I Do With You (Maple Creek)

Chapter 17 HOPE

Chapter 17

H OPE

Ben talks me into waiting by promising to make it worth my while, but I think he’s secretly trying to give me time to reconcile any feelings I might have about having sex with someone other than Roy. There’s no need to worry, though. I would’ve enthusiastically impaled myself on him this morning if I hadn’t been so mesmerized by watching him jack off—another thing I’ve never done before.

I had no idea that I’ve missed so much. And being with Ben only reaffirms that I made the right decision by running. Sure, I probably could’ve made a more graceful exit, but there’s no changing that now.

It’s not only the sex either. It’s Ben. His heart has been through more trauma than I can imagine, but somehow, he’s still generous with it, caring for me with an openness that inspires me to trust enough to reciprocate. The steady calmness of his soul calls to me too. I’m midcrisis now, and unfortunately keep getting him tied up in my messes, but usually, I’m the stable one in my life, saving Shep or Joy from themselves. Having someone at my side who doesn’t flinch from disaster but doesn’t chase drama brings a sense of balance, like he’s willing to do for me what I’ve always done for others. Once this whole wedding fiasco blows over, I think Ben and I could settle into something amazing.

If he were staying.

Nope, not gonna think about that. Not today, and not right now. I’m taking the gift of a day with him as an adventure I never dreamed I’d have.

“The plan is to explore downtown Maple Creek,” I tell him.

“Like any good tourist would do,” Ben replies.

Maple Creek’s downtown area is one of Mayor Haven’s pet projects. He’s worked for over a decade to get the town square rejuvenated with small businesses, hand-painted murals, public green space, and more. With all the visitors who come through town, it’s nearly always busy, too, and the new brick-paved sidewalks are full of people looking to shop, eat, or have a drink. Though I will definitely not be having anything stronger than a soda today.

“Ooh, you’ll love this place.”

I nearly drag Ben into a store called Spin Cycle. From the front, it appears to be a laundromat, but if you look a little closer, the washing machine graphics have vinyl records instead of windows. Inside, the floor is checkered with black-and-white linoleum, the walls are covered with band posters and neon lights, and there are laundry bins full of records, both vintage and new.

But the best part is ...

“Back here. There’s a jam space.” I throw out my arm in a ta-da move to highlight the multiple stands of various guitars, a drum set, and a circa-1970s gold floral couch complete with an orange tabby cat, who’s curled up in the corner of one end as usual. “That’s Ginger Spice,” I inform him, dropping my voice to add, “but she should’ve been named after a different Spice Girl—Scary Spice. She’s a lookie-no-touchie cat.”

While I’m not kidding about Ginger Spice being a guard cat, Ben looks around like the whole place is filled with snakes, alligators, and spiders that might attack him at any second.

“It’s cool, right? I thought you’d like the music,” I say uncertainly. He smiles, but I can see his nervousness returning. “You don’t have to play. I’m not forcing that on you ... again. I just thought you’d like it.”

His grin is real this time. “Thank you. I do. So, uh, what kind of music do you listen to?” He moves toward the closest record bin, flipping through the albums quickly.

“A lot of Taylor Swift, and I’ve recently become obsessed with Stephen Sanchez. Have you heard of him?”

“I’ve heard of Taylor Swift,” he replies with a laugh. “Football fan, right?”

“What do you listen to, then?” I’m actually curious, not prepping to tease him. He played the Beatles twice, and plucks on his guitar randomly throughout every day and night. I’m dying to hear the song he’s been working on, but haven’t asked because I was afraid that would be too intrusive.

“I’m poly-jam-orous. If it’s good, it’s good. I’ve been listening to a guy named Ren a lot lately, but I’ve got mainstream-established artists too—Bowie, Slipknot, Tool, Zeppelin, Chris Stapleton, Elvis, Disney songs, Bocelli, BTS, Skrillex, Beyoncé, and yeah, Taylor Swift too. Then there’s the harder stuff—Code Orange, Nova Twins, Loathe, Ghost, Amon Amarth. And I could listen to Lorna Shore all damn day. Will Ramos is a beast.”

I stare at how easily all that rolled off his tongue, like his playlist is currently running in the back of his mind as a movie soundtrack to his life. I knew he liked music. I didn’t realize he likes music. “I know roughly half those words, a little less of those ... bands? Musicians?” I start to laugh, feeling way out of my league here.

An idea strikes me, and I grab a record, holding it up so Ben can see. “Thoughts on”—I glance at the cover—“ Sailing the Seas of Cheese ?”

“Jerry was a race car driver,” he answers cryptically. When I look at him in bewilderment, he spins his finger, telling me to turn it over.

When I do, I discover it’s a song title on this specific album.

“How did you—” I sputter, and he laughs, shrugging like it’s no big deal. “No way.”

