I Do With You (Maple Creek)

Chapter 28 HOPE

Chapter 28

H OPE

By Sunday, I’m feeling slightly better. Very slightly. Mostly I think there’s only so much moping and mourning, cleaning and purging, and indulgent self-care I can do before my family starts contemplating an intervention, which they’ve most definitely done, rallying around me in an attempt to help me feel better faster.

Joy refused to go with me to the salon when I told her I was considering a new cut, and instead took me and Mom for a mani-pedi yesterday, and it felt good to replace my wedding-day french manicure with something more in line with what I’m feeling now. I chose bright red. Not quite the color of bloodshed, roses, or love, but close. When I look at my hands now, I feel a little bolder, a little stronger. And Joy was right—“new-me nails” are infinitely better than a “broken-heart bob.”

They’ve also helped by feeding me. Dad’s been on meat duty all day, babysitting a pork butt in his smoker. An hour ago, he started cooking corn on the cob and summer squash on the grill too. And now it’s almost time for a family dinner, in which I hope to talk about anything other than Ben, why he left, or how I’m feeling, which I think they’ll respect.

No, I still haven’t told them Ben’s big secret, though it’s been weird not to. We’re an open family, sharing more than is probably healthy, if you ask some therapists, but it’s always worked for us.

When I showed up on the front steps with angry tears streaming down my face, Mom had simply welcomed me into her arms and soothed the pain away, giving me time and space to tell her what happened when I’m ready. Dad and Shep asked if Ben needed “dealing with,” and when I said no, they dropped it, too, though there’ve been a lot of sideways glances and concerned looks. They’ve all been tiptoeing around me. They know heartbreak when they see it.

I’m circling the kitchen table, setting out plates and silverware for dinner, when I feel my phone vibrate in my back pocket. I pull it out and see a text from an unknown number.

Monday 9pm.

Below, there’s a dropped map dot.

I type back, Who is this?

In answer, I get back a purple devil emoji. I don’t have to think about that one. It’s Sean.

I send a middle-finger emoji, feeling like this is a stupid high school fight.

He sends me a link to a major airline. I know better than to click on links from untrustworthy people. It’s definitely a virus or malware disguised as Delta Airlines. But my thumb doesn’t listen to reason, and I click it before I can stop myself. It pulls up a flight confirmation in my name, landing at LAX Monday afternoon.

Lose my number.

I fucked up. I’m sorry. He needs you.

Has hell frozen over? It must’ve, because the devil incarnate is not only admitting wrongdoing but also apologizing.

What do you mean?

Is Ben okay?

I don’t get a response, so I text again.

Is Ben okay?

And like the purebred asshole Sean is, he doesn’t respond again. And I know why. He’s manipulating me by not answering. But just because I know I’m being manipulated doesn’t mean it isn’t working, damnit.

“Are you texting with He Who Shall Not Be Named?” Joy quips as she comes into the kitchen.

Still staring at my phone, waiting for Sean to reply, I shake my head. “No. Sean. He says Ben needs me. He sent me a plane ticket to LA.” I hold it up to show her, and her eyes practically bug out of her head.

“Just like that,” she says, snapping her fingers. Then she sees the map dot. “Where’s that?”

“Um ... I don’t know yet.” I click on it, and it opens up a map, zooming in until I can see that it’s a club. The Cobra Room. “Oh, uh, he probably wants to meet me there for ... something.” I can’t think fast enough to figure out a cover story, and Joy arches a brow, staring at me in a decent imitation of Mom’s patented Mom glare.

“Probably because Midnight Destruction just announced a top-secret, VIP-invitation-only show to tease their new album titled Losing Hope ?” she suggests dryly.

“What?” I shriek. And then realize that I shouldn’t know or care about that. “I mean, who’s that?” But my fingers are flying over my phone as I search for the information she just shared.

She lets out a heavy sigh, almost sounding disappointed in me. “I swear you forget that in addition to being your awesome sister and the better half of our twinset, I’m an actual journalist.” She ticks off her professional observations on newly black stiletto nails with a tiny rhinestone on the tip of each finger. “You’ve been playing the same songs on repeat for days. And not your typical sad breakup songs, but screaming heavy stuff that hurts my ears and isn’t your style at all. And you’ve been sleeping in Ben’s T-shirt every night. One plus one, and a little googling, and voilà, your man’s not a secret prince of a foreign country, but of darkness and something called nu metalcore.”

“Joy!” I hiss, grabbing her face and slamming my hand over her mouth. “You can’t go around saying that!” I whisper-scream. “It’s a secret.”

