I Do With You (Maple Creek)

Chapter 8 BEN

Chapter 8

B EN

“Hope, wake up.”

Rousing Sleeping Beauty from her slumber would be easier than waking up Hope. This is seriously a woman who, when she hits the hay, that’s it. Lights out, show’s over, no encores. She turns over, grumbling about five more minutes, which I would give her except the clock’s ticking away the seconds. I’ve been up for a while now—already gotten dressed, run out for doughnuts, and double-checked that the car’s packed for the day.

“Wake up!” I shout-slash-screech, letting a little bit of my trademark growl into it.

Hope shoots straight up in bed, wearing a nightgown of her own this time. It’s a slinky, silky white number I’m sure was intended to be worn on her honeymoon, but as gorgeous as she looks in it, I think I preferred her in the Midnight Destruction T-shirt.

“Ahhh!” she shrieks in a tone that would be very recordable for a good thrash track, her eyes flying open and her hair flying up wildly. She’s adorably messy in the mornings, like she’s been fighting to sleep all night, but I know firsthand that she passes the fuck out and sleeps like the dead once she succumbs, not remembering full conversations.

“Good morning, beautiful. You’ve got ten minutes and we’re out the door.”

“Huh?” she sputters, likely not processing anything I said.

“Ten minutes,” I repeat, sticking to the important part now that she’s somewhat conscious.

“For what?”

I don’t answer, just close the door and wait for curiosity to get her moving. It works, because a few minutes later, she pads down the hall. “Where are we going? Am I dressed okay?” She holds her arms out to the side, letting me take a long look. What I see is much, much more than “okay.” She’s captivating and intriguing.

Her short, lightweight blue shorts are molded over her hips, making her legs look strong and long, while her oversize T-shirt is from a local 5K race sponsored by a dentist, and her tennis shoes are likely the ones she wore to complete that run. Her dark hair is pulled up in a loose ponytail at her crown; her face is bare, which makes her blue eyes pop, and her white smile is sparkling.

“You look perfect,” I tell her with a nod. “Get in the car.”

She’s excited as she follows the order, hopping with a tiny clap of her hands she probably thinks I can’t see. “Where are we going?” she asks again.

“It’s a surprise.” It’s all I’m going to tell her until we get there, and given the twinkle in her eyes, I think she likes surprises.

Thankfully, at oh-dark-thirty, there’s no one outside, so getting in the car is no biggie this time. I wonder if Hope would care as much, though, now that she knows people are on her side.

And there are people rooting for Hope. I talked to one last night to arrange this outing for her.

A few minutes later, we arrive at the lakeside boat launch.

“Hey! There’s Marcus!” Hope informs me, pointing and waving at a barrel-chested, gray-haired guy who’s standing on the dock beside a glittery turquoise boat. His dark eyes find Hope easily, and he waves back before his gaze warily cuts to me. One black slash of a brow raises as he considers me. “He’s the one who does the boat tours I told you about.”

My phone call last night with Marcus after Hope went to bed was interesting, to say the least. I’d started out asking about his sunrise boat tours, and he’d told me that his schedule this week was full, but something in his voice made me ask if that was only the case for tourists or if there might be a little leeway for a local who needed a new beginning. After a little conversation to confirm that he’s Team Hope—and a prayer that he was telling the truth about it—I booked the excursion.

“I know,” I say simply.

Hope gasps, realization dawning as her hands clasp beneath her chin. “Are we doing the sunrise trip?”

She looks so shocked ... that I listened, that I remembered, that I arranged this for her? Or maybe all of the above, even though it’s such a little thing.

Moments later—after shaking hands with Marcus, loading up the boat, and giving one last glance around the parking area to check for incoming asshole ex-fiancés who might’ve been tipped off by lying boat operators—we’re sitting side by side on the bench that wraps around the bow of the boat, with Marcus standing behind us at the wheel. It’s cooler on the water, so I drape a blanket around our shoulders as we motor out over the lake, and Hope scoots closer to me. As we get farther and farther out, the lights of the dock disappear and darkness surrounds the boat.