I pull another, and then another. When I’ve pulled ten albums and he’s known something about each one—a song title, a fact about the artist—or hums a little tune, I give up.

“Hope, your friend’s got impressively broad musical knowledge,” Vincent, the owner, tells us as he comes over and offers Ben his hand.

Ben shakes Vincent’s hand but seems to realize we’ve had an audience for our show-and-tell game, and his playful grin melts as he steps to my side protectively. “Thanks.” His voice has gone flat and hard, totally un-Ben-like for some reason.

Vincent holds up his hands in surrender and grins. “No worries, man. Me and Ginger are on Team Hope,” he reassures us, shooting double thumbs-up my way. “Gotta keep your dad happy. He’s one of my best customers for the old stuff.” I nod, sure that’s true. “You play?” Vincent asks Ben, pointing toward the jam space.

Ben frowns, seeming on edge. “A bit. You?”

“Nah, I wish. I’ve got the love of music, but the best I can do is a kick-ass air guitar.” He demonstrates, squeezing his eyes shut and grimacing as he plays a silent solo on an invisible instrument. He does indeed add a kick of his leg and then throws both hands up and whisper-shouts, “Thank you, New York!” He cups his hands around his mouth, creating the sound of roaring adoring fans.

Ben smiles more warmly, telling Vincent, “Ten out of ten air guitar rating. Jack Black would be envious.”

“You two let me know if I can help with anything,” Vincent says, gesturing to the store; then he pins me with a look. “And that goes doubly for you. Maple Creek’s a beast sometimes. Gotta beat it back with a stick so everyone’s not all up in your business.” He winks and then glances from me to Ben with what seems to be a happy smile.

The next few stores are more of the same, to my surprise. Everyone’s friendly and welcoming, and while some of them are probably faking it in an attempt to get fresh dirt on my situation, if even half of them are being genuine, I’m thankful for it. Of course, there are some outright stares, lots of curious gazes from locals, and a few whispers as we pass people on the sidewalk, but I don’t feel outright hostility the way I expected to.

Maybe Joy was right and there are more people on Team Hope than Team Roy? I never would’ve thought that’d be the case. I’ve always felt invisible, like the only reason anyone knows who I am is in relation to Roy. But the smiles I’m getting are for me: Hope.

So as the day goes on, I let my guard down, relaxing into the sunshine and having fun exploring Maple Creek like a tourist with Ben. We take an obscene number of pictures—most of them with goofy grins or our tongues sticking out—in front of a mural that the local high school’s art club painted about three or four years ago.

We stop at a folding table set up outside a store and get hustled into buying matching beaded bracelets. Actually, we get two each because they’re Buy Three, Get One Free . We laugh and tell the kid that she’ll be a great salesperson one day, and she proudly says she already is, which makes us laugh even harder because she’s absolutely right. She’s a hustler, that’s for sure.

We visit Frank at the Maple Creek Museum and listen to him wax poetic about the town. Ben puts a twenty-dollar bill in the donation box as a thank-you for the tour, and Frank remarks that he’ll see me next month for his twice-a-year cleaning.

It’s a reminder that my regular life is waiting just beyond the horizon.

Too soon, Ben will leave, I’ll return to work and my parents’ house, and I’ll have to figure out what’s next. Normally, a completely blank plan would freak me out, and I’d feel pressured to add bullet points, highlight deadlines, and color-code my life. That desire is gone. In fact, I kinda want to chuck the whole planner, every calendar I own, and all the Post-it note reminders I have tacked up and just ... be.

Like I am today.

I take Ben to a lunch spot called Let’s F*rk. Literally, the sign out front has an asterisk to make it look like fuck , but they pronounce it fork . Inside, the old building is beautiful, with the original knotty-pine plank flooring that’s gone wavy, long plastic-tablecloth-covered tables providing family-style seating, and a display case at the counter that’s filled with fresh pies. “Despite the name, this place is known for its sandwiches, no forks required. You’ll need one for the pie, though.”

We order and take our sign—a laminated card stuck in curled fork tines—to a table. There are other people sitting at the communal tables, but we find two chairs together and sit down beside each other.

“Hi, Hope, Ben,” a woman greets us from a few seats away. “Beautiful day, isn’t it? Good to see folks out enjoying it.”

She knows me. She knows Ben’s name. She’s making easy, friendly small talk. But I have no idea who she is. “Uh, yeah. Great weather,” I agree as I rack my brain.

She’s in her fifties, with brown hair cut into a sleek bob and kind eyes. Her blouse is navy with pink flowers, and her nails are a matching shade of pink glitter that makes me think it’s her favorite color. I look up to her face again, and then it hits me. “Mrs. Abernathy?”

She smiles, laughing lightly. “In the flesh. Just a little more of it these days,” she says with a happiness-tinged shoulder shimmy. “Chasing after grandkids isn’t the same as being in the classroom all day.”

