That One Night (That One Series Book 1) (15 page)

When I get home that day, everyone is already sitting at the table, talking and having fun.

“Hey! Now we just have to wait for Ben to get back and we can have dinner.” Alex waves at me.

“Where is he?”

“Needed to go out and repair some old lady’s window. It jammed and it’s cold. So she called him up. It looks like Mrs. Walsh is passing his number around.”

“Well, that’s good for him.” I look at Viv and before she has fully opened her mouth, I preempt what she was surely going to say. “And yes, that’s because he’s good with his hands.”

As fate wants it, this is the moment when Ben steps through the door.

“You talkin’ about me, babe?”

I want to wipe the smug grin of his face. He’s enjoying teasing me way too much.

“No, about my gynecologist,” I shoot back, smiling to myself for coming up with that. Being around him has dampened my snark lately, usually leaving me speechless instead of throwing witty comebacks around. So I’m happy to see I’ve still got it.

Viv nearly spits her drink over her plate laughing, attempting to high five me between coughs, while Ben only glares at me. I guess he didn’t consider my comeback that funny.

Just when we’re about to dig into our food the phone rings. Apparently, no one else seems to hear it, since they all start shoveling food in their mouths.

“Oh no, no problem. I’ll get it. Lazy fuckers,” I mumble, walking to the phone, picking it up.

“Hi, Frankie speaking.”

“Hello Frankie, it’s Judith. How are you?”

I’m speechless for a second. Ben’s mom is calling and I have no idea how to behave. The last time I mentioned her, he took off into the woods. With her on the phone now, I have no idea what his reaction will be. Will I have to hunt him down in Canada?

“Umm....good, thank you. You?” My voice is anything but strong and confident, not knowing if I’m about to enter a minefield or not.

“I’m good, Frankie. It’s great to speak to you. But is Ben there?”

My voice sounds downright pathetic when I only mutter an “uh huh.”

Swallowing down the anxiety I’m feeling, I speak up loud enough to be heard over the animated chatter of my friends.

“Ben. It’s for you.” He looks up at me, cocking his eyebrow as if to ask, who it is.

“It’s your mom.”

For a second, he sits completely still except for the tic in his jaw. Without a word he gets up and in a few big strides crosses the living room to where I’m standing. The others have suddenly become really quiet.

Ben is mere inches from me, when he yanks the phone out of my hand. I’m expecting him to talk to his mom, maybe yell at her, call her names—instead he seems calm. Too calm. You know, the way it is out at the sea before a storm rolls in. His body is tense, his jaw clenched. I’m waiting for him to put the phone to his ear, instead he just presses the “end” button and puts the phone back down.

God, I want to ask him what’s this is about. I want to figure out what happened with his mom that he can’t even talk to her. But the vibes he’s sending off tell me that it’s better to postpone those questions to another time. Ten, fifteen years might be more convenient. Bringing it up now won’t achieve anything, so I remain quiet, just looking at him.

“Let’s eat,” he grinds out, waiting for me to make my way back to the table.

The rest of dinner is awkward and feels forced. Ben is violently stabbing the food with his fork, and I’m tempted to tell him that it’s already dead. But it doesn’t seem like he’s in the mood for any kind of conversation or joke. He’s not making eye contact with any of us. The only one that seems to get any reaction out of him is Archer. I notice Dean glancing my way occasionally—either to make sure I’m alright or that I’m not stirring up any trouble. I like to fix things, people, and situations. Just letting something fester isn’t my style. My approach is more of the bulldozer kind. But even I can tell when it’s not a good idea to push.

As soon as Ben’s done with his plate, he gets up, and after putting it in the dishwasher, kisses Archer on the head.

“I’m off to bed.” With that, he strides from the room, the anger emanating from his every pore.

I look at my watch to find that it’s only 7 p.m. Archer keeps staring at where Ben disappeared, so I ruffle his hair. “Sorry little man, it’s only you and your momma tonight.”

While getting Archer ready for bed, Dean comes in, making himself comfortable on my bed.

