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I wish I could just be angry about it, but it hurts toomuch.
The gala’s in another week, and the Vane wedding the weekend after. This deal will be over and things can go back to the way theywere.
I wish the thought of returning to who we were was more comforting. But I don't know how to go back. Repressing my feelings for him was bad enough, but starting to let them show, having him make me wonder if he might be capable of returningthem…
I have other things to focus on, like the Vane wedding and keeping my businessrunning.
His text comes in betweenmeetings.
Ben:Lunch today,Darling?
Ihead backto my office, tablet under my arm as I consider before typingback.
Daisy:Can’t.
Ben:Because…?
Isink into my chair,drumming my fingers on thedesk.
Daisy:Because I lost aclient.
The phone rings moments later,and I answer, “I don't want totalk.”
"Sincewhen?"
“Since we went to see your mom and you shutdown.”
“So… you aremad.”
The fact that Ben is the smartest guy I know and speaking as if he’s trying to do some new kind of calculus even he hasn’t mastered has mesighing.
“I'm not mad. Mad is what happens when a kid steals another kid’s markers. We’re adults,Ben.”
“Okay. So what areyou?”
“Disappointed,” I admit. “With you, and with myself for being disappointed, because… I expected better from you. You asked me to go, and I was happy to go. For you, and your mom. But you acted as if I not only overstepped, but said somethingawful.”
He’s quiet a long time. "I fucked up. It was easier to shut you out than admit you were right. Holt and Tris had said some things that afternoon, and I lostit—”
“You let Holt and Tris determine how we are?” I cut him off. “The Ben I know doesn’t let anyone get tohim.”
I picture him pacing his office, shoving a hand through his hair before he continues. “It never used to be like this. But lately,youget tome.”
My breath sticks in my throat. Not because of the words, or the frustration in them, but the vulnerability right beneath thesurface.
It’s not enough to get to him. I want to affect him in good ways, not badones.
I study the cut on my hand, now nearly healed. Soon it’ll be gone, and maybe the closeness I thought we had at the Vineyard will be a memory,too.
“Tell me something good,” he says atlast.
I shut my eyes. “Apparently I have two free hours later this afternoon that I wouldn’t have hadotherwise.”
"That is something good. Do you want to knowmine?”
“Not right now,” I sayhonestly.
“Mkay. Later,” he promises, and hangs up before I canprotest.