Inky black; as above, so below. Until we rise again.

I’d probably leave the lyric there, as a nod to this moment of anticipation of the sunrise and fresh starts after going through hell. AMM would want me to add to it, probably something like Rise, motherfuckers, rise , with the choreographed movement of me lifting my hands in the air like some preacher at a pulpit, explaining to me that it’ll get the crowd hyped before the beat drops and they begin moshing. Like I don’t understand my own music or Midnight Destruction’s crowd better than anyone.

I’m not averse to input on my songs, but it has to come from someone who takes the time to understand what the song is about, not a puppet master whose only motivation is marketability and sales figures. That person used to be Sean, whom I’d trust implicitly with our music, but he’s been on AMM’s side more often than not these days. Traitorous fucker that he is.

“This is the best spot,” Marcus informs us, breaking me from my dark thoughts as he speaks for the first time since telling us to remain seated while the boat’s in motion. “Sun’ll come up right there”—he points at the horizon before looking at his watch—“in about thirty minutes.”

Now that we’re stopped, softly swaying in the water, he pours three paper cups of coffee from a big thermos, handing one to Hope and one to me, keeping the third. I return the favor, offering doughnuts, which Hope and Marcus accept gratefully.

We munch our sugary breakfast and silently peer across the water. There are a few remaining stars fighting to be seen as the sky begins to turn purple, and Hope is focused on the spot Marcus indicated, waiting in eager anticipation.

Praying she doesn’t think this is too cheesy, I grab my guitar from under the seat. “Mind a sunrise serenade?”

I don’t play in front of people often. At least, not as myself. Fucking around with my guitar is one thing, but actually playing and singing—as Benjamin Taylor—is an entirely different thing, so doing this for Hope is a big fucking deal to me.

Hope breaks her concentration to smile at me. “Can you play? Like, for real?” I can’t hold back the bark of laughter that escapes, and she desperately rushes to backpedal. “I mean, I heard you, but you kept doing the same part over and over again, so I wasn’t sure if you were still learning or could actually play.”

This girl has no idea.

Yeah, I can play. That song she heard me messing around with? I was writing it, that’s why I kept doing the same part on repeat. It’s part of the songwriting process, hammering at chords until they’re perfect. But that’s a song for my onstage alter ego. Here, offstage, I’m just me, a guy who wants to help her through a dark moment.

So to answer her question, I pluck out a few chords and then play the opening bars to a classic Beatles tune. “This is one of the first songs I learned on my first guitar when I was thirteen,” I share before easily launching into an ode to the dawning sun. I keep it soft and mellow, the gentle acoustic partnering with the rasp of my rough voice, and watch my hands pluck the strings so I don’t have to see Hope’s reaction. Playing like this still makes me nervous—which is ridiculous, considering I’ve played huge multilevel clubs and dozens of small arenas. But this is vulnerability on a level so deep that I never risk venturing here.

When I finish, both Hope and Marcus clap. “Well done, man,” Marcus offers with a nod of approval.

“That was awesome,” Hope praises me, still sounding a bit surprised. She runs her hands up and down her arms, and I can see goose bumps.

Quickly, I set my guitar down in its case and bundle the blanket tighter around her, stroking my warm hands up and down her arms for her to create warmth. “Cold?”

She shakes her head. “No, the song. Your voice is like ...”

I wait for the usual comparisons: silk, gravel, velvet, gritty. I’ve heard them all before. I still appreciate the compliments, considering that once upon a time, I wouldn’t even sing the scale in front of my music teacher.

“Tweed,” Hope finishes, and my brows jump up. That’s a new one. “It’s rough and layered, but all woven together into something beautiful and tasteful that rolls over your skin and into your soul on a cellular level. You have a real gift, Ben. You should do something with it.”

