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Page 39 of Falling for Him (Honey Leaf Lodge #3)

Ben

I made it halfway up the stairs before I had to stop.

My hand gripped the banister like I needed it to breathe, and my chest felt too tight for the air in it. I could still hear her voice—sharp, trembling, full of hurt.

Are you married?

God.

That question.

I didn’t even blame her for asking it. I should’ve expected it. Should’ve known that if you push someone away enough times, they’ll stop assuming the best of you, even if they want to.

Even if you want them to.

But I didn’t answer her. I couldn’t.

Not because the answer was yes, but because the answer was so much messier than that.

Because the truth wasn’t in a clean box labeled single or married, taken or free. The truth was bruised and buried, wrapped in years of guilt and loyalty and the bitter taste of obligation disguised as responsibility.

The truth was, I’d spent most of my adult life being who everyone else needed me to be.

The good son.

The stoic partner.

The one who fixed things.

Even when it meant bleeding out quietly under the weight of what I wasn’t allowed to want.

And now here I was—thirty-six years old and realizing I’d fallen for someone whose laughter undid me, whose optimism wrecked me, whose heart I’d already managed to scrape raw without even meaning to.

I let go of the railing, turned, and walked back up the stairs.

I didn’t go to my room.

I went past it, down the quiet hallway that curved behind the guest wing. The old bench at the end sat beneath a window with a warped pane and a view of the garden where someone had once planted lavender in neat rows.

I sat, my elbows on my knees, and let the silence rush in.

I’d left that pantry because I was afraid.

Not of the question, but of what she would see in my eyes if I answered.

Because the truth wasn’t that I had a wife.

The truth was, I had a past.

One I hadn’t unpacked. One I hadn’t let go of.

My ex wasn’t waiting for me in Florida. She’d walked away years ago, tired of waiting for me to put her above my school, my job, the chaos I kept patching over like it wouldn’t eventually collapse. She left with words I still heard sometimes in my sleep.

You take care of everyone but yourself. And someday, that’s going to cost you something real.

And maybe that someday was now.

Maybe that something was Fifi.

Because she was real.

Too real.

She saw through the layers before I was ready to be seen. She offered herself in pieces and warmth and terrible jokes about towels, and I had met her with silence, retreat, and the kind of half-formed longing that looked more like indecision than love.

And that’s what killed me most.

I wanted to love her right.

I just didn’t know how yet.

I pulled my phone from my pocket before I could stop myself.

No signal.

Not that I needed one.

I wasn’t calling for help. I was sitting in the middle of my own making.

I should’ve told her.

Not just that I wasn’t married, but that I was still carrying ghosts. That I had unfinished business with who I used to be. That I didn’t want her to be another casualty of my emotional cowardice.

But I didn’t.

I just walked away.

Because some part of me thought I was protecting her.

And maybe some part of me knew I wasn’t brave enough to stay.

I scrubbed my hands over my face and leaned back, staring up at the ceiling.

If this were a book, the kind she probably dog-eared and lent out with dramatic sighs and post-it notes, this would be the chapter where the guy made a choice. Where he pulled his head out of his ass, ran back to her, and said something wild and honest and perfect at the exact right moment.

But this wasn’t fiction.

This was my screw-up.

And she was probably in the pantry right now, completely angry, embarrassed, and piecing together all the ways I’d let her down.

I stood slowly and walked back toward my room, each step heavier than the last. My reflection in the hallway mirror stopped me.

I looked like someone else.

Tired.

Unmoored.

Haunted by the what-ifs.

But my heart?

It still beat like it knew her name.

I didn’t know if I deserved another chance, but I knew I wanted one.

And this time, I wouldn’t leave the question unanswered.

Even if it meant standing in front of her, shame-faced and broken open.

Because the only thing worse than her asking me if I was married was her walking away thinking I didn’t care.

I didn't bother sitting when I got back to the room. The bed looked too soft, too willing to catch me if I let myself collapse. But if I did, I wasn't sure I'd be able to get back up again.

