Page 67 of I Do With You

Eventually, I pass out, reassuring myself he’ll call in the morning.

I’m up and dressed early, checking my phone obsessively so I don’t miss the call I’m certain will come through any minute. But it stays eerily quiet, and my thoughts continue to spiral deeper and darker the longer he doesn’t call.

How bad is it that I reached out to Sean? Are they still fighting? Did they finally have the big blowup Ben’s said he’s trying to avoid?

Is Ben mad at me for overstepping?

That’s what I keep coming back to. I know my fear of his anger is a reflex to not rocking the boat with Roy for years.Be easy, be nice, everything’s fine,repeats on a loop in my head, but I’m actively rewriting the scripts that have played for too long.

Have a voice. Say what you want. It’s okay to have an opinion, a boundary, a preference.

I overwrite the old script with the new until I can’t stand idly by anymore.

“I’m going for breakfast,” I say to the empty kitchen. Mom and Dad left for work hours ago, so it’s only me here, but saying it aloud feels powerful and decisive.

Rosemary’s is busy, so I keep it simple and order three Monday specials—eggs, french toast, and bacon. I buckle the bag of food into the passenger seat of my Honda and make the drive back to the resort. Except when I pull up, Ben’s rental car isn’t there.

Not giving up that easily, I grab the food and knock on the cottage door.

“What’d you forget, fucker?” Sean gripes as he opens the door. I flinch at his barking, rough voice. “Shit. Thought you were Ben. He just left,” he explains with a shrug as some weak version of an apology for answering the door like a Neanderthal.

“Oh.” I guess that’s slightly better? I thought he was calling me names and acting like I shouldn’t be here. “I brought breakfast.” I hold up the bag full of Styrofoam boxes. “It’s from Rosemary’s.”

“Place must be good, because that’s where Ben said he was going.” He eyes the bag like I might’ve poisoned the contents inside.

“It’s the best.” I can see that it’s on the tip of his tongue to blow me off, and once upon a time, I would’ve let him.No more,I remind myself. So instead I butt my shoulder into his chest as I walk up the steps and in the door, strutting across the narrow living room and making myself at home the way he did last night. I at least have been staying here, unlike Sean.

“C’mon in,” he mutters under his breath, following me into the kitchen.

When I open the boxes, though, he groans in delight. “Shiiit, that smells fucking awesome!”

Food is the way to his heart, apparently, because he’s no longer scowling at me with his arms crossed over his chest. He reaches over to snatch a slice of extra-crispy bacon from one of the boxes, being quickand sneaky about it like I might smack his hand. The new version of Hope might’ve, too, except it reminds me of Ben saying that they went hungry sometimes.

Still, I have limits, and I might as well set them early.

“That one’s yours because I’m not getting shorted on Rosemary’s bacon. It has cracked pepper and honey glaze on it. I want both my slices.”

One side of his mouth lifts in a semi-grin as he open-mouth chews the half slice he ate in one monstrous bite. “Fair. I’ll take Ben’s instead.”

I narrow my eyes, glaring hard and trying to channel my Inner Joy. She’d be able to stand up to Sean, no problem. She spends most of her days in locker rooms with smelly boys, pre- and post-games, so dealing with assholes is basically half of her job description. Unfortunately, my experience is morepleasedon’tbiteme, pleasedon’tbitemeand acting like I believe people when they tell me they floss religiously when their gums tell a very different, tartar-filled tale.

“No you won’t.” I try to sound firm, but it’s a suggestion at best, so I put Ben’s food in the microwave. Out of sight, out of mind, hopefully. I carry my food to the living room, curling up in the corner of the couch that’s become “mine.”

“Guess we’re doing this, huh?” Sean asks, looking mildly amused by my attempt at gumption—which is pretty good, if I do say so myself.

“I’m not doing anything other than eating breakfast while I wait on Ben.”

Yep, almost believable, Hope. Woo-hoo! Good job!

The truth is, I’m infinitely curious about Sean, the man Ben describes as a brother but who is so rough around the edges, he’s basically jagged, broken glass that’ll cut you at any opportunity just to watch you bleed out.

I know I’m in over my head with him, so I take a bite of my cinnamon-sugar-dusted french toast and pointedly ignore Sean’s existence. He chuckles to himself, watching my delicate chewing, and then takesanother huge half-slice-size bite of bacon as he falls lazily into the chair across from me. Even sitting here, I feel at a disadvantage.

“What do you want to know?” Sean says, licking the honey glaze from his thick, tattooed fingers. I arch a brow and he sighs as if I’ve already overstayed my welcome and am annoying him. “Look, Ben left about five minutes before you got here. I don’t know where this Rosemary’s joint is, but I figure you’ve got about thirty minutes to get all the insight you could ever want. Maybe you find out something interesting, maybe you find out something that has you running for the hills.” He acts like he’s not sure which way I’d go with what he knows. “Or you could sit there and listen to me smack while I scarf this down.”

I stay silent, mulling over his offer as I swallow another bite, and he does indeed smack down a bite of his own. Gross eating noises aside—his, not mine—I can’t help but play along with his game to find out more about Ben.

“Did the two of you fix whatever’s wrong between you? The thing that sent him here?” I ask.

---