I Do With You (Maple Creek)

Chapter 11 HOPE

Chapter 11

H OPE

It’s been a quiet day. I’ve been staring at the book I downloaded to take on my honeymoon— Hello, Steve and Blue ... That should’ve been a big ol’ clue because who needs reading material while on vacation with their new spouse? Ben’s been plucking at his guitar and scribbling in a notebook. Every once in a while, he starts to hum, but I don’t know the song.

It’s been comfortable and easy, and it reminds me that I don’t need big, flashy changes to my life. Small things, like who you’re sitting with, can have a big impact.

“I like it the other way better,” I say when he changes the tune he’s humming, taking it up an octave.

“Huh?” he asks, looking up like he didn’t realize I could actually hear him.

“The song. You were doing it lower, but you went up that time. It’s better staying down. It feels moodier,” I tell him. I don’t know anything about music other than what I listen to on Spotify. My annual Wrapped feature usually showcases popular artists like Taylor Swift, Ed Sheeran, Ariana Grande, and Stephen Sanchez, which doesn’t seem like Ben’s vibe, but I offer my opinion anyway.

“Oh.” He looks off to the side for a moment, and it’s like I can see the music playing in his head.

“What song is it?” A thought hits me hard, and I realize what he’s been doing. “Oh my God! Are you writing a song?”

He must be. I’ve been watching as he plays, writes in his notebook, and stares off into space. How did I not realize sooner? I’m such an idiot.

Or you were distracted by the way his tattoos move when his fingers press the strings down.

Okay, that’s true too. But he’s obviously writing a song. And it’s just now hitting me.

Ben looks terrified for a split second, and then shutters close down over his expression. His dark eyes go vacant, his jaw goes hard, and I can feel a void between us when a few moments ago, there was only warm comfort.

“Sorry, I just didn’t realize that’s what you were doing,” I say, wishing I hadn’t said anything.

He grits his teeth for a minute, pinning me with a look. Finally, he sighs. “I am. It’s something I’ve done since I learned to play. It’s how I process things. Like my own screwed-up version of therapy.”

I’m not sure what to say to that. It sounds so evolved and self-aware, but Ben makes it sound like he’s ashamed of it.

“Does it work? Maybe I should try it,” I offer lightly, trying to step away from the land mine that this apparently is for him. “I definitely need therapy.” I tap my temple, well aware that he’s seen me do some pretty silly things over the last few days.

Ironically, I feel more at peace now than I have in months.

He plucks at the guitar a few times. “It’s kept my shit sorted for the most part, because it could’ve been worse. A lot worse.” His gaze goes hazy as his defenses drop and he shares, “My mom worked her ass off for us, usually two, sometimes three jobs. I was alone, well ... it was just me and Sean. His mom worked a lot too. Anyway, we’d taken to stealing sodas from the gas station on the corner, just a few at a time so we wouldn’t get caught, and selling them to make a few bucks. That’s how I saved enough to get my first guitar. I used YouTube videos to learn how to play—chords at first, and eventually songs. It became my new obsession, which probably kept me out of any real trouble at that point.”

“Other than the gas station robberies?” I tease. I can’t imagine what his life has been like, given that my mom and dad are poster children for How to Be Great Parents. That’s not to say his mom isn’t great either. Ben said she worked, not that she sucked. Maybe she was doing what she had to do to keep a roof over their heads and food on the table? I mean, she probably should’ve noticed the appearance of a guitar, but I can’t blame her based on one little snippet, especially since Ben speaks of her affectionately.

“It was shoplifting at best,” he corrects with a grin that makes me glad I asked about the music. As if the words come easier now, he continues, “Sean got bored of watching me practice my fingering—‘and not the good kind,’ he’d say. He started banging on shit to annoy me, usually a five-gallon bucket, just with his hands because we didn’t have drumsticks or anything like that. But he stole some from school one day, nicked them out of the music room and showed me like they were magic. Maybe they were, because from then on, everything changed for us. We weren’t getting into fights at school or hanging out at the gas station in the afternoons. We had something better to do. We’d fuck around, teaching ourselves how to play classics at first. But eventually, we tried writing our own music. It sucked so bad.”

