Page 14

CHAPTER 13

B EN

I shake out my hands to force down the nerves and then push the button for Trina’s doorbell. Sure, I’ve seen her every few days to review the text messages she continues to receive, but we usually meet somewhere public. Today is the first day I’ve been back at her house since that night I stayed over.

Seconds later, the door opens and Trina steps back, gesturing for me to come in. Damn, she looks pretty today in old cutoff shorts and a T-shirt, her hair up in a messy bun and her pink cheeks matching the polish on her bare toes. I’m positive she has no clue what a natural beauty she is.

After she closes the door, she walks away and looks over her shoulder at me, a smile on her face and a twinkle in her eye. “Follow me. I made us breakfast.”

Uh oh. This isn’t going to be good.

Hell, who am I kidding? I’d eat cardboard and pretend I loved it to make her happy. I can handle some burnt eggs.

“Oh yeah? What’re we having? And what’s the occasion?”

“Tater tots, because they’re basically like hash browns, and scrambled eggs.” Her kitchen is suspiciously neat for someone having been cooking in here. I notice a skillet on the stove with a lid over it, but no bowl with eggshells, and the surfaces of the counters are spotless—not even a drop of spilled ingredients.

Trina turns to face me. “And the occasion is to prove to you I can cook. Plus…” Her voice trails off, and she glances down at the floor. I watch as she swallows, then looks up. “Plus, yesterday was day sixty since Vegas.”

Her sapphire blue eyes radiate uncertainty as she peers up at me through her lengthy black lashes. And my stomach drops.

I clear my throat. “Does that mean you looked, and we’re not married? I’m guessing that would set your mind at ease and you’d want to celebrate.” I try to hide the dejection in my tone, but I’m nearly positive I fail.

“Wouldn’t you?” she asks, her voice quiet.

“Wouldn’t I what?”

“Want to celebrate that?” She tilts her head, and her eyes fix on me, waiting for an answer.

I bite my lip to stop myself from telling her that, hell no, I wouldn’t celebrate that. I give a half-hearted shrug and walk toward her refrigerator. The subject needs to change.

“Do you have orange juice?”

“Yes. Help yourself. And even though you’re trying to change the subject, I didn’t check. I thought we could do that together.”

I spin on my heel and face her, the plastic jug of orange juice in my hand. “Oh. Yeah, that sounds good. We’ll check together after we have these delicious eggs. I bet they’re not even burned,” I tease.

“Hmm. Let’s see how much of a wise ass you are when you eat the best damned eggs you’ve ever had.”

I only chuckle in response and reach up to open a cabinet in search of glasses and plates. I pull down two of the plates and hand them to her and, after making sure she wants juice, I pour us both some.

“Wow,” I say, eyeing the juice container. “You’ve come to the dark side and started liking juice without pulp, huh?”

“Um no. Pulp is good for you. But you don’t like it, so I got it without.”

“Oh.” She remembers that? “Well, thanks. I appreciate it. The pulp always wigs me out. It’s something about the texture in my mouth.”

We decide to eat on the patio since it’s a gorgeous late May morning—warm enough to not be chilled, but not yet hot.

When I’ve carried our drinks outside and placed them on the table, I turn and see Trina standing at the door with our plates in her hands. I open the door for her and don’t miss the impish smirk on her face as she walks past me. “Look at these perfectly cooked scrambled eggs. The chef must be amazing.”

I make it back to the table as she’s setting the plates down, and I reach behind her to pull out her chair. She rolls her eyes, but her cheeks blush a rosy pink and it’s obvious she’s fighting to hold in a smile.

“I’m not too proud to acknowledge when I’m wrong. These eggs look and smell amazing.” They’re a perfect fluffy yellow, not a black spot on them anywhere.

“Thank you,” Trina answers, looking at her plate.

Ten minutes later, I’ve devoured everything on my plate. I lean back in my chair and let out a satisfied groan. “Damn, I was wrong about your kitchen skills. That was amazing.”

Trina grins widely. “There are more eggs in the pan if you want seconds.”

I stand. You don’t have to tell me twice. “You want anything?”

“Only a little more juice if there’s some left.” I grab her glass off the table and make my way inside. After scooping more eggs onto my plate, I get the orange juice container from the refrigerator and pour the last of the juice into Trina’s glass.

