by Sarina Bowen
Yet it wrecked me because he was the best boy I’d ever met—before or since. The best man. He knew more about being a man at eighteen than most will ever know.
Now he steps back and grabs my hands—both of them—and balances them on his palms, inspecting them.
“What are you doing?” I manage to croak, in spite of the lump in my throat.
“Checkin’ for a wedding ring.”
My heart skips a beat. “As if. But you could just ask.”
“Really?” He drops my hands. “Twelve years I don’t hear from you. Information isn’t very forthcoming. I didn’t even know you and Rayanne still talk.”
“Only once a month or so. She’s half of my remaining family. It’s just her and Aunt Jenny.”
“Your mom—did she pass?” He lifts the jacket and arranges it over my shoulders again. And I let him.
“But you’ll be cold.”
“Nah.” I get a quick smile. “I’m from Vermont.”
He puts a hand on my back and we walk again, and, once again, I’m hit by how surreal this night has been. “My mom didn’t die,” I tell him. “I just don’t talk to her anymore.”
“Sounds like a reasonable choice.”
“I haven’t spoken to her since the night I left Vermont. She called me exactly once after she learned I had a TV-news job. She wanted money.”
Benito makes a growly noise. “I hope you didn’t give her any.”
“Not a chance. Besides—the joke’s on her. I have the worst job in television. I’m on the very bottom rung, and I get paid like shizzle.”
His laugh is a bark. “The fake-swearing thing is hard to get used to.”
“Whatever. I thought it would keep me from dropping an f-bomb or similar on-air. Turns out you don’t need words to humiliate yourself.”
He turns to look at me as we walk back down the same hill I climbed a half hour ago. “How’s that?”
“Never mind. Too embarrassing.” If Benito isn’t one of the five million people who’s already watched me draw a penis on the traffic map, I’m not going to enlighten him.
As we make our descent, I scan the parking lot for signs of a cherry-red Jeep, with or without a kayak on top.
No dice.
“Is there a parking lot in the rear?” I ask.
“Nope,” Benito says, dashing my hopes. “The river runs right along the back. That’s why my brother bought the place. There’s a kickass terrace. Great for summer business.”
“Your brother? Which one?”
“There’s a lot you’ve missed, Skye.” He takes a set of keys out of his jacket pocket as we cross the street. “Alec bought the old mill at auction.”
“Alec…” He was the brother I’d never met while I’d lived next door to the Rossi’s. “Wait. Is he tending bar tonight?”
“That’s right. He tends bar most nights.”
No wonder he looked so familiar.
“How about a glass of wine while we talk?” he asks me.
“Well…” I am truly stuck right now. “Sure. And I need to, uh, scare up a hotel room somewhere, too.”
Benito gives me a dark look. “Sweetheart, you don’t need a hotel.”
“Yeah, I really do.” I’m still hoping Rayanne turns up with a plausible explanation and a “just kidding,” but I’m starting to lose hope. With her reputation for trouble, I might as well wish for a pink pony and world peace.
And I really don’t want to spend the night alone in her ransacked house.
“Come on,” Benito says. He pulls out a set of keys and walks to the far end of the building, away from the bar’s entrance. He taps a security code into another door, and holds it open for me.
“What’s this? I thought we were having a glass of wine?”
“We are. The mill has a second and a third floor. I bought in, so the second floor is mine. Come on up.” And then he jogs up the steps ahead of me, while I admire his butt in those tight jeans.
It hacks me off that Benito still affects me. I never bother looking at men’s hindquarters. It’s like they’re not even there. But Benito makes me think thoughts that I don’t usually make time for.
Good thing I’m leaving Vermont as soon as I can.
I chase him up the stairs and follow him into an absolutely stunning loft apartment. “Wow,” I hear myself say. “This is all yours?” I’m standing in a big living room with exposed brick walls and high, beamed ceilings. The tall leaded-glass windows curve at the top, where the brickwork makes an arch. There’s even a fire crackling cozily in the fireplace, giving the wide-plank wood floors a rosy hue. “Benny, this is so much nicer than the trailer park.”
