaze drift around the living room.

She stares at me for one heartbeat, then two, then three as my words sink in. I’m not only talking about her but also sharing more of myself too.

“I wish I could do that,” she confides. “Go somewhere where I don’t know anybody and have an adventure.”

“You can. There’s nothing stopping you. Hell, go on your honeymoon without Roy and do the five-star shit, if you want. Why not?” I almost offer to take her somewhere, anywhere. If there were a map or a globe in this place, I’d have her throw the closest sharp object at it and we’d go tonight. I could make that happen with one phone call—though that would definitely lead to questions I don’t want.

Instead, I wait for her answer.

“It feels wrong, like I have unfinished business here, you know? I don’t want to deal with it, but I can’t be cruel to Roy like that. Today was his day, too, and I hurt him.”

She’s got a soft heart, which I can respect.

Fragile sweetness, strength at your core. Drown in the softness, until I’m no more.

She moves the conversation away from that sensitive spot, telling me about various places around town I should be sure to visit while I’m here. She’s no tour guide, given that as she tells me about the various stores and businesses, I learn more about the people of Maple Creek and what Hope thinks of them than about the destinations themselves.

“For lunch? You have to go to Rosemary’s Diner. She’s the absolute sweetest woman ever, a staple of Maple Creek who makes the best burgers and cake. But don’t tell Anna at Cruz Cakes that, or she won’t sell you a slice of her famous honeybun cake, and you’d be missing out if you didn’t get that. The museum on Main Street is run by Frank, and he knows more about our town than anyone else and somehow makes a pretty dull history into something interesting. Oh, and I know you said you don’t like fresh air and outdoorsy stuff, but Marcus runs a super-popular boat tour. He does a champagne-sunset one and a coffee-sunrise one seven days a week during high season. You’d think the sunset is better, but the sunrise over the water is gorgeous this time of year, and it’s so quiet out there before anyone else wakes up. His coffee’s good too.”

I’ve damn near got an itinerary mapped out before Hope’s done, without a single titmouse in sight. Maybe this is what I came here for? Maybe Maple Creek is why I’m here? The inspiration I need?

Or Hope. She’s inspiring me, too, lyrics spinning in my head as she speaks, revealing herself and her town, piece by piece. Maybe she’s the muse I’ve been searching for.