He shivers as he chuckles to himself, but glances up at me, letting me know he hasn’t forgotten that I’m hanging on every word. “God, it was so fucking bad. But it was therapy. We’d use it to let out the anger we had about our fucked-up lives, the jealousy about what we didn’t have as kids of single moms who were struggling, and posturing about how we’d grow up different than the other guys in our neighborhood. It became an outlet for me.”

“That makes sense. And then what?”

He doesn’t answer for a long time, just returns to playing a bit of the song he’s been working on over and over. “We grew up,” he finally says.

“Adulting is not for the faint of heart,” I agree sagely. “Had my own arguments with Father Time here lately. But your voice really is special.” I remember how I felt when he began singing on the boat. I swear I thought I was getting Punk’d or something because I wasn’t expecting that to come out of Ben’s mouth. His voice had been like spiked honey—sticky, pure, piercing, and glowing. It gave me literal goose bumps.

He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Maybe.”

There’s a sudden knock on the door of the trailer, and it scares the hell out of both of us.

My first thought is, Shit, Roy found me . My second thought is, So what? I’m not doing anything wrong. Ben’s all action, though, instantly jumping up, standing with his back against the door, and gruffly barking out, “What?”

He’s acting like the FBI’s outside and has us surrounded, but I’m pretty sure the statute of limitations is out on shoplifting sodas from the gas station. And even if it’s not, he was a juvenile.

“Oh, hellooo. My name’s Kaitlyn. I’m the social director for the resort,” a voice on the other side says.

My fear dissipates instantly. Ben still seems on edge and doesn’t make a move to answer the door. In fact, when I look at him questioningly, he shakes his head and mouths, Probably lying.

But I know Kaitlyn, and I know that voice. She went to school with Shepherd, comes in twice a year for teeth cleanings, and is, in fact, in charge of activities here. I step up to the door, confused by Ben’s reaction, and while he still looks doubtful, he trusts me enough to move back, allowing me to open the door while he stays out of sight.

I thought I was the one hiding out.

“Hey, Kaitlyn,” I greet her. “What’s up?”

She doesn’t seem surprised I’m here, or if she is, she hides it well. Professional to a T—but I guess she has to be, in the hospitality industry. I’m sure she’s seen some weird stuff at a tourist resort. A runaway bride probably isn’t even in her Top Ten list.

“Hi! I’m making sure all our guests know about our free, special Strawberry Moon event tonight. We’ll have telescopes set up, a fireside sing-along, and complimentary snacks. We’re doing traditional s’mores but also strawberry-themed beverages—iced tea, milk, and daiquiris. Plus, actual strawberries, of course. It’s at nine o’clock, by the fire circle.” She smiles warmly, seeming glad to get her speech out in one go.

“Oh, uh ... okay,” I say.

“Hope to see you there!” she adds with a wave as she walks off to the next trailer’s porch.

I close the door and look at Ben quizzically. He scrubs a hand over his chin. “Sorry, force of habit. Never know who’s banging down your door. And we wouldn’t want your ex to find you.” He finishes with a wink, like he’s teasing that he thought Kaitlyn was with Roy and Sheriff Laurier, coming in like a honeypot to get us to open the door.

That’s not their style, though. If Sheriff Laurier wanted in here, he’d bust the door down, claiming he’s entitled to do what he wants because the voters of Maple Creek elected him to do whatever he wants. If Roy wanted in, he’d probably knock, but he’d come in without invitation, too, expecting that his father would take care of any issues for him.

I think Ben’s reaction also has something to do with his trip down memory lane, but I decide to let him have the redirection he seems to want. He’s helping me with my own issues bit by bit, and I can give him the same leeway. “What do you think about the Strawberry Moon thing?”

He scoffs, but then he sees my face. The one with hope-filled eyes and a sweet smile. “Uh, yeah. I like strawberries, I guess.”

“Yay!” I squeal, clapping.

Luckily, I had jeans in my honeymoon bag, so I’m covered there, but I have to borrow one of Ben’s flannels because even in June, when the sun goes down, the breeze off the lake gets cool. The fire’s doing a great job of keeping everyone warm, but I wrap the soft fabric around me tighter anyway, liking the symbolism of it being like a big Ben hug.

