The Best You’ve Ever Had

Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Layla

As I grab my coat to leave Ben’s house, he strides into the room behind me. “Hey, wait. Would you want to go skating tonight?”

I’m caught off guard by him asking. All I planned to do while I was in town was hang out with Mom. See Mick for most likely the last time. And get over celebrating this horrible holiday. What I didn’t expect was to fall asleep on my childhood frenemy’s couch and then make plans to hang out again.

“We didn’t sleep together. You don’t have to make me feel better about spending the night here by taking me out.”

“I’m not trying to ‘take you out.’ A few people from our high school graduating class are going. Thought I’d invite you, since you graduated with us and all.”

Pulling the strap of my purse over my shoulder, I shrug. “I’m not sure. I’ll have to see what my mom is doing.”

“She’s working tonight. She always works on Wednesdays.”

“I don’t know if I should be creeped out or impressed that you know that.”

“For fuck’s sake. She’s worked that shift at the diner for fifteen years. I’ll pick you up at seven tonight.”

He opens the front door and watches me walk back to the car, never taking his eyes off me until I put it into drive and begin to leave. An eerie feeling settles in the pit of my stomach as I take the back roads to my mother’s house.

Because I love his eyes on me way too damn much for someone I’m supposed to dislike.

At seven on the dot, he’s at the front door. The knock is so fierce that it seems to shake the walls of the small house, rattling the picture frames that hang on the yellow wall. Opening the door, he looks so handsome that it hurts. With his unfair perfect dark hair, and matching almost-black eyes. His hands are tucked into the front pockets of his coat as he looks me up and down.

“You can’t wear that,” is the first and immediate thing out of his mouth.

I scoff. “Since when do you tell people how to dress?”

His eyes are everywhere but my face as he takes in my tight black mini skirt. “We’re not going to a winery or some fancy ass theater show. You’re going to either freeze to death, cut your leg open on a blade, or flash everyone there.”

“Oh, like that’d be so horrible. People would pay great money to see my ass.” I look down at my outfit—that I actually was about to change out of before he got here. But the fact that he’s telling me what to do irks me, which only makes me want to stick with it.

“Also, look how cute it is.” I turn side-to-side to show every angle of it. It’s definitely not because I want him to see how amazing my ass is in this. And it’s definitely not because he looks like his self-restraint will snap in half at the drop of a hat around me.

When he finally replies, his voice is low. “It’s not cute .”

“Wow, thanks. Glad to see we’re back to our old ways.” Feeling the sting of his words, I turn my back to walk away. In everyday circumstances, I’d bite his head off and swallow it whole. But some sick, twisted part of me wants him to feel so insanely attracted to me, just like I am to him.

I leave the door open as I head back into the house. It’s quiet, with only the glow of the beige lamp casting a soft light across the entryway. The sound of his footsteps follow me inside, purposeful and urgent. “That’s not what I meant.”

I turn to look at him, shooting a whole arsenal of weaponry from my eyes at him. “Fuck off.”

He walks up to me, looking angrier than ever. It only pisses me off more because I should be the one that’s pissed. As he gets closer, he doesn’t stop. There’s no bubble of personal space, because he walks straight up to me—crowding me against the wall as my back pushes against the thin drywall.

His fingers play with the black hem of the skirt, brushing against my upper thigh. “It’s not cute , because it’s fucking sexy . That’s what I wanted to say. But friends don’t usually go around saying things like that.”

“We’re not friends.” It comes out shaky, and breathy, and I have no idea what spell he has put me under. But I hold my breath as I wait for his response.

He hesitates for a beat, before finally breathing out, “You’re right, we aren’t.”

We both stare at each other for what feels like hours, though it’s only seconds. His fingers never leave the edge of my skirt, while my hands have somehow found their way to his chest. We’re suspended, together, in this bubble that belongs only to us.

