That One Night (That One Series Book 1) (2 page)

Three hours later, I finally arrive in our neighborhood in good old, cold-as-hell Michigan. I’ve grown up not that far from Detroit and always loved going to the big city
—
much to the dismay of my parents for fear I get mugged, killed, or raped—I still went, and none of this happened to me. In general, I believe the way you treat people determines how they will treat you in return.

I pull into the cobblestone driveway, staring up at the big house I grew up in. It stands out in the neighborhood, although the other houses aren’t on the small side either. It screams money
—
from the arched entryway with the two columns, to the bay windows and the landscaped garden. What it doesn’t scream is home.

I run my hands through my now short hair. I cut it during my pregnancy, not wanting to deal with pregnancy sweating and long hair during the summer. Getting pregnant at the end of May wasn’t a good idea, but then it’s not like any of it was planned. I hate summer on a good day, therefore dealing with all the pregnancy stuff while it’s hot as hell outside was about as appealing as pulling my nails with rusty pliers. Since then I’ve kept my hair short, currently dyed a raven-black that makes my green eyes pop, unlike my natural mousy blonde. Unfortunately, I seem to be lacking the genes that allow me to style my hair the way I want to. Instead, it’s usually an unruly mess.

I look into the rear-view mirror and check my make-up. I don’t use much of it, keeping it fairly natural. Some black eye-liner, dark grey or black eye-shadow, and black mascara are usually all I put on my face. I must have rubbed my eye during the ride as my eye-liner is all smeared. I take a tissue and wipe at it, realizing that I’m doing all of this in order to stall the inevitable.

Squaring my shoulders, I put the tissue away, turn to Archer and whisper, “Time to face the music.” He doesn’t stir but keeps on snoring happily, a car ride is better than any kind of lullaby for him.

I get out of the car and stretch. Ten hours in a car make me feel like I’m eighty years old instead of twenty-two. My muscles are tense; my shoulders and neck hurt. I know it’s just a matter of time before the headache will set in. When I move, everything seems to crack into place.

I breathe in the crisp fresh air, attempting not to think about the days ahead. Instead, I walk over to the back door and open it as quietly as possible in order not to wake Archer. It’s already past 9 p.m. and I want him to sleep through the night, so his day and night rhythm won’t get messed up too much after the car ride. But by the time I’m about to unfasten his harness, he opens his eyes.

“Mama.”

I can’t get enough of him saying that. The first time he has said it, I did a little happy dance before bawling like a baby myself; he just looked at me like I was a lunatic. Dean and his husband, Alex, had come into the living room wondering what the ruckus was and when they witnessed Archer speaking his first words, Dean joined me in the happy dancing and jumping up and down. It surely hasn’t lost any of its effect on me since.

Just when I’m about to take him out of the seat, the front door opens and my mother comes rushing out.

“Where is my little baby boy?” she croons and walks straight past me to get him out of the seat. I step aside and mumble, “Hello to you too, mother. So nice to see you.”

“Oh, don’t be so petty,” she replies, before giving all of her attention to her grandson.

I sigh and decide that this is better than many of our conversations throughout the past year and a half.

I take the diaper bag and my purse and start walking toward the front door, when my brother comes barging out, runs to me, grabs me, and twirls me around. His shaggy, dark blonde hair is falling into his green eyes that look identical to mine, but always sparkle with mischief. Together with his physique, it gives him the typical surfer look and is completely out of place in Michigan, yet I’m sure fits right in in Florida.

“Hey, you lost some of the baby weight. I can lift you again without getting a hernia.”

“Asshole,” I mutter under my breath while laughing.

“Watch your language,” my father pipes up from the front door.

“Hey, Dad,” I say, acknowledging his presence. My brother is still hugging me. “Got a surprise for you, little sis. You won’t believe who’s here?”

“Santa arrived early this year?” I ask him, wondering what his excitement is all about.