I search around for a few seconds, and I find her recycling can in a small closet. As I reach over the trash can to place the plastic jug in the recycling, a take-out container in the trash catches my eye. I’d recognize the weird yellow Styrofoam container anywhere. Pat’s Diner is the only place in town that has this color.

Ever the detective, I open the container to check for any food remnants inside. When I’ve found what I’m looking for, I laugh to myself and close the closet before grabbing Trina’s glass and my plate and heading back outside.

I spend the next five minutes eating my eggs and acting like they’re the best things I’ve ever had in my mouth. I’m talking over the top moaning, compliments galore, and the icing on the cake—I pick up my plate and lick it when all the eggs are gone.

“Okay. You don’t have to be an asshole about it,” Trina laughs. She pins me with narrowed eyes, but there’s no disdain in them.

“What?” I feign confusion.

“I know you must have found the takeout container. I had to, though.”

“Had to? Really?” Now I’m the one grinning.

“Yes, really. I tried for six days in a row to make damn scrambled eggs so I could prove to you I can, and I either burn them, they’re full of shells, or they just taste plain horrible. I needed a win.”

I’m secretly pleased that she’s tried so hard to make them.

I chuckle. “Well, don’t be too hard on yourself. It’s the thought that counts.” I reach across and pat her on the hand, and when she doesn’t flinch or pull away, I keep my hand there, wanting a little more time touching her.

Trina laughs as well and, after a few seconds, looks down at our hands. I take that as my cue to remove mine before I ruin our breakfast, and I reluctantly do so.

A few minutes later, we’ve cleaned up from breakfast and sit at her dining room table, my tablet in front of us.

Trina has been sending me screenshots of her text messages from her unknown pursuer every day. Some days there is one, professing his feelings for her. About every three to four days, there are up to five or six, several filled with rage or sexually suggestive, followed by an apology.

“We’ve got the tracking on the numbers, and they’ve all been burner phones so far. Nothing traceable back to him. And I’ve talked to a few of my buddies from the Meadow Creek Police Department about John Lemond, the cop who came up to you at the Valentine’s Fundraiser.” I rake my hand through my wavy hair in frustration.

“And?” Trina asks.

I sigh. “And though they think he’s an ass, there’s never been concern about him being dirty or anything of that nature. He’s been divorced twice but, unless he does something else suspicious, I don’t have justification to dig into him much further. As for the other background checks, Guy?—”

“Checks? Why plural? You only had Guy to check into.” Trina’s eyes tighten and I curse under my breath that she’s so damn observant.

“Yes. Checks, plural. Guy’s showed what we expected. The arrest when he was here and some misdemeanor stuff. No felonies and no violent offenses. Still, I’ve called around and can’t find where he is right now. I don’t like that. And… and I checked into Darren.”

“Ben! I told you to leave him out of this. It’s not him.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do. He wouldn’t do that.” Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes. “Fine. What did his background check show?”

“Nothing,” I practically whisper.

Trina cups her hand around her ear and leans closer to me. “Sorry. What was that?”

“I said nothing. He’s clean.” She sniggers in response. “I really wish you’d stay with me or someone else. Or let me stay?—”

“No. I’m not letting this person win. If I act out of fear, he’s gained ground on me and I’m not letting him do that.”

“Jesus, Trina. You may not be afraid, but I sure as hell am. Do you have any idea what it’s like trying to fall asleep at night worrying about you? Why are you being so stubborn?”

She frowns, apparently not a fan of my vulnerability or me calling her stubborn.

“I’m not being stubborn. Not about this, at least.” She looks down at the table and repeatedly runs her finger in a figure-eight pattern on the surface of the wood. “I can’t give him control over what I do. I’m aware you all tease me, saying I’m grumpy and too disciplined and shit. But I need to know I’m in control of my life and I can’t give up how I live because of him.” She glances back up at me now. “It’ll be fine. You’re worrying for nothing.” She rubs her hand over her eyes repeatedly. When she drops her hand and looks at me again, she’s clearly ready for a subject change. “Now, back to the investigation. So, what’s next?”

I stare at her for several long seconds, frustrated as hell but not wanting her to feel like she doesn’t have control. I know that’s a coping mechanism she developed from how she grew up.

“Well, I’ll keep unofficial tabs on the cop from Meadow Creek. Something doesn’t sit right with me about him. And I’m still working on hunting down Guy. I want to make sure he hasn’t been back in town.”

“Joe might help.”

