I Do With You (Maple Creek)

Chapter 24 HOPE

Chapter 24

H OPE

I don’t hear from Ben before dinner, or after dinner. Mom and Dad try to distract me with a movie I’ve seen a dozen times, but after missing my favorite part because I’m staring at my silent and dark phone, I finally give up and say I’m going to bed. But when I lie down in my childhood room, under the damn pink-and-purple comforter where I swore I’d never be again, I can’t stop tossing and turning as I worry about Ben.

Eventually, I pass out, reassuring myself he’ll call in the morning.

I’m up and dressed early, checking my phone obsessively so I don’t miss the call I’m certain will come through any minute. But it stays eerily quiet, and my thoughts continue to spiral deeper and darker the longer he doesn’t call.

How bad is it that I reached out to Sean? Are they still fighting? Did they finally have the big blowup Ben’s said he’s trying to avoid?

Is Ben mad at me for overstepping?

That’s what I keep coming back to. I know my fear of his anger is a reflex to not rocking the boat with Roy for years. Be easy, be nice, everything’s fine, repeats on a loop in my head, but I’m actively rewriting the scripts that have played for too long.

Have a voice. Say what you want. It’s okay to have an opinion, a boundary, a preference.

I overwrite the old script with the new until I can’t stand idly by anymore.

“I’m going for breakfast,” I say to the empty kitchen. Mom and Dad left for work hours ago, so it’s only me here, but saying it aloud feels powerful and decisive.

Rosemary’s is busy, so I keep it simple and order three Monday specials—eggs, french toast, and bacon. I buckle the bag of food into the passenger seat of my Honda and make the drive back to the resort. Except when I pull up, Ben’s rental car isn’t there.

Not giving up that easily, I grab the food and knock on the cottage door.

“What’d you forget, fucker?” Sean gripes as he opens the door. I flinch at his barking, rough voice. “Shit. Thought you were Ben. He just left,” he explains with a shrug as some weak version of an apology for answering the door like a Neanderthal.

“Oh.” I guess that’s slightly better? I thought he was calling me names and acting like I shouldn’t be here. “I brought breakfast.” I hold up the bag full of Styrofoam boxes. “It’s from Rosemary’s.”

“Place must be good, because that’s where Ben said he was going.” He eyes the bag like I might’ve poisoned the contents inside.

“It’s the best.” I can see that it’s on the tip of his tongue to blow me off, and once upon a time, I would’ve let him. No more, I remind myself. So instead I butt my shoulder into his chest as I walk up the steps and in the door, strutting across the narrow living room and making myself at home the way he did last night. I at least have been staying here, unlike Sean.

“C’mon in,” he mutters under his breath, following me into the kitchen.

When I open the boxes, though, he groans in delight. “Shiiit, that smells fucking awesome!”

Food is the way to his heart, apparently, because he’s no longer scowling at me with his arms crossed over his chest. He reaches over to snatch a slice of extra-crispy bacon from one of the boxes, being quick and sneaky about it like I might smack his hand. The new version of Hope might’ve, too, except it reminds me of Ben saying that they went hungry sometimes.

Still, I have limits, and I might as well set them early.

“That one’s yours because I’m not getting shorted on Rosemary’s bacon. It has cracked pepper and honey glaze on it. I want both my slices.”

One side of his mouth lifts in a semi-grin as he open-mouth chews the half slice he ate in one monstrous bite. “Fair. I’ll take Ben’s instead.”

I narrow my eyes, glaring hard and trying to channel my Inner Joy. She’d be able to stand up to Sean, no problem. She spends most of her days in locker rooms with smelly boys, pre- and post-games, so dealing with assholes is basically half of her job description. Unfortunately, my experience is more pleasedon’tbiteme, pleasedon’tbiteme and acting like I believe people when they tell me they floss religiously when their gums tell a very different, tartar-filled tale.

“No you won’t.” I try to sound firm, but it’s a suggestion at best, so I put Ben’s food in the microwave. Out of sight, out of mind, hopefully. I carry my food to the living room, curling up in the corner of the couch that’s become “mine.”

“Guess we’re doing this, huh?” Sean asks, looking mildly amused by my attempt at gumption—which is pretty good, if I do say so myself.

“I’m not doing anything other than eating breakfast while I wait on Ben.”

Yep, almost believable, Hope. Woo-hoo! Good job!

The truth is, I’m infinitely curious about Sean, the man Ben describes as a brother but who is so rough around the edges, he’s basically jagged, broken glass that’ll cut you at any opportunity just to watch you bleed out.

I know I’m in over my head with him, so I take a bite of my cinnamon-sugar-dusted french toast and pointedly ignore Sean’s existence. He chuckles to himself, watching my delicate chewing, and then takes another huge half-slice-size bite of bacon as he falls lazily into the chair across from me. Even sitting here, I feel at a disadvantage.