She rolls her eyes and pushes me off. “Duh, obviously.” But as she wipes her mouth, she asks, “Why do you care? I thought you hated him.”

“I do?”

I don’t. Joy’s not the only one who’s been devouring Midnight Destruction videos. I started because I wanted to find the clues that I missed so I wouldn’t repeat those mistakes. But I haven’t found any clues.

What I’ve found is video after video of Ben leading the band, conducting the audience, and pouring himself out onstage. But it’s never Ben. It’s the character, like he said. He doesn’t speak, he doesn’t touch anyone. It’s vulnerability in a calculated, careful way that protects him.

But while that part of what he said is true, there’s still the issue of his lying. I haven’t forgiven him for that. Even though that’s getting harder to remember, and when it’s dark and quiet and I’m journaling in bed by flashlight, I wonder if I reacted too harshly, too quickly. But when the sun comes up, those wonderings feel like weakness.

“Oh, then you wouldn’t be interested in hearing the rest of what I found out by researching your guy?” Joy taunts.

In an instant, I’ve dragged her to the living room couch and sat down nearly on top of her, crossing my legs in front of me like I’m ready for story time. I shake her shoulders as I demand, “Tell me everything.”

She chuckles, throwing my hands off her shoulders. “That’s what I thought.” But she doesn’t give in that easily. Instead, she taps her chin, looks up to the ceiling, and hums. “Where to start? Where. To. Start?”

“Joy!”

“Fine, so first things first ... background check. His has been professionally scrubbed, that’s for sure. I do these things a lot, especially on athletes coming into the leagues, and usually see property, driving history, credit history, stuff like that,” Joy says, ticking the items off on her fingers like it’s nothing. “Ben’s a ghost. He has no educational history, so did he go to school, did he graduate, did he drop out? Who knows. He owns no property, at least not in his name, and that includes a car, which he’d definitely need in LA, so that’s weird. Honestly, I was pretty disappointed there weren’t any jump-scare skeletons, but it only confirmed my professional-scrubbing theory.”

“So, nothing?”

“Sooo ... I went a different route,” she answers with a proud grin. “I found his mom’s criminal record because her background hasn’t been cleaned. She did a short stint for being involved in a theft ring, so that part of his story seems true. It also gave me a case number, so I could find the other defendants named in the case, including one male minor, age sixteen, who served time in juvie. That has to be Ben, right?” She pauses and I stare, gobsmacked at my sister’s amazing ingenuity. She grins bigger, not done. “His record’s sealed, though if you want it, I could probably sweet-talk it out of a source I have at the sheriff’s department because we both know Sheriff Laurier got it.” She snarls at that in distaste, like the sheriff’s overstep is too far despite her own deep dive.

“You’re saying he didn’t lie about that?” I ask carefully, not sure I can take it if she says no but also not sure I can handle it if she says yes.

“Nope, that part seems legit,” she summarizes. “Now, on to the band sitch.”

I look around to see if anyone’s inside to hear, but Dad’s out back, babysitting his grill and drinking a beer while singing Sir Mix-a-Lot’s “Baby Got Back” to his pork butt. Mom’s upstairs and Shepherd’s not here yet.

I nod eagerly, interested to see how her notes compare to my own obsessive stalking.

“It’s hard to tell what’s real, what’s been manufactured, and what’s pure fan fiction because your man’s got some seriously wackadoodle fans. Like, I read a whole smutty fantasy scene about him pulling a woman onstage during a show, her licking his mask and sucking the sweat and spit out of it while he choked her, fucking her in front of the audience. The best part? Somehow, he also sang the whole time. Except when he was screaming her name in his trademark screech while splashing all over her.” She mimes jacking off and come going everywhere, her eyes wide in disbelief.

“Blech,” I gag.

“I know, right? I mean, I’m all for role-playing, a little hand necklace, and some exhibitionism if the place is right, but that’s a bit ...” Wow. She mouths the last word silently. “Seriously, though, the lore is pretty out there—ranging from they were born from a pit of inky darkness under a blood moon to they got their start at a shitty hole-in-the-wall club in LA. I think the latter is more likely true. You?”

I glare at her. “Did you find anything about them being identified? I’ve searched, but it sounds like you’ve done more reading while I was focusing more on the video watching.”

Her eyes sparkle with wickedness. “I did my fair share of video watching too. Ben can sing. Well—scream, but also sing.”

I nod, agreeing with her. The screaming, heavy music like that has never been my style, but in listening to it on repeat, I’ve found a respect for the nuances of Midnight Destruction’s music. It’s different from other bands in the genre, which I’ve definitely clicked on as suggested listens during my YouTube perusals.