I have never been stunned into silence the way I am now. Hope’s assessment is as thoughtful as she is, and I will never forget a word of what she just said. In fact, I’ll probably replay it in my mind every time I have to go onstage. It can be my new mantra, replacing It’s fine, everything’s fine while it all burns to ashes.

“Thanks,” I say, a little more gruffly than I mean to, but there’s something stuck in my throat. Must be a sprinkle from the doughnut or something.

Marcus saves me. “Heads up,” he says, pointing at the horizon, where there’s a tiny sliver of gold light beginning to appear.

We go silent, each staring at the dawn.

I’ve seen hundreds of sunrises, usually at the end of my day, through a dirty window of a truck stop, over a plate of greasy eggs, while smelling like sweat and pyrotechnics from the night’s show. This is an entirely different experience. It’s the start of something new.

This feels sacred. This is special.

I look out the corner of my eye at Hope, not wanting to interrupt her own enjoyment of the beauty before us but needing to see if she’s experiencing this glow the way I am. Her lips are lifted in the faintest hint of a smile, her chest rising and falling as she breathes slowly, and her eyes seem clear and bright. I hope that’s a good sign and that this morning is what she needed.

Mostly I hope she’s not thinking about Roy.

Listening to that phone call pissed me off. Every word out of his mouth was about himself—not a single thought given to what might’ve caused Hope to run, what she’s feeling, or what she wants. But she stood up to him, and I was so proud of her guts and grit in that moment. Falling apart afterward didn’t change that; it only made her more fascinating. She’s got a tough core, covered with softness and niceties.

Kinda the opposite of me. I keep the mess inside my head hidden, wearing a mask even when it’s not a literal one onstage.

But if Hope can face her fears, maybe I can too.

I could call Sean and see if we can figure our shit out. We always have before, and we’ve been through some rough times. This feels different, though, and I’m not sure if a heartfelt talk or even a drunken fight is going to do it. Honestly, I’m afraid we’re done, and then I’ll be in the same position Hope’s in—asking myself what I should do next as the path I always thought I’d follow dissipates beneath my feet.

I don’t want to give in that easily, though. She didn’t have something worth fighting for with Roy. I do, with Midnight Destruction.

So I should try, right? Sean and I owe it to the teenage assholes we used to be to try to make things work. Hell, we owe it to Trent, too, who’s stuck in the middle of our battles, not sure which way to lean since he’s not the deciding vote anyway. He’s a part of us, a part of Midnight Destruction, but at the core, the band is me and Sean, and we all know it. If either of us decides to tell the other to fuck off, the band will be over.

I don’t want that. I want it to be like it was before, when it was the two of us. Me with something to say, him pouring his emotions into the music, and together, the two of us creating magic. I want that again. Without an outside influence telling us what to do, who to be, and offering to jerk our dicks for us if we’ll only do exactly what they want.

Right here and now, I make the decision to call Sean. Like Hope calling Roy, I need to grow a pair and, for better or worse, talk to him.

The sun rises higher and higher, the orange glow reflecting on the glasslike water and the sky turning into brilliant shades of pink. But the most beautiful thing on the water is Hope.

“Amazing,” she sighs as the full light of the morning surrounds us.

“Yeah, you are,” I tell her.

Her cheeks blush nearly the same color as the sky. “Shut up,” she says with a laugh, thinking I’m fucking with her. I’m not, at all.

She is amazing. Inspiring me in more ways than she can imagine.

After the sun is fully risen, Marcus cruises around the lake like a proper guide, giving a history lesson on the town and showing us points of interest, both serious and not-so-much. “That’s the water tower where we used to drink beer every Friday night,” he offers, closing one eye to accurately point inland at a tall structure. “They put a stop to that years ago, though, by adding barbed wire to the top of the fence.”

“Hell, that was enough to stop you?” I tease. “All you gotta do is snip it and climb on over. That’s what we used to do.”

Marcus grins at my provocation. “Yeah, we did that till they staked out the tower. Caught us all red-handed and gave out Minor in Possession tickets to half the high school football team. Next week’s game sucked, that’s for sure.”

