Five Ways to Fall (Ten Tiny Breaths #4)(36)
Author: K.A. Tucker

Shit.

“You look like you’re about to scream,” Ben muses, his knuckles finding their way to my cheek to softly graze it.

I think I am. At myself.

Did last night just mess everything up between Ben and me?

Do I want more now?

I peer up to find an odd expression on his face as he studies me. “What is that look for?”

“Not sure yet,” he answers cryptically, dipping down to lay a quick peck on my neck. “Come on—dinner’s going to be ready soon.” As if on cue, Ben’s phone chirps.

Chapter 26

BEN

“She seems like a very nice young lady,” my mom offers as I trade an armload of dirty dishes for slices of pie.

“She has her moments,” I mutter with a smirk. I’ll have to tell Reese that later. I imagine it’ll earn a black heart rebuttal or two and a scoff at the “nice young lady” descriptor.

“Oh Ben,” my mother scolds, but I hear the smile behind her voice. “You are incorrigible sometimes.” There’s a pause and then she says, “I’ve made Elsie’s old room up for tonight as it has a queen-sized bed. Do I need to make up a second one?”

My look of surprise has her chuckling. My mother, the church-abiding citizen, is basically condoning premarital sex under her roof. Because there’s no way I’ll spend a night in bed with Reese without some good ol’ premarital sex. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m just so darn happy you finally have a girlfriend.”

I open my mouth to correct her when a howl of laughter escapes the dining room. “You used to play the clarinet?” Reese calls out.

“You realize you’re giving her an arsenal against me with that damn photo album, don’t you?” I chastise my mother with a grin on my face.

“Language, Ben. And I’m sure you’ve given her plenty of material already.” She reaches up to squeeze my chin. “I’m proud of you, clarinet and all.”

“Is this you in the pink dress, Ben?” comes the next question, followed by, “It is! You’ve got to be at least ten here!” and then that deep, infectious laugh of hers.

“Don’t let that picture fool you, Reese,” my mama calls out, her dimples—the ones I inherited—piercing her cheeks. “Ben figured out playing dress-up with the neighborhood girls meant he’d get to watch them change.” Shaking her head at me, she adds, “Boy, was Reverend Perkins ever upset when he figured out what was going on.”

“Oh, yeah.” I rub a hand over my stubble as I recall his daughter, a cute little blond who was way more curious than her daddy could have imagined at eleven years old. A swat of my mama’s dish towel against my ass has me dropping the memory quickly.

I watch her with fondness as she rinses the plates off and slides them into her dishwasher. I got away with a lot more than I probably should have growing up but when Mama put her foot down, I always listened. Hearing bits and pieces of Reese’s childhood and that sad excuse for a mother only solidifies how good I had it.

When Rob phoned to tell me that Mama had had a heart attack in the middle of his kitchen, I was in my car and driving nineteen hours straight to Chicago without stopping, my own chest ready to explode from fear the entire way. With it being Easter weekend, there weren’t any available flights until the following day and I wasn’t willing to wait. Thank God she was okay.

Minor as it was, she didn’t escape unscathed. I can see it now. She’s aged a lot since, moving slower, the lines on her face more prominent. “How are things going here, Mom? Honestly.” Between me being tied up with school, then the bar exam, and now the new job, she has refused to shed much light on the situation. She doesn’t like putting the stress of the place on me. The problem is, it’s already on me. Aside from her, I’m the only one here.

With a deep inhale, she starts scraping the scraps off the plates. “It’s a lot for just me, Ben. I’m only fifty-one but I’m feeling so much older lately. Too old to be worrying about money, wandering around out there checking trees for disease, and dealing with drought and pesticides.” There’s resignation in her voice that I’ve never heard before. I have to wonder how different it would be if she had a decent man to share the load with.

“Have you talked to Rob and the others? What do they say?”

Her mouth twists with sadness. “Same thing they always say: sell it and leave your father.”

“And?”

“What do you mean, ‘and’?” A hint of irritation spikes in her voice now. “This place is my life. The Bernard family’s life! I can’t sell it.”

“I know, Mama.” She’d be miserable anywhere but here. “But he . . .”

“You know what my answer is. It’s the same as it’s always been: for better or worse. That’s what I signed up for.”

“Yeah, but does better or worse—”

“Leave it be, Benjamin. It’s my decision. It’s my business.”

Something Reese said has stuck with me. “Are you happy with never having a Christmas under your roof with your kids? Your grandkids? We haven’t all been together here in eight years, Mama! And it’s all because of him!”

She sniffs, and I see the pain poorly veiled. “I’m trying my best. I still see them.”

“Yeah, you just have to go to Chicago to do it. No holidays, no birthdays.” I set the plates down on the table—the table that he made—and lean against it, my fists starting to hurt against the solid wood. I take a calming breath. “Your friends don’t even come around anymore. Walking into this house is plain depressing.” Her silence unnerves me. Though I don’t mean to, my voice begins to rise. “There’s like a thick f**king cloud of—”

“Watch your language with me, Benjamin,” she cuts me off, her tone sharp.

“Sorry, Mama. I just . . .” I groan loudly. “I don’t get it! I’ve tried, but I don’t get it.”

“Marriage is forever, Ben.”

“Yeah. A death sentence, apparently.”

A throat clearing turns both of us toward the entryway where Reese stands, holding up a set of owl shakers. “Should these stay in the dining room or come in here?”

“In here, dear. Thank you.” My mom quickly collects them from her hand, slightly flustered. “Ben told me key lime is your favorite, so I made one this afternoon. I hope it’s up to par.”