“Yeah, their identities are totally top secret. There’s even talk that most people at their record label don’t know who they really are,” Joy said, dishing like she’s been eager to show off her work to someone who’d appreciate it. “They show up to concerts already in costume so the crew doesn’t have a clue, they take different vehicles each time so there’s no stalking for a tour bus, and they don’t do meet-and-greets under any circumstances. Ben even stays back from the edge of the stage after a fan tried to grab his leg and almost pantsed him. They kinda show up, do their thing, and get the hell outta there, which I can respect.”

“Do you think they’d get in trouble for telling?” I ask.

“Well, I can’t access their contract with AMM Records,” she says regretfully, “but with as big a deal as their anonymity is, I can only imagine what their lawyers would do to someone who spilled.”

“Shit,” I hiss.

Joy lays her hand on my knee. “Hope, you need to give him a chance to explain. You need to talk this out with him. Maybe you get closure or that adventure you say you want. Or maybe you get something even better.”

Love. Maybe I get love and all its unexpected, messy glory with Ben.

I’m about to say something when she tilts her head pointedly to the kitchen, where Dad’s bringing in a big pan with a delicious-smelling chunk of meat and singing, Fleetwood Mac this time.

“Dinner’s ready!” He sets the pan down and turns, finding us on the couch looking at him like we did when he busted us drinking his beers when we were seventeen. “There’s my girl!” he says with a tentative grin, the reminder of us being a two-for-one deal extra sweet, given the last few weeks of drama. It only takes him a heartbeat longer to fully admit to himself that we’re up to something. “Lorie! Help! They’re plotting again.”

Mom pops out from the bedroom. “Plotting what?”

“Hope finally got her head out of her ass,” Joy announces. She holds her arm out, taking a bow. “You’re welcome.”

“Really?” Mom asks, looking hopeful.

“Sean the Asshole sent her a plane ticket for tomorrow and a meet location in LA,” Joy answers Mom for me. Then, to me, she adds, “You want to not know what today or tomorrow holds? Go get him, sis. It sounds like he would definitely be an adventure.”

Her eyes dance with the pointed tease, and Dad’s gaze narrows. “What does that mean?”

Joy didn’t tell them. She did all that research and has known Ben’s secret but kept it safe. For me. I throw myself into her arms, hugging her tightly. “Thank you.”

“Wait, I have one question first,” Dad says. “I’ve seen how torn up you’ve been. You don’t have to tell us why if you don’t want to, but is what he did worth what you’re going through?” I start to answer, and he holds up a finger, not done. “If so, fine. Go through it because the pain will eventually get better. But if not, you’re wasting days when you could be working things out. Build wisely on solid ground, and it’ll be your foundation for a happy life,” he says, bastardizing his own saying. “So is whatever mistake he made worth it?”

I blink, not expecting Dad to be so ... deep. I mean, he’s not a superficial guy. But he’s not known for long monologues on love, either, which is essentially what he just said, in his own way.

“What if we both messed up and the ground’s not solid?” I ask, sticking with his metaphor.

“Then till it up, take out all the rocks and crap, add some fertilizer, and replant.”

“Since when did you become a gardener?” Mom teases, sidling up to him and curling into his side.

“Since that daughter of yours became full of shit,” he tells Mom, planting a kiss on the top of her head. To me, he says, “Sack up and go, girl. I like that kid, and he loves you.” That’s the poetry I’m used to from him, but Dad’s blessing means more to me than he’ll ever know.

“Oh my God! I have to pack!” I shout.

“After dinner,” Dad decrees. “I’ve been working on this pork all day.”

The plane ride is uneventful, but once I land, I’m not sure where to go, and I have several hours until the show tonight. But when I walk out, there’s a guy holding a sign that says my name.

“Um, I think that’s me?” I say, pointing to the sign.

“Baggage claim?” he answers. When I shake my head, gesturing to my rolling carry-on bag, he seems surprised. Should I have brought more? I have no idea. But he takes it from my hand and starts walking. Unsure what else to do, I follow him.

“I don’t know where I’m going.”

“I’ve got your itinerary, Miss Barlowe.”

Apparently, Sean’s thought of everything, because the driver drops me off at a hotel, informing me that he’ll return at exactly eight thirty. I approach the front desk hesitantly, but the clerk efficiently checks me in for the reservation I apparently have. Key card in hand, I go to the eighth floor and find my room. It’s nice, nothing fancy, but at LA prices, I can only imagine how expensive it is.