He snorts. I watch him remove a gun from a holster at the back of his jeans. “This never moves from here, okay?” he says as he unlocks a cupboard above the refrigerator. His kitchen is one end of the long room. There’s a black stone countertop demarcating the space.
“Okay,” I say. “I’m never touching your gun. Or any gun.”
“I just have to say it,” he says. “My niece comes up here often and that’s the only thing I ever really worry about.”
“Your…niece?” Wow. “Who had kids?”
“Guess,” he says with a wry smile.
“Alec?” I try.
Benito shakes his head. “Zara. Just one kid.”
“Oh. Wow.” Zara, who used to hate me. I hadn’t thought about her in a long time. “So… you’re Uncle Benito.”
“That’s right.” He smiles, and I realize that it might undo me completely to see him holding a child. The news headline would read: Tough Guy Holds Infant. Women Faint in a Twenty Mile Radius.
Yup. Sounds about right.
I change the subject, though, because I can’t talk about Zara. “Can you help me find a place to stay?”
He opens another cabinet, this one containing wine glasses. “You’re staying here, Skye. With me.”
“Oh.” But that’s too much like the girl I used to be—the one who let Benito solve all her problems. “Your girlfriend might not like it.”
“No girlfriend.”
I’m relieved, but also embarrassed. Because how subtle was that? “You really don’t have to take the trouble,” I say.
He sets two wine glasses on the stone countertop and sighs. “It’s no trouble, okay? Jesus.”
It is for me, I realize. Seeing him again actually hurts. It’s like a dull ache right at my breastbone. You’d think twelve years would be enough to get over someone, but you’d be wrong. And the worst part is that I thought I was over him. I don’t walk around New York brooding about the boy who stood me up when I was a teenager.
I thought I didn’t, anyway. But now I’m wondering if some quadrant of my heart still echoes with this old wound. I’m not married. I don’t even date.
Maybe this weekend has a higher purpose. Like God is telling me I’m in a rut, and that I need to move on. Destiny calls.
I usually only think about destiny when I score Chanel lipstick samples at Sephora. But even so, I make a decision, right here in Benito’s groovy living room. I will enjoy this night in his company. I will remember the good times.
And when I go back to New York, I’ll do so knowing that I looked him in the eye and survived it.
“You eat dinner?” he asks.
“I did. I promise.”
“Glass of wine?”
“I’d love one,” I say, because that’s how I’m going to play this tonight. One heaping dose of wine and memories. Bring it on. “Don’t you think all those nights on the giant lounge chair would have been better with wine?”
“You know it,” he says, opening a kitchen drawer and removing a corkscrew. “I only have red.”
“My favorite color.” I am not much of a drinker but I like a glass of wine once in a while.
He pulls a bottle off a wall rack, and proceeds to open it, while I try and fail not to watch the muscles in his forearm flex. It’s the same arm I used to try to ignore when we were seated side by
side, and he was playing the ukulele and humming quietly to soothe me…
My stomach does another dive and roll, and I take a deep breath.
“This is so civilized,” I say, forcing myself to make small talk. “I’m a little in shock. Where’s the hidden keg in the shrubs? Where’s the Deep Woods Off?”
His smile opens up as he crosses the room with two glasses. The scruff makes him look older, but the smile is still potent. So I smile back.
See? I can do this.
“I know this place lacks some of our former ambiance,” he says, handing me a glass. “But try to put up with it.”
“I’ll do my best.”
He sits down on one end of the charcoal-colored velvet sofa. Taking his cue, I sit beside him, but not too close. I’m sitting on his left side, which is exactly where I used to sit on our old chair.
I’m in a time warp, and I don’t know if I even want out.
“Now,” he says, sipping his wine. “Start at the beginning. When did Rayanne contact you last, and when did you decide to come to Vermont for the night?”