Just then the front door opens further and it’s as if I got punched in the stomach. All the air leaves my lungs and I feel like I’m going to be sick. It isn’t possible. How can he be here? He had disappeared for such a long time. No one knew where he was. I didn’t think I would ever see him again, and yet, he’s standing in the door, lifting up his hand in greeting.

I have to close my eyes for a second, feeling like the whole world is spinning around me. A carousel that I can’t get off until my stomach is churning and the bile is rising in my throat.
Keep breathing. Keep breathing.
I’m forcing myself to stay rooted to the spot to keep myself from running back to the car and gunning it out of here.

My mother pipes up, sneering at me, “Don’t you recognize him? Is that how you greet family?”

He’s changed from what I can see. His dark hair is longer and has that tousled fresh-out-of-bed look about it. He looks bulkier than he used to, but not like a gym rat. His skin is tan, unlike his former Michigan pale. But despite those changes, I recognize him. How could I forget? It took me long enough to quit thinking about him every waking moment. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. When I open them again and when I look at him, the familiar feelings start bubbling up inside of me. I feel like a volcano about to erupt; anger, fury, pain and sadness are fighting for the pole position. I need to stay calm. No one knows and no one is supposed to know.

I move one foot in front of the other and walk up to him, holding out my hand for him to shake, without making eye-contact.

“Ben,” I choke out.

Instead of taking my hand, he pulls me into a hug, his tall frame engulfing me, and I freeze. I’m glad to see he’s okay—that nothing happened to him. He’s alive, and seems well and healthy. But at the same time I hate him with every fiber of my body.

He holds me close and for longer than I expected, but I refuse to read anything into this hug, not caring about what it may or may not mean. I don’t hug him back, but wait for him to let me go. He leans down further, our cheeks touching and I feel his breath in my hair.

“Sorry.” He whispers it into my ear, so no one else can hear it.

I clench my teeth, inhaling deeply, hoping it will calm my racing heart.

There are so many emotions coursing through me right now, and I need to turn them off, otherwise I will lose my shit. Eighteen months of simultaneously hating him, being angry, and worrying about what the hell happened to him will do that to a person.

He has been my brother’s best friend since I can remember. Ben’s parents moved here when he was about a year old, and he and Dave ended up together in a playgroup organized by some mothers in the neighborhood. Once they could walk and talk, they always wanted to play together. Their friendship only got stronger when they started kindergarten and later school. Most memories I have of my childhood or teenage years are connected to him. He’s always been in my life somehow, until he disappeared one night. That one night.

“Fuck you,” I hiss, lacing my words with as much malice as I possibly can. He releases me from the hug and I rush back to the car, starting to get our things out, while my mom is finally making her way to the house with Archer.

“Look, Archer, this is Uncle Ben,” she croons.

My blood starts boiling and before I can stop myself, I snap at her. “He is not his uncle.”

“Of course, I know that. But he has always been like a son to us, so why shouldn’t Archer call him that.”

I see red. This must be how people feel right before they snap. I chant “Om” in my head on constant repeat, trying to get my emotions under control. I try a breathing technique and send some silent prayers to anyone who will listen to help me keep my cool—but it’s a wasted effort.

“Because to be part of
my
family,” and I make sure to pronounce the word my, “you have to earn the right. So we will refer to him as Ben.”

Everyone except Ben is looking at me like I’ve grown two heads, even my brother. Of course they would be surprised, since I always adored the hell out of Ben growing up. Hell, to be honest, I always had the biggest crush on him. I was a pain in the ass for him and Dave; no doubt about it. I always followed them around, rarely left them alone, and I ruined quite a few dates for both of them. I suppose I should feel bad about it, but right now all I feel is fury. 

Mom walks past the men into the house, mumbling something about getting Archer out of the cold. I notice Ben staring after Archer with a confused expression on his face. Just before he turns around to look at me, I busy myself with the bags.