He’s in black jeans, a black T-shirt, and boots, of course.

“Nice to meet you, Richard,” Ben greets the guy sitting in the camping chair next to him who just introduced himself, but then he goes quiet, his eyes darting around at the mass of people who’ve shown up for this strawberry shindig. I can see the shyness he said sometimes plagues him, so I put my hand in his, supporting him in the face of all the scary tourists who came for free snacks and entertainment. Ben links his fingers through mine and squeezes, and it feels ... good. It feels ... right.

Richard regales us with stories about his family’s vacation, their life back home, and his job as an account representative for an internet wholesaler. I don’t think either Ben or I have any idea what that means, but Richard is eager to talk about it, even if it seems about as exciting as selling propane and propane accessories.

“Everyone, if I could have your attention, please,” Kaitlyn says, standing by the fire. She’s wearing a pink cardigan with puffy red strawberries all over it and has a matching bow in her low ponytail. The girl can carry through on a theme, that’s for sure. Eyes find her from every direction, and once she seems sure of that, she continues, “The Strawberry Moon is a special event that happens only once a year, so we’re very lucky to be here tonight. It’s so named because it marks the peak of the short harvesting season for strawberries.”

“Wait! Does that mean the moon’s not gonna be pink?” a little voice asks, sounding disappointed.

Kaitlyn pauses. “Uh, well ... no. The moon will be white like usual.” She just lost half the little kids here, who obviously thought there was going to be a giant pink orb in the sky tonight. “But you can look through the telescopes and see the craters and rocks on the surface. Maybe even a little green alien.” She holds her thumb and index finger up about three inches apart.

“Lame,” a kid says.

“Mid, at best,” another says.

Kaitlyn is struggling, but she keeps trying. “The Strawberry Moon is thought to be a time to savor life’s sweetness. It’s associated with the heart chakra, so you should feel more compassion for yourself and others”—she puts her hand over her heart—“and connect with all the love that surrounds us.” She opens her arms wide to encompass everyone. “It’s even said that if you consume strawberries under the Strawberry Moon, you’ll find your true love, so if you’re here with a special someone, make sure you give each other a nibble ... of a strawberry, of course.” The adults giggle politely, but the kids have already tuned out of Kaitlyn’s prepared speech. “Which you can find right over there.” She points to a table filled with treats. “Please help yourself, and if I can be of any assistance, let me know.”

People begin to disperse, getting drinks and shoving marshmallows onto skewers—or straight into their mouths, like I see a couple of kids doing.

“Want something?” Ben asks me.

“I’ll take a daiquiri.”

Ben goes to get us drinks, and I look around at the group of people. I’ve grown up hearing chatter about annoying tourists, but everyone seems pretty normal. They’re having a good time watching over the kids, who’re running around the small grassy area and playing on the swing set, and chatting about where they’re from and what their plans are in Maple Creek. There doesn’t seem to be an entitled Karen or overbearing Kevin in the bunch—at least, not yet, but the free alcohol just started flowing.

Ben returns with two plastic cups of pink frozen slush, each topped with a strawberry plopped in the middle. He hands me one and then holds his up for a toast. “To strength of spirit, bravery of heart, and chaotic train wrecks that blow my world apart. Wouldn’t have it any other way.” He grins as he taps his cup to mine and swallows a drink.

I laugh at the odd but sweet compliment and take a sip too. It’s cool and icy, tasting of summer sweetness. “Mmm,” I say, licking my lips. “Yummy.”

“Kaitlyn said they’re pretty weak because they’re free, but they’re good,” he agrees, picking up his strawberry.

Right as he’s about to take a bite, Richard appears, grinning merrily. “Nuh-uh, you heard the lady: you’re supposed to feed each other the strawberry,” he tells Ben with a comical wink.

“Oh, uh ... we’re not—” he tries to argue, but Richard isn’t hearing it.

“A little nibble never hurt—much,” Richard argues back, waggling his brows at his own semi-joke. He gestures for me to hold up my strawberry, and I’m having so much fun watching Ben struggle to find a way out of this that I play along. I fish the fruit out of my drink and hold it up in the air victoriously.