“What do you want to know?” Sean says, licking the honey glaze from his thick, tattooed fingers. I arch a brow and he sighs as if I’ve already overstayed my welcome and am annoying him. “Look, Ben left about five minutes before you got here. I don’t know where this Rosemary’s joint is, but I figure you’ve got about thirty minutes to get all the insight you could ever want. Maybe you find out something interesting, maybe you find out something that has you running for the hills.” He acts like he’s not sure which way I’d go with what he knows. “Or you could sit there and listen to me smack while I scarf this down.”

I stay silent, mulling over his offer as I swallow another bite, and he does indeed smack down a bite of his own. Gross eating noises aside—his, not mine—I can’t help but play along with his game to find out more about Ben.

“Did the two of you fix whatever’s wrong between you? The thing that sent him here?” I ask.

Sean’s fork freezes halfway to his mouth, and he pins me with a curious scowl. “Everything you could ask—what’s his body count, how psychotic was his last ex, what’s his kryptonite in a woman, how you can lock him down, or any number of things like that—and you ask if me and him are cool?”

I copy one of his moves and shrug, trying to make it seem like no big deal. The truth is, I didn’t think of all those questions, but now that he’s mentioned them, I really want to know the answer to them. But I asked the highest-priority question first because I know how important Sean is to Ben. “Fighting with you is tearing him up. I don’t like that.”

He snorts a laugh. “ You don’t like it? How do you think we feel?”

“I don’t know. How do you feel about it? You don’t seem to care that much. Laughing, calling him names, and giving him a hard time so that he instantly puts up walls he’d taken down.” I thread as much disdain in the accusations as I can. It’s still weak, considering my opponent, but the learning curve from Nice Girl to Boss Bitch is steep.

Sean takes a bite of eggs and, while not answering my real question at all, explains, “That’s how we show affection. You got brothers or anything?”

I nod. “Yeah, and he plays hockey. I know about guys being mean as a supposed form of affection.”

Something in what I said changes Sean’s mood in an instant, from jovial shit-stirrer to stormy-eyed defense. “Somebody been mean to you?”

“Not like that ,” I rush to explain because I get the feeling that while Ben might punch Roy, Sean might put him six feet under with zero regret. “My fiancé—um, ex -fiancé—wasn’t abusive. He’s just an asshole I stayed small and quiet and compliant for, for way too long. I’m doing better now, slowly but surely,” I inform him proudly, sitting up straighter. If my hands weren’t full of my box of food, I’d pat myself on the back for all the growth I’ve made in such a short period of time.

“Ben told me about your ex. Well, that you bailed at the altar, leaving him in the dust. Pretty cold, if you ask me.” He doesn’t smile, doesn’t blink, doesn’t even take a pointed breath, but it feels like he’s testing me.

Not that I care about his tests or what he thinks about Roy, but I do care what he thinks about me and Ben.

“It was warranted, as repeatedly evidenced since then. I’ve told him to leave me alone several different ways, from sweet and gentle to outright bitchy and rude, but like a roach, he keeps coming back. Whiny here, bossy there, manipulative always. He’ll probably survive a nuclear attack and then bring roses to my burned-up corpse. I hate roses!” I crinkle my nose, both at the scent of the flowers and the idea of Roy visiting my dead body. “If that makes me cold, then call me Olaf.”

Sean chokes on his bite—of toast, I think. “Olaf? Figured you for an Elsa type,” he sputters, shaking his head. I think his smile is of actual amusement, with no overlay of sarcasm or acid. That might be a first for him, ever.

“Cold. Snowman. Olaf,” I explain my train of thought. “Elsa’d work, too, but—” I shrug, not really knowing why I chose the goofy snowman side character over the Ice Queen. Maybe because I don’t feel like I deserve a tiara—not yet. I’m too new in my growth journey.

But also ... Sean knows Frozen ? I don’t know why, but that makes him a little less terrifying. You can’t be all bad and sing “Let It Go” at the top of your lungs, and everyone who watches that movie sings along.

“So you’re done with the fiancé and hooking up with Ben now? That right?” It’s a subject change, but also, somehow not. This is what he’s been building to for the entire time we’ve been talking. He said he wanted me to ask him questions, but it feels like this is Ben’s best friend asking, What are your intentions? more than anything else. I can appreciate that he’s protective, especially given their recent difficulties with one another.

“We’re not casually hooking up and he’s not a rebound, though my sister called him that. I wasn’t looking for him, that’s for sure, but something clicked between us. I can’t explain it because I’ve never felt it before. But I do ... with Ben.” I think I did a pretty good job not using the L word in my answer. I haven’t told Ben that yet, and I’m not telling his friend first.

