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What happens if it breaks?
But isn't that what life is about? Aren't we supposed to listen to our hearts? Because mine is telling me I want to be nowhere else except where Ben is. And if that’s a mistake, then maybe I have to make it. I’d rather have heartache than regret not following my heart. When I’m old and it’s all over, would I say, “I loved too much.”
Doubt it.
He takes my hand and leads me to the house, a charming two-story with an open front porch that he explains used to be enclosed but the mesh wore down so he tore it out.
"More air this way," I smile. Kiss me.
“Plan to put in a new one. Dunno when. The bugs in Georgia are so big they’ll fly off with you.”
As he digs out his keys from his back pocket I take the opportunity to check out his ass. It’s perfect, and those jeans know it. Ben unlocks the front door to reveal a country-style living room — beige couch and wood coffee table, red dining table tucked in the corner by a matching hutch, fireplace on the wall far right, with a wall to our left cutting half-way through, designating where the kitchen begins and this room ends. He points to a door ahead. “That's Jonny's room. He was upstairs in what is now the guest room — which it used to be, a long time ago — but he wanted more space from us. He's a little man in the making. Would you like something to drink? "
The last thing I need is to loosen up my inhibitions. I’ll just ask for a water. “Do you have any wine?"
Oops.
"I have red. I don't drink white."
"I prefer red. Except in the summertime. Sometimes it's too hot and white wine is… refreshing."
We walk into the kitchen and I'm horrified to see it doesn't look like him at all. Or anyone our age, for that matter. Or from this century. The wallpaper is flowered and not the pretty design kind. More like that of a grandmother back in the 1960s. The towels match and I have to guess that he did not have a hand in designing this.
It’s hard to say, “It’s nice.”
Not my place to judge.
Not my place at all.
It’s hers.
Her place.
Ben explains, “We used to have a kitchen island but decided to tear that out. I miss it. Probably gonna get another one. In fact, I definitely am.” He grumbles, reaching for the red, “Need to redecorate this whole thing. Not my style.”
I cross to him as he pours our wine, to gently slide my arms around his back, hugging him from behind. He straightens, tightens his arms over mine and leans into me. I close my eyes and lay my head between his warm shoulder blades. We stay like this for a few beautiful moments where the world disappears — the lack of a kitchen island, the longing for horses of his own, my wishing I had a job I love, the distance between my true home and his — all have vanished.
He turns and looks at me from his tall height, green eyes searching my face. “Willow,” he rasps.
“Kiss me, Ben. Just kiss me.”
The sound of a car pulls our attention and we separate so that Ben can check his phone. “They didn’t call. Shit.”
“What?”
“It’s not Mom or Dad. They’d have called.”
“Who is it then?” I realize instantly and whisper, “Oh no!”
“It’s Shelby.”
“I’ll hide.”
“No fucking way.”
“Ben!”
“I said, no fucking way are you hiding in a closet.”
