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"Not even for a second."
"Then it's decided." Rachel claps and all of us wince. "Where do you live, Willow? Do you have a roommate?"
"No," I answer, very aware that this is the second question directed solely to me about my personal life. "I live on my own. I've got a condo on Washington Boulevard. Oh, you don't know where that is. Of course you don’t.” Gesturing with my hands I explain, “It's one of the main strips that leads right up to the beach. I'm just two streets away. Almost directly across from this amazing Mexican food place called Baja Cantina that's our favorite. Mine and Gemma's. Hugely popular with the locals. They've got sand on the floor even though they're not right next to the beach. Great happy hours. Delicious food. Fantastic vibe."
"That's one thing we need up here," Rachel nods. "A Mexican restaurant. The nearest place serves American food. Burgers, fries, things like that. It has pizza but not as good as the one we had last night." She smiles, “If I may say so myself. I'm speaking for me and Sylvia, of course."
“What we lack nearby,” Sylvia explains, “we’ve learned how to cook ourselves." Straightening her shoulders she adds, "I make some pretty tasty empanadas."
"True that," Rachel smiles. "Oh, we should make those for this group!"
"Why not? Everything else on the roster has changed. Well, almost everything. We did end up painting at least some of the mason jars." They laugh, not knowing they just brought my thoughts squarely back to Ben.
What he's doing in the arts and crafts room? After what happened last night, I have to know! "Will you excuse me?" I add the hasty explanation, "I'm going to get the coffee pot for us." There’s a smaller pot made for transport, and I needed the reason.
Rachel starts to rise, “Oh, I can get that."
"No, you sit down. Since none of us paid for this, you're not allowed to wait on us."
Sylvia balks, "I don't know about that."
I laugh, acting casual, "It's just coffee," and walk inside without further interruption.
TWENTY
Ben
Iwanted to be alone in here, but it can't be helped if one of the guests wants to come in. This isn't my space. Sucks though. I have a plan, and it’s personal. I’m set on utilizing the wood boards they paint on for one of the retreat’s activities. Some slabs leaning against the wall have been painted over many times, always with permission by the previous guests, the repaint intended as a form of recycling when someone wasn't happy with their board. That's the thing about paint, you can start over.
I want a fresh start, so I grab a blank plank of wood and place it on one of the rectangular tables. Grabbing a bottle of white, and a paint brush fit for writing, I inspect my canvas, tilting my head. Needs to be sanded down a bit. Grabbing a rough slice of sandpaper, I go to work smoothing its top inch by inch. It's not long before I have the expected company. Dax, dressed all in black, approaches me with a cup of coffee for each of us. "Didn't know if you wanted one."
"Good call. Thanks." I take it, and sip.
Checking out my wooden slab, Dax says, "I was gonna go back upstairs and grab a canvas that I brought with me but this is cool."
"They use these to write affirmations.”
Silence as Dax grabs one and places it across the table from mine, heading for the paint next, grabbing five bottles — magenta, red, violet, yellow, and black. Next, the coffee is downed in one long series of gulps. Impressive.
"There's more sandpaper on the third shelf."
"I like it rough." Opening the bottles, Dax snags an aluminum pie dish and squeezes violet paint onto a section of it. "Just like you."
From under my brow, I look up. It takes me only two seconds to understand what they meant. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"Why don't you tell me."
"Do you have a problem with me?” I straighten, sizing them up. Their demeanor was casual and friendly when they walked in but now I sense open hostility, and that pointed question about Shelby isn't lost on me. Dax’s chest puffs up like they want to fight, but born female, their body is slight, arms feminine. Can’t be taller than five-four. If they're trying to pick a fight, it's never going to happen. We Cockers don't shy away from a battle, but there's no way I would take the bait for a physical one from this tiny human, no matter how they identify. And no matter what they say.
"I didn't like how you dragged your wife out of here. There had to be another way.“
I stare at them. It dawns on me that there's something behind the anger in their eyes. Pain? Yes, that’s it. There’s a personal reason they’re angry. I relax, “You're right."
Staring back at me for a very long time, Dax finally blinks, “What?"
"You're right. There had to be a better way. I should've waited until I thought of one."
Dax frowns. “Right.” Their shoulders slump a little. "Okay.” They pick up the red paint and put a dollop of it in a separate section on the aluminum.