Reese accepts the plate, leveling me with a wicked smile. “I’m sure it’ll be the best I’ve ever had.”

I’m either getting laid again or slaughtered tonight.

It’s definitely one of those two.

Chapter 27

REESE

I’m too smart for Ben.

He’s so easily distracted. When I handed him my empty plate after devouring the pie Wilma made—which was delicious; limes and I may have found a common ground—and slid my free hand into his pocket, he assumed it was a prelude to later, grinning down at me slyly. How he missed my true intention—taking the set of keys in his pocket that I saw him deposit there earlier—I’ll never know.

And now I’m out the front door and darting across the front lawn, intent on getting the engine started on that dune buggy before Ben catches up to me. I know it’s childish, but just picturing Ben laughing as he chases me down makes me feel better.

I’ve only ever seen one side of Ben—the playful, easygoing guy who’s unruffled by anything and confident as all get-out. I didn’t realize how much I’d come to appreciate that consistency until it was disrupted by an argument with Wilma. I don’t know what they were arguing about but when Ben’s voice started rise, I was desperate to interrupt it. Hence the lame owl salt shaker excuse.

I think Ben has a strange power over me—the ability to balance my chaos. And, the more time I spend here on the grove—in his life—the more I think that his entire world seems to stabilize me. Or at least makes me care less about my own problems. Hearing Ben upset the way I did today, though, and with Wilma no less, was like a kick to my little self-centered universe, pushing it off its axis.

A loud clatter comes from the barn, followed by a hushed curse. A mixture of concern and curiosity—more curiosity—pricks me and I step forward to the window next to the large closed barn doors to peer inside.

And jump back with a yelp as a face appears inches away. The image comes into full view a moment later when Ben’s dad pushes open the door to stare at me through red, glassy eyes. Ben obviously gets his height and frame from his father, though this man has long since lost all of his muscle mass, replaced with the lanky skin-and-bone look of a deep-rooted alcoholic. I’m betting that at one time he was quite handsome. Maybe as handsome as Ben. Maybe that’s how he managed to interest so many women. Except there’s no charming smile, no dimples, and certainly no friendly crystal-blue eyes to win me over. Those are all his wife’s contributions to their son.

“I’m sorry,” I offer. “I heard a noise and just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Oh, yeah?” I catch a hint of the slur seconds before a waft of whiskey hits my nostrils. “I’m fine, but that’s nice . . . nice of you to check.” Taking a quick step to correct his balance, he says, “I heard you were admiring my carpentry?”

I guess Wilma and he do still speak. Knowing what I know, I wonder what those conversations are like. “Yes, the furniture in the house is beautiful,” I offer with a tight smile. I’ve never been comfortable around drunk parents. I’m even more uncomfortable around drunk fathers. Especially ones that I know are prone to cheating on their wives. Especially ones that are looking at me the way Ben’s father is looking at me right now. I fold my arms over my chest.

He waves his one arm dramatically. “Come in!”

I glance over my shoulder. Ben’s not out yet.

“Oh, he’ll come find you,” Ben’s father says. I try not to stiffen as his hand falls to my back, guiding me farther into the barn. The smell of cut wood instantly permeates my nostrils and I inhale deeply. “You can smell that, can’t you? Wood—the best smell in the world.”

I relax a little as he shifts away from me, stumbling over toward the opposite wall, where a myriad of saws sit lined on tables as if on display, the metal on the tools gleaming. An old tube TV lights up a corner, the sound of the baseball announcer’s voice buzzing softly in the background, competing against the crackle of country music over the radio.

“It’s very clean in here,” I remark, looking at the piles of wood neatly stacked along another wall. And in the center of the room—a giant two-story space with naked bulbs dangling down from the rafters—sit several pieces of furniture in various states of completion. “I always imagined a lot of sawdust in wood shops.”

“Used to be.” Strolling over to place his only hand on a giant slab of grainy wood, he murmurs, “This was going to be a beautiful coffee table. I could have made thousands selling it.”

I let out a low whistle.

He peers up at me. “Would you like me to finish it for you? It’s black walnut. Not easy to come by a piece like this.”

My eyes widen in surprise with the offer. Jack would love a coffee table like that. I open my mouth, the beginnings of “Sure!” escaping, when Ben’s voice cuts into the murkiness with a harsh, “No!” Spinning around, I find him standing just inside the door, his jaw taut with tension as his eyes dart around the space as if chasing ghosts within the shadows. Even the darkness can’t hide the ashen color of his skin.

“What’s wrong, son? Forget what this place looked like?” The resentment laced through Joshua Senior’s voice is unmistakable.

I hear Ben’s hard swallow as he steps up behind me, curling his arms over my shoulders and across my chest, hugging me to him. Almost protectively. “Come on, you little thief. I’ll let you drive, seeing as you’re hell bent on it.”

His words are teasing, but I know not to argue or joke or give him a hard time; the odd softness in his voice echoes like a shriek within these walls. “Okay.”

“What’s the rush? You haven’t been in here in, what, eight or nine years? How long has it been since the accident?” Ben’s dad slaps the wood table surface. “Don’t you want to look around? Relive some memories?”

“Joshua!” Wilma’s cry comes from the doorway and when I turn to look at her, her pale face matches Ben’s. And I see the tears. There are definite tears welling in her eyes as she looks from her husband to her son—pausing on him, a pained expression furrowing her brow—and then back to her husband. I catch the subtle nod of her head. “Why have I let this go on for so long?” I think I hear her murmur faintly as a mask of resolution slides over her face, a moment before she closes her eyes and squeezes them tight.