“You know about his past? His mom?” Sean asks. When I nod, not intending to share what Ben said with anyone, even his person, Sean seems to have a deeper respect for me. “Legal troubles and why she’s a bitch?” he clarifies.

“Yes and yes.”

He leans forward and coldly accuses, “You’re just like her—broken. And Ben’s running around trying his damnedest to get your attention, save you from your own bad decisions, and be the person who rights your fucked-up ship.”

Blinking in shock, I ask, “What? I’m nothing like his mom.” Sean raises his left brow, making the tattoo there move. Does that say Destroy ? I think it does. “I don’t need saving. If anything, I’m better now than I’ve ever been. And getting better every day. I’m growing, improving myself while he cheers me on. There’s a biiig difference there.”

“You saying you’re better than her?”

Normally, I wouldn’t say I’m better than anyone, but this situation is different. I am better than Ben’s mom. I’m sure of it, though I’ve never met the woman and only know what he’s shared. “Yes, I am. I would never choose a man over my child. I would never leave him to homelessness and hunger. I would take care of him. Any child of mine would always be my first priority.”

Sean seems to be considering my answer. “What about Ben? Imaginary child aside, would you choose him over everything else? No matter what?”

It’s ridiculous to say yes. It’s been a few long, intense days, but the truth is ... I would. I asked about visiting California, but when Ben was arrested and when I missed him last night, I was thinking about moving there, about creating a life together, wondering if I’d fit into the life he has there already and if he’d even want that.

I swallow thickly—not on Rosemary’s impeccable french toast, but on the lump of emotion in my throat—as I nod.

“Would you say you’re a trustworthy person?”

I frown, feeling like Sean’s leading me not to water, but to my own destruction. Still, I nod.

One of his acidic smirks stretches across his mouth, and he says, “We’ll see.” He pulls his phone from his pocket and clicks around for a second. I have no idea what he’s doing, but then he hands the phone to me and I see it’s a YouTube video.

It’s probably something disgusting or pornographic or stupid. Any of those would seem right up Sean’s alley.

“Hit play.” His right brow raises as he watches me look back and forth between him and the phone.

I don’t want to do it. I’m not sure what game this is, but Sean is infinitely better at it. But Roy might be right about me, that I obey too easily, because when Sean tells me to play the video, I do.

Or maybe it’s because I’m so curious what he thinks some concert video is going to prove.

A superfast, screaming guitar solo starts, and then booming drums join in at the same high-speed tempo. This is not my style of music at all. The stage is dark, with bright white, red, and green laser lights shooting across the black background. And then there’s a deep, guttural roar that reminds me of a video I saw once of an alligator growling.

Suddenly, the lights begin to strobe flash, highlighting three monsters onstage. In the back, the drummer wears black clothes and a chrome mask with horns that covers his face. The guitarist on the right of the stage has what appears to be blood dripping down his black-painted face. Hopefully, the red is paint, too, and not actual blood.

And then there’s the lead singer.

He has one foot up on a speaker, and he’s playing a bass guitar that’s slung around his body. He’s dressed in all black, wearing a tattered hooded cloak that covers his head and drapes from his shoulders to a few inches above the ground. The lower half of his face is covered by a black mask with an evil, skull-esque grin painted on it, and the paint continues on his upper face, which is solid black, including blackout contacts. The total effect is that he looks like a demonized shadow and sounds like death is consuming him from the inside out right before me, live on video.

“What is this?” I mutter, flinching at the ear-piercing, rapid-fire singing over the incessant drum beat and wailing guitar.

Is this considered music? Is that considered singing? I don’t know, it’s nothing like I’ve ever listened to.

“Keep watching. Keep listening. Wait for the chorus,” Sean instructs, and like a mindless robot, I do.

The chorus starts with a tempo change. The guitar sounds more like a cry than a screech, and the drums slow by maybe a beat or two. And then the devil up front screams a few words I can semi-understand: “Once upon a mental obliteration, there came a midnight destruction.” The pace of the delivery makes it sound like a freestyle spin on Edgar Allan Poe’s opening to “The Raven.” As the singer repeats the line over and over, the audience joins in, sounding crazed and going wild, with fists punching the air above their heads and grimaces on their faces.

After a few rounds, something hits me. “Midnight Destruction. That’s one of Ben’s band T-shirts. You think because we like different music, I’m gonna bail on him?” I ask Sean with my brows furrowed. “That’s stupid.”

He raises his right brow again. “Listen.”

I close my eyes, taking out the visual onslaught of pandemonium happening on the screen, and focus solely on the demon monster’s voice. It’s all over the place—guttural growls, higher-pitched notes, some held long and others staccato short.

“Until I am nothiiiing moooore!”

