Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
I fold my arms in front of me. Now I’m the one who’s exasperated. I’ve answered Ben’s question. I have nothing to hide.
“You told me what he would or wouldn’t do,” he says. “Not what you would do if he came back. I can’t tell if this is just you being you, prioritizing everyone else’s needs and desires over your own, or if there’s a part of you that genuinely wants him back.”
I uncross my arms and stare out the window. Ben’s right. Since we broke up, I’ve only really considered Jed’s side of our relationship. But if reality were turned on its head and Jed came crawling back to me, what would I do?
“No,” I say, all my thoughts slotting into place. “I wouldn’t take him back. But not because he cheated and lied.” I laugh out loud because that should be enough of a reason not to take back a boyfriend. “I think I needed him when we met. I needed something or someone to take me away from the grief of losing my mom. Jed helped me hide from that, from the me before . . .”
Being with Jed helped me carry on when I could barely breathe, I missed my mom so much. I couldn’t imagine a time when I wouldn’t be so heavy with sadness; I could only just move from my bed to the couch. Dad had insisted I still go off to college, and looking back, it was the best decision I could have made in the aftermath of Mom’s death. Then I met Jed and life just . . . moved forward.
“And now?” Ben asks.
“Things are different now,” I say. I’m not sure how, exactly—they just are. Last time I was single, I’d been paralyzed by grief over my mother’s death. Now I still miss her, but every action or inaction isn’t driven by that grief. “I don’t need a lifeline to pull myself through an ocean of sadness, and in all honesty, I haven’t needed one for a long time. I think I hung on to Jed because part of me was afraid of what would happen if I let go. I don’t want to hide anymore. I don’t need to. I like the me I was when my mom was alive. Being in London . . . It’s helped me reconnect with that part of myself, and I don’t want to lose that. I’m not the same woman I was when I was with Jed. And I don’t want to be.”
Ben reaches for my hand and our fingers interlink. We travel in silence through the winding country roads. The colors of the trees remind me of home. Not New York City home, but Franklin, Madison County. The leaves on the trees are transforming from new and green to a rainbow of gold, red, rust, and orange. And they’re all the more beautiful for it.
“I’m very aware I paid you to be here with me this weekend,” Ben says out of nowhere. His tone suggests we’re in the middle of a conversation, and I wonder how long he’s been talking to himself in his head.
“Yeah, well, I can’t take your money.” It’s a gut reaction. I didn’t think before I spoke, but as soon as the words are out, I know they’re true.
“You can and you will,” Ben responds.
“You can’t force me to take thirty thousand dollars from you. I had one of the best weekends of my life. I met incredible people, stayed in an amazing house. I even had a behind-the-scenes view of one of my favorite films. And then . . .” There’s been you, I don’t say. “There’s no way I can take your money.”
Ben swerves over to the side of the road, where there’s a clearing in the hedgerow and a gate to a field. He cuts the engine and, without explanation, gets out of the car.
He can’t be angry with me. Maybe he urgently needs to pee? Tentatively I open the door, poke my head out, and see him leaning against the trunk.
What is happening?
I climb out of the car and take in his body language—rigid, taut as a bowstring, and radiating energy like a nuclear reactor. “Are you . . . mad?”
He won’t meet my eye. Instead he runs his fingers through his hair, staring at the road we’ve just come down. “I think I might be heading in that direction.”
“So . . . just slightly irritated but it’s building?” I ask, more than a little confused.
“I mean I think I’m . . .” He lowers his hands and turns to me. “I like you.”
His words hit me in the chest with near-physical force. I can’t help but lift the corners of my mouth into a smile. “And that makes you angry?”
His frown deepens. “Not that kind of mad. The kind of mad that has you wondering if you’ve lost your mind.”