Instead, I stood in the middle of the floor, my hands curled into fists at my sides like the tension needed somewhere to go, like I could clench hard enough to keep myself from falling apart.

Fifi's voice echoed in my head on a loop. Are you married? Followed by the one thing she said without words, I don't trust you.

And why should she?

I hadn’t given her much to hold on to. A few sweet moments, some heat and laughter, a kiss that felt like it opened every part of me I’d buried, and then a door slammed shut.

She saw that door close.

Worse, she felt it.

And maybe what haunted me most was that she hadn’t looked surprised. Not really. Hurt, yes. But like some small, cynical part of her had expected it. Like she'd been here before.

I paced.

The floor creaked beneath my feet, a metronome for my spiraling thoughts.

I was good at holding it together. Hell, I was the master of composure.

I could make a boardroom lean in with nothing more than a glance and a perfectly timed sentence.

I could disarm investors, wrangle timelines, and mediate conflict like a diplomat.

But none of that prepared me for the look on Fifi’s face when she thought I might belong to someone else. None of that taught me what to do when the person who made you feel something real, something vital, looked at you like you were a stranger they regretted trusting.

She thought I was hiding a wife, and I couldn’t even blame her for thinking it.

I hadn’t given her anything real to hold onto. A few muttered work frustrations, a vague reference to my past. No details. No clarity. No truths she could wrap around her heart and trust.

Because I didn’t want her to see what a mess I still was.

I’d told myself it was for her own good and that this was temporary. That feelings would only complicate things. That we’d walk away from this place without leaving anything behind.

But I was wrong.

She was already under my skin and in my head, etched into my every waking thought like a song I couldn’t shake. And now? Now I was terrified she was already gone.

My fingers hovered over my phone.

I could call Dustin. He’d joke. Try to lighten it. Tell me I was being a dumbass and to go get her back before she did something crazy like start dating a forest ranger or just move on because it was only a vacation fling.

But this wasn’t about jokes.

This was about the woman who made me laugh when I didn’t remember how and who made me feel things I thought I’d sealed away after too many years of responsibility and silence.

And if I wanted a chance in hell of keeping that?

I had to tell her everything.

Even if it made her walk away.

Even if it left me exposed.

I left the room before I could talk myself out of it.

The hallway was empty. The house, too quiet. The storm inside me didn’t match the stillness of the place.

I checked the porch. The reading nook. The pantry.

She wasn’t there.

My chest tightened. Panic threatened to rise like it had when I got that call from Florida, the one that reminded me how quickly people and priorities shift.

I stepped outside into the evening air, calling her name once.

Nothing.

Just the quiet hush of breeze and birds.

And then I saw her.

Down by the edge of the farm, sitting alone on the wooden fence, balancing far better than I could. Her back was to me, hair loose now, swaying gently in the wind.

I didn’t call out again. I just walked.

Every step felt like it carried the weight of every word I should’ve said earlier. Every look I didn’t explain. Every vulnerable inch I’d kept hidden.

She didn’t turn when I got close and didn’t speak.

So I climbed up beside her, perching on the fence like we were two kids hiding from something too big to name.

The silence stretched, and I let it because I didn’t deserve to be the one to break it first.

Finally, she said, “I shouldn’t have asked you that.”

I shook my head. “You had every right to.”

She glanced at me then, her eyes dark and tired. “You didn’t answer.”

I met her gaze and forced the truth past my tongue.

“No. I’m not married. I’m not with anyone. I haven’t been in a long time.”

She swallowed. “Then why didn’t you just say that?”

I exhaled. “Because I didn’t want to lie by omission.”

Her brow furrowed.

“I was married once,” I said quietly. “And I spent years making sure someone else had everything they needed, even if it meant burying everything I wanted. I stayed in a life that didn’t fit because I didn’t know how to quit. It turned out she liked being married to a lawyer but not to me.”

She didn’t speak. But her hand slowly found mine.

“I didn’t want to do that to you,” I said. “Didn’t want to give you half of me. Didn’t want to give you only the parts that were safe. So, no. I’m not married, but I have been and I screwed it up by making my job a priority, by marrying someone that didn’t truly love me but loved my title.”