I lift my brow and cock my head, waiting for her to say more.

“What? He said if Guy gave me any trouble to reach out. Joe knows his dad. I could get you his number from his card on the corkboard at the station, and you can call him. Or I can.”

“No. I will.” My words come out more clipped than I intend. My jaw clenches at the thought of her talking to the attractive man who interrupted our dance on Valentine’s Day.

Trina smiles. “You sound like a jealous husband, and we don’t even know if we’re really married,” she jests.

I peer down at the tablet and try not to let the frown threatening to make an appearance do so. “I guess now is as good a time as any to find out. You ready?”

* * *

TRINA

Ben and I both fix our gazes on the spinning circle on his tablet. It takes forever as it attempts to pull up the search for our names on the vital statistics website for the county we may have gotten married in.

“So, are you going to Annie’s bridal shower this afternoon?” Ben asks, clearly trying to fill the awkward silence.

“Yep.”

“Maybe I’ll see you there. I’m picking up my dad and brothers-in-law to take them to O’Riley’s for a guy’s afternoon.”

I’m too stressed to even respond to him, and I don’t take my eyes off the tablet.

Come on. How long does it take to load?

As if it heard my thought, our “case” pops up on the screen.

I turn to Ben. “Ready?” My voice cracks and he simply nods in response.

After I press the screen to open the case, we both watch as the display changes. And when I narrow my eyes on the spot I’ve looked at a million times over the last few weeks, my heart pounds in my rib cage as I see there is now a filed date under the marriage license category that used to say “pending.”

“Holy shit,” I whisper.

“D-does that mean we’re really married?”

I turn to look at Ben. “I think it does.” As I watch his face for a few seconds, searching for panic or regret, I see none. “I need something to drink.” I practically leap out of my chair and head to the kitchen.

After grabbing a clean glass, I fill it with tap water and guzzle half of it down. My mouth and throat are as dry as the Sahara Desert. After topping it off again, I can’t bring myself to go back to the table yet. Instead, I head out to the back porch and climb onto the glider, pulling my knees up to my chest and hugging myself.

About five minutes later, the creaking of the screen door alerts me that Ben is coming out to the porch. He sits down on the opposite end of the glider, careful to give me physical space.

“Are you okay?” The kindness and concern in his voice are almost overwhelming.

“I’m not sure. I guess I didn’t believe it really happened. But it did.”

Ben clears his throat. “What do you want to do?” Ben’s voice trembles and I’m not sure I’ve ever heard it do that before.

I turn my gaze upon him. “What do you mean? What choice do we have? I think we have to get a … I think we have to fix it.”

I watch as hurt flashes over his face, and he closes his eyes. When he opens them again, his eyes are misty. “Would it be so bad?” he whispers.

“What?”

“Would it be so bad if we gave it time… if we tried to make it work?”

My jaw drops open, and I’m sure my eyes are going to pop out of my head.

“I know I fucked things up so badly when we were younger. But I promise you I’ve done a ton of work to be a better man. And you have to admit that what we had was real?—”

“Ben. You can’t be serious. We were kids, and we were only together like half a year.” I look away from him and close my eyes for a few seconds to get my bearings before I return my focus to him. The last thing I want is to hurt him, so I’m determined to soften my tone. “I know you don’t want to be divorced, but you can’t want to be with me.”

A sarcastic huff escapes him, and his head falls back, his eyes now glued to the ceiling of my porch. He takes a few deep breaths and then lowers his head and turns his entire body toward me.

“I’m going to say a few things, and I’m asking you to listen and not respond right now. Then I’ll leave and give you some space. Can you just hear me out?”

I don’t speak, only nod.

“Give me sixty more days. Sixty days for us to get to know each other again now that we’re both more mature. If after that, you still want to get a di… a divorce,”—pain flits across his handsome face—“I won’t resist. I’ll do whatever you want. Hell, truthfully, I’ll do whatever you want now because I can’t bear the thought of hurting you more than I already have in this lifetime. But please just consider giving it some time. Time where we both try to have an open mind.”

Ben stands up and walks to the door. When his hand is on the handle, his back to me, I softly ask, “Why would you want to stay married to me ?”

Without turning to face me, sadness fills his voice as he says, “Because you were wrong when you said I can’t want to be with you. For the last ten years, probably longer if I’m being honest, I have wanted to be with you and only you.”

It’s only after he walks through the door to leave that my tears fall.