So I tell him the whole story again—including all my speculation. “I thought maybe she was starting a kayaking business or something. Like, kayak yoga. Is that a thing? I know there’s yoga with goats. And on paddle boards.”
His forehead creases with a frown. “Not to my knowledge. Will you show me the prepaid phone and the note?”
“Sure.” I open my purse and fish them out. I spread the note out on the cushion between us, and Benito begins to read. That’s when I remember the post script…
“‘P.S.’” Benito says while my face heats. “‘Benito has only gotten hotter in the last twelve years. Enjoy the view.’” He glances up at me.
Shishkebab. “Uh, I guess Rayanne admires you,” I say, feeling my face flush. “But, come on. Are you paying attention? Did you notice the part about the phone and the texts and the evidence?”
His chuckle is noncommittal although I feel a tingle in places where I don’t usually tingle. “Just seeing if you’re paying attention. Now I have a couple more questions. When was the last time you spoke to Rayanne about me?”
“Um…” That’s actually a harder question than you’d think. Rayanne knows how in love I was with Benito in high school. But we don’t ever mention his name. Usually he only comes up when I’m trying to explain to Raye why I don’t date. “Not recently.”
“Would you say the two of you discussed me within the last three months?”
I shake my head. “No. Rayanne and I have barely spoken lately.”
“Until the call on the ninth,” he prompts.
“Right. When I read your name in her note, it floored me. I didn’t know you were a cop, and I didn’t understand her mention of evidence. Do you guys talk?” A weird little electric spark runs through me. Could Benito and Rayanne be involved? I’ll die of jealousy.
He rubs the bridge of his nose with two fingers. Then he squeezes his eyes shut, as if in pain. “Look, a lot of what I do at work is secret.”
“Okay?”
“The less you know, the safer you are.”
“Oh.” He isn’t going to tell me.
“But I’m going to be transparent about one fact—Rayanne mentioning my name in your note is as surprising to me as it is to you. I haven’t spoken to her—except for a wave hello in the coffee shop—in months.”
“And the, uh, evidence she mentions?”
He shakes his head. “Collecting evidence is something I do all the time. But she’s not involved in that, and I don’t know why she’s making it sound like we’re collaborating. Zara takes Rayanne’s yoga classes sometimes. That’s as close as the Rossis get to a friendship with Rayanne.”
“Oh. Okay.” I feel a wave of inappropriate relief.
“So if you can think of a reason why your stepsister is mentioning me, I want to know right away.”
“She hasn’t mentioned you before,” I admit. “Except, uh, when I used to talk about high school.”
“Okay.” He doesn’t ask me about that, thankfully. “Here’s another question, and it’s pretty important. When’s the last time you saw or spoke to Jimmy Gage?”
The moment I hear that name, my stomach clenches. It’s been forever, but it doesn’t matter—I can still see his weasel face in my mind’s eye. I’m still afraid.
I must look it, too, because Benito reaches across the cushion and grabs my hand. “Just tell me, okay?”
“Well…” I clear my throat. “The last time I saw him or spoke to him was my last night in Vermont.”
His eyes widen. “Twelve years ago?”
I nod. “Yeah. I was waiting on the porch for you to come and get me. You didn’t, but he did.”
Swear to God, Benito’s face goes ashen right in front of my eyes. He lets go of my hand. “What happened that night?”
I must not be a very nice person, because there’s a small part of me that wants him to worry. I always hated facing Gage alone, and that night Benito forced me to do it. Except Benito looks like he wants to throw up right now, and so I tell him the truth. “He was mean as a snake that night. But nothing out of the ordinary happened.”
His eyes fall shut and I watch him take a breath. “I’m sorry I put you in that position. I know you don’t believe me, but I really am.”
“Thank you,” I say softly. What’s the statute of limitations on heartache? I don’t think mine is over.
That night Gage came home and found me sitting there in my borrowed prom dress and shoes. I’d felt so small and so alone. “I don’t know who you’re waiting for, but that kid on the motorcycle isn’t coming,” he’d said. And then he’d twisted the knife even further…
Every time I think about that pathetic girl on the porch, I get angry. But I’m not just angry at Benito, I’m also angry at myself. I’d fallen for him. I’d given away so much of myself that he was able to level me in a single night.