“Ben, Mrs. Abernathy was my third-grade teacher,” I explain, and he nods respectfully in greeting. “You here for the season?” If I remember correctly, her daughter and son-in-law moved several years back, and Mr. and Mrs. Abernathy followed, keeping their small house here to summer in.

“Yep, got in a couple of weeks back. Gail and her family will be here soon too. I can’t wait to take the babies to the lake. Maude is six and swimming like a fish, and Ezra will be able to float around a bit, too, this year. He’s almost two.” She shakes her head. “Time sure does fly. Why, a minute ago, you and Joy were this tall and running the classroom.” She holds her hand out about four feet high, chuckling.

“Think you mean Joy was running things. I was her shadow, following in her footsteps, whether they led me to fun, got me in trouble, or both,” I joke.

Mrs. Abernathy frowns. “No, you two were thick as thieves, but you egged each other on. Back then we would’ve said you were both a little bossy and sassy. Nowadays, we know better and would more accurately say you showed leadership qualities and had a strong sense of self.” Going serious, she pats her chest, right over her heart, and says, “I hear you still do. Good for you.”

We talk a little more, but what she says lingers with me. I always thought I was Joy’s coattail rider into the fray, her backup when things went sideways, and the voice of reason when she saw nothing but opportunity, regardless of the potential cost. But was I once equally daring? And if so, did I simply forget that? Or squash it down to play nice?

When our sandwiches come, she waves goodbye after telling me she hopes to see me again this summer. I’m sure she will. I’ll be here, in Maple Creek, where I’ve always been.

I don’t have to be.

Mrs. Abernathy didn’t stay put. She had roots running deep here, but when life called her to be somewhere else, she went. What’s that saying? You’re not a tree. If you don’t like where you are, move. I could do that. I could do anything. Like travel.

“What’s California like?” I ask Ben, who promptly chokes on his turkey-and-swiss on fresh-made sourdough.

“What?” he forces out as he takes a drink of water.

At his reaction, I drop my eyes to my plate, pushing a chip around mindlessly. “I was thinking that I’ve never been anywhere, and now might be a chance to travel. I’ve never been to Los Angeles, so I’m curious what it’s like.”

Am I asking if I could come see Ben in his hometown? Yes. Am I doing it outright? Nope. That strong, confident girl I was has been hiding for a bit too long to cannonball into the deep end like that. But a gentle toe-dip is doable.

“It’s extremes,” he starts, looking like he’s trying to figure out how to describe life in LA. “There are people with ridiculous amounts of money you can’t comprehend and people who wake up not knowing what, when, or even if they’re going to be able to eat. There’s a power dynamic where everyone you meet is testing to see if you can do something for them. Like networking to the nth degree. The weather’s beautiful; there’s the beach, but I don’t go often—or ever, really—and you can get any type of food at any hour. Want sushi pizza at three in the morning? You got it. Oh, and make it gluten-free? No problem.” He shakes his head at what I think is an exaggeration.

“Is sushi pizza even a real thing?” I ask, laughing at the weird image in my head. “How does that work? Like, do you cook the pizza and then throw the raw fish on it?”

He laughs too. “I wouldn’t know.” Slowly, he straightens, then directly asks, “Would you think about coming out? To see me?”

I can see the shy boy he says he used to be in the way his fingers fidget with the napkin in his lap. As anxious as I am about asking, he’s equally nervous about it, which is kinda adorable, considering he’s completely amazing, and I’d go a hell of a lot farther than LA to see him again.

“You’re the only reason I’m asking about California, Ben. If you lived in Texas, I’d be wondering if I need to buy cowboy boots to come see you. If you lived in Seattle, it’d be rain boots. New York City? I don’t even know, but I would probably buy something for that too,” I tease. “So, uh, what do you think?”

He doesn’t answer with words. Instead, he turns in his chair and arranges me between his spread knees. Gripping the back of my neck, he pulls me toward him, meeting me in the middle to place a firm, claiming kiss to my lips. It’s a better answer than I’d even hoped to receive.

I want to jump up and dance.

I want to throw my arms up in victory.

I want to shout from the rooftops that this incredible, understanding, caring, hot guy likes me, Hope Mercy Barlowe.

“Get your hands off her,” a sharp voice bites out. I jerk back to see Roy standing beside the table, holding a bouquet of red roses in a tightly clenched fist. His eyes are cold stone as he stares at Ben, not moving a muscle but looking like he’s on the verge of explosion.

“What are you doing here?” I sputter.

Roy shifts his glare to me, all but accusing me of doing something wrong, but I’m not. I know it’s soon, it’s fast, and it’s hurting him, and I’m truly sorry for that. But I can’t slow down or stop living my life for him. I won’t. Not anymore.