“You alright?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

All it takes is a withering glare from Dean to know he knows I’m trying to bullshit him.

“I don’t know. I want to be fine with it, but Ben is keeping secrets and it’s nothing small or insignificant. For fuck’s sake, he’s refusing to talk to his mother. They’ve always been close. Something happened and it’s still affecting him. He doesn’t want to talk about it or let me in, but I don’t know how to deal with it. Is it something big? Is it something that will have an effect on Archer in any way, shape, or form? He isn’t letting me in and he doesn’t seem to trust me. This in return, doesn’t help me to trust him. It’s like walking on egg shells at times and it sucks. I want to push him, I want to demand answers, but I’m too scared that it will send him running again. And I know it’s weak and pathetic, but I don’t want him to leave—and not just because of Archer.” I barely took a breath, rushing those words out before they suffocate me.

By the time I spoke the last word, I’ve changed Archer into his jammies, setting him down on the floor. I plop myself down on the bed. Dean scoots over to me, putting his arm around me. Sighing, I lay my head on his shoulder.

“You’re not pathetic or weak. You’re human. And you have those pesky human feelings for him—the good and the bad ones. I agree that you have a right to know, that to gain your trust he should open up. But I also think it doesn’t have to be today or tomorrow. Tell me this: Is he good to you? Is he a good father to Archer? Has he given you any reason whatsoever to doubt that he is in this one hundred percent?”

“No, he hasn’t. And yes, he’s the perfect dad to Archer. And he’s sweet, and thoughtful, and incredibly infuriating toward me.” A small smile tugs at my lips.

“Well, then I’d say give him time. It’s not even been two weeks, and those resembled a tornado. Whatever he’s been dealing with, it surely isn’t easier with everything he’s now confronted with.” I want to speak up, but Dean shushes me. “I’m not taking his side, but I’m trying to take it into account as well. In two weeks, he’s become a father, lives with four other people in a different state, and is confronted with his feelings for you on a daily basis. Maybe he just needs to feel safe in this new role before he can open up. Give him some time. Let things settle down a bit. You can still drive him crazy with your questions later.”

I think about his words for a moment before I take a deep breath.

“But don’t you think I have a right to know? He just left, didn’t call, didn’t write. Didn’t say ‘I’m sorry I made you feel like a cheap fuck.’” Swallowing, I try to suppress the familiar feelings of rejection, anger, and humiliation.

“I understand your reaction. I do. It’s normal to want some closure, an explanation for things to be able to let go or to forgive. I wouldn’t feel any different. Even I want an explanation from him, want to know what made him hurt you like that. But he’s here now. He isn’t lying to you; he just isn’t ready to talk. Whatever went on in his life, whatever happened—he isn’t ready to share it yet. When he says it has nothing to do with you, then you should believe him. I don’t think he left because he didn’t care, or he wouldn’t be back now. He wouldn’t be doing all the things he’s doing if he didn’t care for you. You’re allowing your need for closure to ruin what is happening in the now. You don’t have to give him a clean slate. Hell no, sooner or later he will have to man up and tell you what made him do the things he did. But give him a bit more time. From what I can tell, he’s a good guy who worships you. He’s just also dealing with his own shit on top of that.”

“I’m scared.” I admit, hating how pathetic it sounds.

“What are you scared of?”

I stall, not wanting to admit or face what I feel. Instead I look around the room, attempting to hold the tears at bay that are trying to escape. Why do I have to be such an emotional creature?

“You know, I can sit here and wait for your answer all night.” Dean pinches my hip playfully.

I rub my hip dramatically. “Ouch. That hurt, you jerk.”

Dean laughs, but still gives me the look that says he wants an answer now. After another few moments of taking in the decorations of my room, from the colorful, bright paintings of the four elements, to the vast array of candle holders, I finally sigh, giving in. Facing your own feelings is like attempting to slay a fire-breathing dragon, and admitting your fear seems to make it more real, way harder to suppress.