Sean’s right. There’s something about the voice. It sounds vaguely familiar, and I try to think of any singer I might know who would have a secret, second band that does this type of music. Like The Masked Singer but real. I don’t think this is T-Pain in disguise, though.

And then it hits me.

“Is that Ben?” My jaw falls open as I squint, trying to focus on the small screen to see the singer better. The Demon Monster is waving one arm around theatrically, almost like he’s conducting the audience to fall under his hypnotic sway, which they’re doing while singing along with him.

Sean doesn’t answer, and my eyes jump up to his, only to find him staring at me intently, his face entirely blank and stony.

“Is that Ben?” I demand, my voice harsher. Not as harsh as the singer’s, but then, I don’t think anyone’s could be.

“What do you think?” Sean finally says.

My body’s gone numb. I click the recommended videos on the side of the screen, watching more and more Midnight Destruction videos and becoming more and more sure with each one that Ben is the lead singer of what I can only assume is a metal band.

Is that what this is? Metal? I don’t even know what it’s called, all I know is ...

“He lied,” I say hollowly. “Over and over, he lied. Said he was a business consultant. Sat at my parents’ dining table and told them that. And he was lying to them.” Another video, another concert. “He said he has stage fright and can’t sing in front of people. Acted like it was a big deal that he sang a Beatles song for me, like it was special. Like I was special.” Click—another dramatic audience-conducting move. “But there are definitely some people in that audience, and he seems perfectly fine.”

The list goes on and on, song after song, some production videos and others live concerts. In each one, Ben is front and center, pouring his evil heart out as he confidently casts a spell over the crowd.

Through blurry, tear-filled eyes, I pin Sean with a pleading look. “Why would he lie?”

He doesn’t answer my question, but rather asks one of his own. “Does this change things? Would you still choose him over anyone, over anything else?” He flashes that acid-filled smirk and raises his left brow this time. He’s laughing at me. Maybe not outright, but inside, he’s laughing. Like I’m the butt of a joke everyone knew about but me.

“You’re in the band, too, aren’t you? The drummer,” I realize, matching his body to the one in the videos.

He drums his thighs with his palms, creating a rhythm. I never even saw him set his food down when I was lost in his phone. “In the flesh.”

“Is this some sick joke? Is messing with people’s heads fun for you?” I snap angrily. But my voice is too pain-filled to hold any real venom.

Sean laughs outright at that. “Turnabout’s fair play, right? We’ve been fucked over by life, so why not spread the fun a little?” he says bitterly.

“That’s ... that’s ...” I have no words to describe what that is. Horrible doesn’t seem even remotely enough. Appalling ? Soulless ? Evil ?

Maybe all those and more.

Of course that’s when the front door opens.

“Hey! Wasn’t expecting to see you this morning,” Ben says, coming in with his easy smile and sexy confidence. When he sees my tear-soaked face, he freezes. I watch as his gaze drifts to Sean, taking in his wolfish grin, and then Ben hisses, “Shit! What the fuck, man?”

He knows exactly what Sean’s done, what he told me, and is furious with him for spilling their secret.

I stand, dumping my box of delicious french toast to the floor, my appetite completely gone. “You lied to me. Manipulated me as you lied over and over. Was any of it even real?” I scream, the realization slamming into me that if he lied about this, he might’ve lied about everything—his mom, the circumstances of his arrest, his feelings for me.

I am such a fool.

Ben holds up his hands, trying to placate me. But I refuse to be controlled like that anymore. I escaped years of Roy’s manipulations only to find myself in one infinitely worse. Oddly, this one hurts so much more.

Ben lifted me up, supported me finding myself while building me up bit by bit. Was it only to make the crash that much more devastating? Is that who he is?

“Hope, let me explain—”

“No! You said to tell you what I want? Tell you the truth? Fine,” I say, throwing my hands wide. “You want to give me what I want? Stay the fuck away from me, Benjamin Taylor. Is that even your real name, or is that part of the joke?” I shake my head, not wanting an answer. All I want is ... “Leave me alone.”

And, as has become my habit lately, I run.

I bump into Ben as I pass by him, knocking his shoulder almost like I did a few minutes ago when I was trying to shoulder my way past Sean, and he tries to grab me, wanting to control me and keep me here, probably so he can lie to me some more. I jerk out of his clutches, simultaneously planting my palms on his chest to push him hard. He takes a step back, and I use the space to burst out of the trailer, sprint to my car, and climb in, slamming the door as I rush to start it, fumbling clumsily with the keys because I can’t see through my tears.

Ben bangs his palms to the roof over my head. “Hope!” he screams.

I don’t stop. I don’t look his way. I keep my head held high even as the tears fall, and I peel out of the driveway, leaving the cottage behind.