“Wanna bite my berry, Ben?” I tease, waving it back and forth enticingly.

Ben arches his brows as he smirks knowingly. “You have no idea what you’re playing at, Hope. Be careful.”

I’ve always been careful. Never strayed from the safe and narrow path of good choices. Maybe what I want is to not be careful or safe. Maybe I want to make a bad choice, starting with this strawberry and Ben. When the daiquiri drips onto my hand, it feels like a sign that the universe is on my side with that sentiment, so I stick my tongue out to lick the cold, sticky liquid. “Oops,” I murmur. “Too late.”

“Fuuuck,” Ben groans.

Richard laughs at Ben’s predicament and advises him, “Don’t fight it, boy. Women always have the upper hand. The sooner you realize it, the happier you’ll be.” He pats him on the back and steps away, leaving me confused because I most definitely have never had the upper hand in a single interaction I’ve been involved in. And certainly not with Ben, who’s been saving me left, right, and center, mostly from myself.

But while I’m confused, Ben looks furious. No, that’s not fury. It’s just as hot, just as all-consuming, but it’s ... lust.

Staring into Ben’s dark eyes, with the firelight throwing shadows over his face, I feel desired . I don’t think I’ve ever felt this way. Roy wanted to have sex, but it was always because he was horny, not because he wanted me specifically. But Ben does, and he’s not hiding it. In fact, his craving is bold and blatant as he holds his strawberry up, touching its tip to my lip.

“Open.” His voice is low and rough, coming from deep in his throat. Or hell, maybe from his balls, because it’s pure sex in two syllables.

I drop my mouth open and let him feed me the juicy fruit. Rather than a delicate nibble of uncertainty, I take a big chomp out of it, chewing and smacking like it’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted. “Delicious.”

“I bet,” he answers, a soft smile tilting up his lips.

“Taste mine,” I say, tempting him with my own strawberry. I move it closer, wait till he opens his mouth, and then jerk it a few inches away. He grins at the tease, so I do it again. But the third time, he grabs my wrist and holds the fruit to his mouth for a second, locking eyes with me before he bites into it.

“You’re right. Delicious.”

“You two are so cute,” Kaitlyn says, interrupting us. And as much as I like her, and as sweet as she is, I kinda hate her for a minute because I was enjoying the flirting with Ben. At the beach, I might not’ve been sure how to do it, but I think I’ve got it figured out now.

Act like everything is a double entendre for sex and it’s basically flirting. I could say, I’m gonna floss your teeth, and it could still be flirting if I think about sex when I say it, like Slip it in, and Slide it back and forth, in the right, purring Jessica Rabbit tone of voice. I hope I’m doing better than that, though, because plaque buildup isn’t sexy.

Focus, Hope. Think about sex. Think about sex with someone other than Roy. Eeek! Think about sex with ... Ben. Double EEEK!

I have been, that’s for sure. All day, I’ve stared at his hands as they caressed his guitar, watched the way his mouth moved as he talked—no, sang—to himself, and imagined him dirty-talking in my ear. And I’ve definitely pictured what he might look like beneath that God-awful flamingo suit I made him wear. I might not’ve expected the fabric to be so clingy, but I wasn’t upset that it outlined every inch of Ben’s dick. Nope, definitely not upset a bit about that. Intrigued, is more like it.

I glance at Ben, a bit embarrassed by the filthy thoughts running through my mind, to find him staring at me openly, still burning in his desire for me. The heat in his smile makes me a little afraid he can read my mind.

Kaitlyn bends down so her voice only carries between the three of us. “Guys, you gotta keep it child-friendly, or you’re gonna get me in trouble. Got it?” She looks from Ben to me and back. “Side note, Hope ...” She holds her hand up, and I almost think she’s going to slap me, but then she smiles. “Hell yeah, girl!” I high-five her palm in surprise.

“Here, let me take those if you’re done.” Kaitlyn points at the strawberry tops before we can say anything else. She throws them in the trash bag she’s carrying and then dances off toward another couple, playing hostess with the mostest.

I can’t help but giggle. I’ve never been told to cool it because I’m behaving inappropriately, but I guess there’s a first time for everything.