The sudden ringing of his phone shatters our trance. We step back as if caught stealing while he fishes the phone out of his pocket and answers. From his responses, I gather someone is asking if we’re on our way. With a hand running through his hair, he glances at me, and lets them know we’ll be there shortly.

In the last two minutes, I’ve decided that maybe an outfit change is necessary after all. I hurry to my room to change into jeans, now aware that mini skirts attract trouble in the form of refreshingly honest, six-foot-three firefighters. Ones I’d very much like to be under.

As we head out the door, a silent agreement hangs between us that we won’t speak about what just happened. Yet, I know it’s all we’re both thinking about: this connection, this dangerous line between us.

It has me second-guessing everything I thought I knew about him.

After the world’s shortest and most awkward car ride, we arrive at the outdoor skating rink. It’s everything you’d expect from Havenbrook—a small, haphazardly thrown-together patch of ice, with blinking strand bulb lights that somehow still evoke a timeless charm. Christmas music crackles from a single speaker set up on a folding table, and ice skate rentals happen under a blue tent that has clearly seen better days.

Everything about this town is an absolute shithole. Yet, the feeling ringing through my bones reminds me that despite my outward hatred for this place, I’ve missed it.

With it being so close to Christmas, it’s packed. Multiple families and couples on dates crowd in on the cracked, uneven ice—shuffling their way around on dull skates that are either too big or too small.

We stand in total silence as we wait in line. When I look up, I find him staring at me, but he glances away as soon as I catch him.

“What?” I ask, defensively.

“Do you ever miss it? Home?”

“Not really.” Not wanting to sound heartless, I add, “It’s better and worse than I remember. Still a worn out shit hole. But the nostalgia is comforting in a way.” Every year, I begged my parents to take me to go ice skating here in this park. As a child, it seemed magical. As an adult, all I can see are the twenty different hazards they could easily be sued for.

He nods, deep in thought, as he grabs our two pairs of skates. Right as he hands the cashier two rolled-up twenty dollar bills, we hear his group of friends calling us over. We make our way over to the rusting metal benches where they’re seated, bundled up in blankets and sipping hot chocolate. Among them, there are three sets of definitive couples nestled together. Ben goes around and makes the introductions. Even though we went to school together, I barely remember these people.

I wave. “Hi, nice to see everyone again.” It’s a complete lie. I’d rather be curled up at home, and I don’t recognize a single one of them.

Everyone asks how I’ve been and where I’m working now. I make polite small talk, giving them the shiny, sugar-coated version of my life. I’m not trying to impress them, I just don’t want to show any weakness. I don’t want them to know that while I love living in the city, it also magnifies my loneliness against the backdrop of endless crowds.

Eventually we decide to hit the ice, and everyone starts heading in that direction. I lag behind, half in an attempt to recharge my social battery and half to not embarrass myself as I search on my phone the proper way to lace ice skates. It’s been over a decade since I’ve last done this.

I wave everyone off, as I sit back down to figure it out. But when I glance up, Ben is making his way over to me, stomping his way back in his bulky skates with ease.

Standing in front of me, he looks down to the phone in my hand to try and piece together why I’m not out there yet. “Everything okay?”

“I’m fine. Just needed a reminder on the proper way to lace these things up. You can get back to your friends.”

He kneels on the ground in front of me, and waves his hand in indication to hand over the ice skates.

I roll my eyes. “I’ve got this. You don’t have to pretend to be all chivalrous and help me.”

“Hand me the skate, Layla. And then you won’t have to chip your perfect manicure.”

I glance at my nails painted a perfect pale pink. He’s got a good point.

“Fine.” I hand him the skate, and he grabs my calf, lifting my leg gently before sliding my foot into the boot. Looking up at me, we make eye contact. It’s as if we’re thinking the same thing, feeling that same blaze that strikes to my core. Touching each other shouldn’t elicit a response like this. Not when you spent your whole childhood fighting and haven’t seen each other in more than a decade.

He’s trying to be nice for once in his goddamn life, so I decide to try the same. “So, how’s the firefighting business? Do you enjoy it?”