I’ve never been to a club like the Cobra Room, and certainly never to a concert like this, so I take my time getting ready—showering, fixing my hair and makeup, and ordering room service on what I’m assuming is Sean’s card. I pull on Ben’s Midnight Destruction T-shirt, freshly washed so it doesn’t smell like I’ve been sleeping in it for two weeks straight, a pair of black jeans, and low-heeled black booties. I stare at myself in the mirror. “Okay, girl, let’s do this. You’ve got some groveling to do. But so does he.”

I nod to my reflection and head down to the lobby, my key card securely tucked away inside one back pocket and my phone in the other. The driver’s returned as promised, and he drops me off directly in front of the club, which has an awning emblazoned with a gold cobra. “I’ll see you later?” I ask him.

“No, I don’t have a scheduled pickup for you. Would you like to arrange that?”

I blink. “Uh, no? That’s okay. I’m gonna trust there’s another plan for after the concert, I guess.”

The driver looks at me, truly seeing me for the first time—I think. “Here,” he says, handing me his card. “Call if you need a ride.”

When I get out, I suddenly feel very out of place. I join the line of people waiting to get in, scanning my surroundings. There are people in suits and fancy cocktail dresses and others in all black, with chains, piercings, fishnet tights, and platformed heavy boots with dozens of buckles. There’s quantifiably more black eyeliner here than in an entire Sephora store. Yet here I stand, in my cute little booties, unripped jeans, and pink lip gloss.

Which one of these is not like the others?

“Cool shirt,” someone calls out, and I scan the line to see who spoke. I find a woman a few people ahead of me with neon-red hair and chains going from her nose piercings to her ears, effectively framing her high cheekbones. She points at me.

I hold it out, looking down at it. “Thanks. A friend gave it to me.”

“Last tour, yeah? I think that one sold out halfway through,” she says with a friendly smile, “so you’re a lucky bitch.”

Okay, this isn’t so scary. I’m alone in a strange city, about to go into a club for a concert, but I’ve already made a friend in line. I smile back. “I didn’t know that. Guess that makes it even more special that he gave it to me.”

“He?” she says, wiggling her brows, which are both precisely done with matching slits. “Come, gimme all the tea.” She waves me forward. Normally, I would never cut the line, but everyone’s invited, so it’s not like I’m taking someone’s place. When I join her, she hooks her elbow through mine. “I’m Nightingale,” she says.

“Hope.”

The line moves quickly, and before long, we’re inside. I’ve been to clubs before, but this is different from anything back home. There’s music playing already, loud and thumping so hard that I can feel it in my chest. The stage is dark, the walls are draped with purple curtains, the black floor is filling with people, and the bar is backlit to show off a wide variety of liquor bottles. It feels wild, like anything’s possible here, and nothing’s actually even happened yet.

“You want to be up front?” Nightingale asks, shouting in my ear and then pointing toward the stage. I nod, grinning wide. Like a pro, she works us through the crowd, and we get close to the stage, just off to the right side a bit. “Good?”

I flash her a thumbs-up and she starts dancing, swaying with her arms in front of her. Her movements are soft and flowy like a bird in flight, in contrast with the DJ’s music, which is hard and fast. I wonder if that’s how she got her name as I copy her, letting the beat guide me.

There’s no introduction, no transition. One second, the stage is empty. The next, there’s a flash of strobe lights and Midnight Destruction appears, instantly going into one of the songs I already know.

The crowd screams, the high-pitched screech in contrast to Ben’s deep guttural growl, which only seems to hype them up more.

“Welcome to your destruction ...” Ben roars.

Except it’s not Ben. I know it is, but there’s nothing about the man onstage that’s my Ben. This man is angry, stomping around, and though I can’t see the lower half of his face because of the mask, you can get a hint of the way his mouth moves and imagine the snarl behind the fabric. His eyes are blacked out with contacts, and his face is coated with black paint, making him look like a void beneath the hood on his head. The only thing I recognize are the black button-fly jeans that send a jolt of electricity to my core when I remember trying and struggling to get them off so Ben could finally fill me the way I desperately wanted him to.

I’m in awe as the show really gets going. It’s intense, wild, raw. But I can hear Ben in the lyrics I do understand, though I don’t understand all of them. As they roll into a song I haven’t heard before, I can hear our story in the lyrics. He’s written song after song about us.

It’s poetry, but screamed out in pain—of love found and love lost, of beauty discovered and wasted, of fury and vengeance against those who operate against us.

In short, though it’s hard and harsh, it’s Ben’s love letter to me.

And I suddenly understand every word.