Hope gasps. “I didn’t know! When was that?”

Marcus shrugs as he thinks back. “Must’a been around ’84, I guess.” To me, he asks, “You got a record with anything more serious than that?”

He’s asking casually, but I can read him. He’s making sure I’m okay to be hanging out with Hope, something I can respect. I’m getting the vibe that she’s a town favorite, even if she doesn’t know it.

I could easily lie. He’d never know the difference, not for real. But I’m not ashamed of my past. It made me who I am—a fucked-up sometimes-nice-and-neurotically-shy-other-times-in-your-face-asshole sort of guy who plays dress-up while singing onstage. The only part of that I routinely hide is the stage part, so I tell the truth. “Yeah, some criminal mischief, a little B and E. Stupid shit when I was a kid. Didn’t do time, thanks to my mom. And in a roundabout way, she set me straight.”

“You were a hellion!” Hope exclaims, using my own prior description of myself. “You probably kept your poor mother up at night worrying about you.”

“Yeah, same was true for me too. I worried about her just as much. Maybe more.”

Marcus has gone quiet, stepping out of the conversation but still listening, while Hope’s brows furrow. “Why did you worry about her?”

“She was a bad picker, always had a new boyfriend. A few were real jerks,” I say flatly, adding a no-big-deal shrug that minimizes the terror I would feel on the nights she didn’t come home. She might’ve been sleeping over at Mr. Latest and Greatest’s or ... not. “The worst one gave her a black eye.” The image of my sweet, strong mother with a purplish hue surrounding one of her whiskey-brown eyes enters my mind, and cold fury dumps into my veins. “Not sure what she did to him after that, because thankfully, that guy didn’t come around again. If he had, I probably would’ve done everything in my teenage power to fight him and gotten my ass beat for it. Mom was a lot more careful after that too.”

“What about your dad?”

“Gone when I was a baby. It was just me and Mom,” I reply, trying to keep the anger out of my voice and at least partly failing. “And Sean,” I add at the last second, not wanting to leave him out. He’s my family as much as Mom is. He’s also got the same rap sheet since we did all the stupid shit together.

“He’s your ride-or-die like Joy’s mine,” Hope surmises. “You might fight like honey badgers, but nobody else better mess with them, or you’ll go at them full force, right?”

“Something like that,” I agree.

“Nobody talks shit about my sister but me, or I’ll bleed ’em,” she adds, doing her best to sound tough. There’s only one problem: Hope’s strong and fierce but about as tough as a pug in a sunflower costume.

“I met your sister, Hope. I don’t think she’d let anybody talk shit about her either.”

Her laugh rings out over the water. “Yeah, you’re right. But I’ve got her back the way she’s got mine.”

“I have no doubt,” I reply wryly. “You’re a force to be reckoned with, for sure.”

“Hey! I’m not always a clusterfuck of epic proportions,” she argues, but she’s grinning happily, enjoying the back-and-forth we’ve got going.

“I bet,” I counter before adding honestly, “I do know that you’re the prettiest train wreck I’ve ever seen, with fireworks and glitter instead of a twisted metal disaster.”

Her jaw drops open in offense, but a second later, she’s grinning wide again, seeing my words for what they are. “I think that’s the weirdest and best compliment I’ve ever gotten.”

Instantly, I inscribe the words on my brain to use in a song. A song for Hope, even if she’ll never know it.

We keep giving each other shit and talking as Marcus guides us back to the dock. There, he helps us both out of the boat. He squeezes my hand as my feet touch solid ground and my eyes jump to his. “Don’t hurt her,” he murmurs quietly enough that Hope doesn’t hear. “She doesn’t know how special she is yet.”

He’s astute, and firmly on Team Hope. I nod in acknowledgment but add, “I hear you. I’m hoping to help her figure that out while I’m here. That’s all.”

He smiles, looking like I said something funny, but I mean every word. I won’t hurt Hope. I only want to help her.