Shoving the boot onto my foot a little too forcefully, he looks up at me suspiciously. “Yes, I enjoy the firefighting business .” From the look on his face, I can tell he wants to tease me for asking, but goes against it. He concentrates on lacing up one dirty white skate. “It’s fulfilling. Havenbrook doesn’t typically have much action, but the times when I am doing something, I love it.”

“So then, have you done one of those sexy firemen calendars?”

A brief smile flashes on his stupidly handsome face. “Why are you asking? Do you want a copy?”

“That would be a firm no. I’d rather not have some image of you with oiled up abs and suspenders hanging in my living room.”

“You sure about that? It seems like you’ve really put a lot of thought into it already.”

“Doesn’t take a lot of thought when it’s a predictable behavior coming from someone like you.”

“Someone like me?”

Shit. I walked into that one. Now what am I supposed to do? Admit that he’s so good looking that hoards of people would pay good money to see him half-naked for one full calendar month? Denial is undoubtedly the best path forward here.

“Someone who thrives on attention.”

He gives me a smug, disbelieving look, before replying, “Sorry to burst your bubble, but I’ve never made it onto one of those firefighter calendars. I’ll keep you posted if that ever changes though.” He winks, and I roll my eyes so hard it’s a miracle I don’t pull a muscle.

As soon as he finishes, he stands straight, and extends a hand to me. I stare at it for an awkwardly long moment before finally giving in and taking it. He hoists me off the bench with too much force, launching me straight into his body.

Grabbing my waist, he steadies me as I place my hands on his chest. For a second time tonight, we’re close. Too close. The touch of his firm body beneath my hands and the clean, pine scent of his cologne invade my senses like a punch to the gut.

With his fingers still wrapped around me, he murmurs, “Sorry, forgot that you’re miniature-sized.”

“I think you’re only supposed to call candy bars miniature-sized.”

“It also applies to you. Now come on.” Grabbing my hand, we walk to the pitiful patch of ice.

As I step onto it, I feel wobbly and unbalanced. But this should be a walk in the park seeing as I work twelve hour days in three inch heels. Sensing that I’m off balance, he doesn’t let go of my hand. And I don’t let go either. Because after nearly tripping over my own two feet, I’m now fully aware that I need to either cling to the edge of the wall, or hold his hand. Somehow his hand seems less demeaning.

He gives my palm a squeeze. “Remember to bend your knees.”

“Remind me why I agreed to do this again?”

“Because it’s fun. And if you’re going to force me not to stay cooped up at home, then I’m dragging you with me.”

“So it’s kind of like some weird, fucked up karma? Noted.”

With a smile on his face and a shake of his head, we continue to skate in circles, hand-in-hand. He’s like a tower, strong and steady, while I am stiff-legged and teetering like a baby calf walking for the first time. But with each lap, my muscle memory slowly returns. Before long, I can skate without the constant fear of toppling over.

Letting go of his hand, I put our usual distance back between us. “Thanks for not letting me bust my ass and embarrass myself out here.”

“Don’t worry, still plenty of time for that.”

I punch his shoulder, nearly losing my balance in the process, causing both of us to burst into a laugh.

“So you never told me. How's the city living?” he asks, with genuine curiosity in his eyes.

“Amazing. Besides a select few friends, absolutely no one knows me. It’s the best feeling, going from a place where everyone in town knows your entire life’s story, to a large city where no one gives a damn about you or your trauma. It’s a dream.”

“It sounds like it.” He sneaks glances at me as we glide along the ice. “So why do we hate each other again?”

It’s a good question. One in which I could definitively answer eleven years ago—but now, I’m not so certain.

“I don’t know actually,” I reply.

“Is that your way of saying we’re kind of friends then?” He smiles, wide and playful, and it makes my stomach flip-flop in a way it never has before.

But it must be a fluke. A one time, completely random, stomach somersault.

Because there’s no way I’d get butterflies.

Especially not for Ben Brooks.