“I’m scared that I open myself up to him; that I dare to hope. That I allow myself to have all those feelings for him—to care about him, to want him,” I pause, taking another breath, “to love him. And that he’ll leave again. Or just doesn’t feel the same way I do. Or that there is someone else,” I say, thinking of the phone calls. “I’m scared of having my heart broken—again. I don’t want to be rejected. Once was bad enough. I can’t do it a second time.”

“Oh, sweetheart. It’s too late for that. You already have all those feelings, whether you admit them to yourself or not. You never stopped loving him. No matter if you open up or not, if things don’t work out, your heart will be broken anyway, so you might as well give it a chance. The way I see it...why not give it a chance instead of ruining it from the start. When you cook a stew, you’re not scared it’ll taste horrible and therefore just over-salt it right from the start, do you?”

“You’re comparing my love life to a stew?” I lift my eyebrows in what I hope is an incredulous look. “Seriously?”

“If it gets the point across,” Dean shrugs like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

I contemplate what he said for a moment. I’m not sure what to feel or think. But I realize my anger and hurt doesn’t come from Ben not telling me what he was doing all this time he was gone. It’s still the lingering hurt from him leaving me in the first place; my heart demanding an explanation that would justify his behavior and allow me to not feel discarded and rejected. It’s the uncertainty of who he has been with in that time. Not knowing if he was thinking about me, if he regretted leaving me. It’s the hurt about him not telling me he loves me when I did. But I can’t force any of that to happen; it wouldn’t mean anything if I did. I want him to confide in me because he wants to, not because he feels he needs to in order to pacify me. Which means I have two choices: I suck it up for now, allowing things to develop at their own pace, seeing where it takes me—risking to have my heart broken again, but also opening myself up to the opportunity of happiness. Or I end it before it can even start. Stopping the little innuendos, the flirts, and the closeness. Drawing a line between us that neither of us will cross, making it clear he is in Archer’s life, but not in mine. And with that breaking my own heart, while crushing any chance to find happiness with him.

Laying it out like that, the answer seems obvious. Only how I’m supposed to do it is beyond me. I groan loudly, frustrated and exhausted with all the emotions coursing through my system.

I kiss Dean’s shoulder. “I hate you.”

“Because I’m right?” he asks, laughing.

“Yeah. Smartass.” I nudge him playfully. “Thanks.”

We sit in silence for a moment, watching Archer crawl around the floor like a man on a mission. Even with all the imagination I have, it’s hard to see what is so fascinating about crawling back and forth, but he seems to really enjoy it. That is until he gets to the green, ugly, yet extremely comfortable wing chair I got in a garage sale. Crawling up to it, he reaches his tiny arms to the seat, starting to pull himself up.

“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” I squeal, trying not to startle Archer in the process. He’s standing up. I’m so excited I want to jump up and down, instead I call out to Ben, making sure I don’t go all banshee in the process.

“Ben, come here, NOW!”

Something in my voice must have alerted him, because despite him supposedly sleeping, he’s there in an instant, charging into the room. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Look at Archer.” I point at our son excitedly, bouncing from foot to foot, while Dean keeps clapping his hands like an excited seal. “He’s standing up. All by himself.”

I can’t help but squeal again in excitement, moving over to stand next to Ben, I grab his arm and tug at it. “Oh my God.”

Archer seems oblivious to the commotion behind him. That is until Ben goes up to him, lifting him up into the air above his head. “Who’s a big boy? Are you? Yeah, you are.” Archer laughs and I’m not sure if it’s because he likes being up that high or because his daddy sounds really silly. But I don’t sound any better. “You’re a big boy. Standing all by yourself. Momma is so proud.” I tickle his feet, while he is still up high in Ben’s arms, causing him to laugh even more. Suddenly, Ben lowers Archer into his arms, becoming all serious.

“If he starts walking now, we need to make sure everything is safe, so he can’t fall down the stairs or get into things he shouldn’t get into. We need to make sure all the furniture is stable and can’t fall over.”