Traveling with a toddler can be a bit daunting, so the trunk of the car is absolutely full. I start taking the bags out, one by one, putting them on the ground. It gives me time to calm my emotions. Who am I kidding? Not even really strong drugs would help with that. I need to get through this weekend without losing it.

I breathe in with every bag I grab, and breathe out when I put it onto the ground. I chant the word “calm” in my head. It seems to work slightly. My vision turns back to normal and I don’t feel like my heart is going to jump out of my chest. But my moment of peace is interrupted by Dave nudging my shoulder.

“We thought you might need help,” he says giving me a sideways look, as he starts grabbing a few bags and passes them on to Ben, who is standing next to him, looking my way. I try hard to stay unaffected by his proximity.
Okay, it’s official. I will not make it through this weekend.

I don’t get to ponder my fate much longer when my brother shoos me inside while grabbing the last bag. Ben follows and as he closes the door behind us, I know what a prisoner must feel when the gates close behind him. Only I don’t know what crime I’ve committed.

***

My mom asks if I’m hungry, but I shake my head no, which prompts my father to chime in.

“Did you lose your manners on your way here?”

“No, thanks Mom. I’m not hungry. I ate on the way,” I reply resignedly, too confused and exhausted to argue about his attitude. “I’ll just quickly feed Archer and put him to bed. I don’t want to mess with his sleeping schedule. Then I’ll crash myself. We can visit tomorrow.”

I need to get out of here. I know I won’t sleep, but I need to get away. I need a moment to clear my thoughts and be alone.

As I go to take Archer from mom’s arms, she pouts at me. She actually fucking pouts at me.
Sure, let’s keep a baby awake just so she doesn’t feel hurt.

“Dave, could you put the stuff in my room, please? I will head upstairs with Archer.”

“Sure thing, sis.”

He starts grabbing all of my things, throwing a bag to Ben, who doesn’t stop staring at me from beneath his dark eyelashes. His brown eyes are fixed on me, not straying for even a second. It makes me feel like I’m suffocating, as if invisible hands are clasped around my throat, strangling me, and I fear the longer he looks at me, the more he’ll be able to see the truth.

“Move your ass, you lazy bastard,” Dave jokes with him, as they start bringing my things up. When I get to the room, they have just finished putting my bags down.

“Thanks,” I mumble, not looking at Ben who still hasn’t said a single word since the hug. It’s unusual for him to be so quiet, or at least it used to be. But then I’m not sure what he’s like these days, and I’m not planning to find out.

“No problem, Stinker,” Dave replies.

Oh, how I hate when he calls me that. Apparently, I was really gassy as a baby. Dave was nearly three when I was born and from the stories I’ve heard, I must have farted every time he was allowed to hold me, so he started calling me ‘Stinker.’ And it stuck. He still does it, many years later, and with my digestion much less a weapon of mass destruction.

“Night, you dumb wit.” I give Dave a peck on the cheek before he leaves my room. Then I turn to my bags, purposely ignoring Ben. I just can’t speak to him right now. Not a single word, or all the pent-up emotions might come tumbling out, and then this weekend will be one that no one will forget that fast. I can feel his stare burning through me, through my clothes and skin, right into my soul. I hear him move, but then he pauses.
Please, don’t say anything. Please, just go.

And as if he heard my silent pleas, he moves toward the stairs. It might have also been my brother calling up to him and asking if he needs a GPS to find his way down. I don’t care either way. I’m just glad I don’t need to deal with him right now.

As soon as he’s out of my room, I lock my door and slump against it. What did I get myself into coming here? There is no way I will get out of here emotionally unscathed.

Just as I want to drown myself in self-pity, Archer gets a bit impatient with being ignored and starts his whimpering that tells me he wants to be attended to. This helps me to focus. It’s about him. What I do, what I tolerate
—
it is all for him. So I shake my head as if to shake off the thoughts and go over to my baby boy, who is ready for a diaper change and a trip to mommy’s milk bar.