“Skye,” Benito whispers. “What else happened that night? Why did you leave and never come back?”
“Nothing,” I choke out. “I was just done. I locked the bedroom door and packed my bags. Then I climbed out a window and hitchhiked to the bus station in White River Junction.”
Benito takes a gulp from his wine glass.
“Why are you asking me about Gage, anyway?” it occurs to me to ask. “I don’t want to think about him.”
“Ah, well.” He sighs and sets the glass down. “Unfortunately it’s my job to think about him. I’m investigating Gage for drug trafficking.”
“Oh no,” I whisper. Benito only nods. And because I’m not a stupid girl, my next question hurts. “And you think Rayanne is mixed up in it?”
His expression is grim. “I can’t rule it out. And I wouldn’t even mention it to you, except you have that phone, and instructions to watch it. That’s not the behavior of someone who isn’t involved.”
I pick up the burner phone and turn it over in my hands. I wake it up with a press of my thumb, but the screen shows no new texts. “Her note says the phone is untraceable.”
“That’s probably true,” he says. “If I had a warrant I could try to discover where she purchased the sim card, and ultimately find the number.”
“So I guess I’ll wait for her to message me? That’s either dire or melodramatic.” I sure hope it’s the latter.
“Yeah. You’ll let me know if she contacts you?” he asks. “It’s important.”
He seems awfully serious. “Does Rayanne know you’re a cop? You don’t look like one.”
“Sure,” he says easily. “I mean—I don’t drive a cruiser, and I don’t wear a patrolman’s uniform. But it’s a small town, and it’s not a secret that I work for the state. That’s why I do most of my drug busts in towns where nobody knows me. And that’s why I have longer hair and I don’t shave very often.” He passes a hand over the scruff on his chin, and suddenly I’m itching to examine its texture with my fingers.
And I hate the thought of B
enito mixing with druggies and dealers. “Is your job always dangerous?”
“No, baby.” He smiles. “Careful, though. A guy might think you cared.”
I hide behind my wine glass because I do care, darn it. Not that I want to. But I promised myself I’d be cheerful about seeing him. Just this once. I lift my glass and touch it to his. “It’s good to hear that you’re doing well.”
He tips his head to the side and considers me. “Likewise.”
We sip. And the wine is tasty. There isn’t much wine in my life because I don’t have enough money nor anyone to drink it with. I work a lot of hours. I don’t leave the office until eight most nights. And I don’t have a lot of friends because I never developed that skill. Growing up, I was always just passing through. I missed my window for learning how to make lifelong friends. And even though I’ve been at my current job for five years, it isn’t a very social office.
We’re all too terrified of being the next in line to be fired.
The first third of my wine disappears pretty quickly, and Benito tops it up. “I had a thought,” he says. “You should tell Rayanne that she has to text you every twelve hours just so you know she’s okay. That way you won’t worry as much.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” I admit. I pick up the burner phone and start a text message. Raye—if you don’t text me every twelve hours I won’t go along with this weird scheme.
I take a sip of wine and wait. She answers barely two minutes later.
Told you not to contact me! I will text you tomorrow morning and night, but otherwise leave me alone. Okay?
Fine, I reply, as Benito leans over my shoulder to read along. But if you miss a text, I’ll send the police after you.
Not cool, she says. Chatter about me on the police scanner could get me killed.
“By who?” I ask, turning my chin to see Benito.
His big dark eyes are right there. “I don’t know,” he says.
“Yes you do,” I whisper.
He gives me a patient smile. “Forgive me for not providing you with a powerpoint presentation of the county’s alleged criminal network. Don’t ask questions I can’t answer.”
“Okay,” I say, and then sigh. Both he and Rayanne are trying my patience.
“You must be tired, and in need of some distraction,” he says. “Want to watch a movie on TV?”