The wind picked up.

She leaned her head against my shoulder.

And for the first time, I let her hold the weight with me.

“My parents were alcoholics.” I stilled.

She looked at me, searching.

“My childhood was loud,” I continued, the words coming slowly and deliberately. “Loud and full of arguments. There was never a quiet dinner. Never a calm morning. Always tension. Always something brewing.”

My heart clenched, thinking about it. I wasn’t just telling a story, I was letting her into my world, unearthing something buried.

“I was eleven when my dad got his third DUI,” I said, and that number— third —landed like a punch. “I remember standing at the door when the deputy knocked. He had his hat in his hand. Looked like he hated being there when a kid answers.”

“I’m sorry.” And I knew she meant it.

“But the worst part?” I went on. “It wasn’t the arrest. It wasn’t the license getting taken or the jail time. It was my parents. The way they reacted.”

Her eyes didn’t judge, and she held my hand.

“They blamed everyone,” I said. “The police. The judge. The system. Said it was harassment. That it wasn’t fair.

Never once did they say, I could’ve killed someone.

Never once did they apologize. And the really messed-up part?

They convinced me— me , an eleven-year-old kid, that I should become a lawyer.

That I could help them fix things. That I could help people like my dad, so I spent the next decade taking the classes to get me into the college that would get me into law school, and here I am. ”

Tears stung the corners of my eyes, but I didn’t let them fall.

She held my hand tighter.

“I can’t even imagine,” she said softly.

“The only thing that helped my dad,” I said quietly, “was the grave. That was the only thing that stopped his drinking.”

She drew in a slow, shaky breath.

“I’d been the one to take care of them, pick up the pieces, work several jobs as a teen to help pay their legal bills.

My brother inherited the genetics of self-preservation, and I was born with the guilt gene.

I’d always been there…but my dad had one last accident, and I didn’t make it to the hospital in time.

” I shook my head and cleared my throat.

“I didn’t show up when it counted, when the guardrails mangled his vehicle or the other way around. ”

“That is horrific.”

I nodded. “But I thank God every single day that no one else was hurt.”

She squeezed my hand harder. “That’s not your fault. You were there when it mattered, when he was alive. You tried your best, Ben. You were handed something no child should have to deal with, no teenager should have to worry about, and no college student should have to try to fix.”

My eyes met hers, and I smiled slowly. “Where were you when I was fifteen? I could have used your wisdom.”

“Maybe up in Wisconsin, waiting for my person to experience life in a way I hadn’t.”

Her words sank into my bones, and I nodded slowly. “Maybe, it’s as simple as that.”

“What happened to your mom?”

“She followed about six years later. But emotionally? She was gone the second he was buried. She floated through the rest of her life like it didn’t matter anymore. Her liver could only take so much.”

“Wow.”

“I kept trying,” I continued. “Law school. Clerkships. Long hours. Promotions. Failed Marriage. But they had a disease, and I was a kid who didn’t understand that when I’d made all my life choices, but I was still playing pretend, and the money was enticing.”

Regret, shame, and grief filled my veins as I steadied my gaze on her.

“I never even wanted to be a lawyer. I just didn’t know how to want anything else.”

Something inside me broke and stitched itself back together all at once, just by the look in her eyes.

“I don’t know what to say, except I’m sorry. I’m sorry you went through that. That you carried all of that for so long alone.”

“I didn’t want to bring it here. I didn’t want to bring it to you. ”

She shook her head. “That’s not how this works. You don’t get to decide what part of yourself is acceptable. If we’re going to do this, if we’re going to mean something, then I get all of it. Even the hard stuff.”

Something flickered in her expression. Not quite relief. Not quite fear.

Maybe both.

She leaned her head on my shoulder again, and we sat there, wrapped in silence and fireflies and the unspoken agreement that maybe, for the first time, I wasn’t alone in the wreckage.

And for the first time ever, I realized Fifi was the person who helped me figure out what I did want, and that love wasn’t about fixing someone.

It was about standing beside one another while rebuilding.