Page 33 of I Do With You

Chapter 12

BEN

Breathe into you, witness you come alive. Give you all I am, so long as you survive.

Hope is fucking stunning. Once she got over her embarrassment at being called out by Kaitlyn, she truly joins the Strawberry Moon party.

She brings us the makings for s’mores, and we hold marshmallows over the fire, playfully arguing about when they’re done. I’m Team Blackened, of course, and Hope likes hers barely toasted. Regardless of who’s right or wrong, they’re delicious.

Afterward, she gets roped into a game of Simon Says with a group of kids, which I quickly opt out of. That lets me watch her smile and play, which is adorable, even if it makes me think of the kids she said she wants. It’s obvious that Hope will be a great mom.

I’ve never seen myself as a father. I don’t know how to imagine that because I don’t know what dads do ... or are. I’ve been so one-track minded that a future with a wife, kids, and all that never occurred to me. It’s always been music, music, music, but seeing the way Hope interacts with the kids plants a tiny seed I’ve never considered.

“Who’s Simon, anyway? And why does he get to decide what we do?” a little voice demands. One of the girls playing is apparently “out”because she moved when Simon didn’t say. And she’s about to have a meltdown in three, two, one ...

“It’s okay,” Hope comforts her. “It’s hard when we lose a game, right?” The girl nods, sniffling but not screaming like I’d expected. “I’m actually not sure who Simon is, but that’s how the game goes.”

The girl pouts. “Then I don’t want to play.”

“Okay, we could do something else,” Hope offers, and she glances up, meeting my eyes. “Hey! My friend over there is a really good singer. Maybe we could get him to sing a song about strawberries for us.”

I’m shaking my head, mouthing,No, and glaring at Hope with every bit offuck thatin my eyes. And still, she smiles. The little girl is smiling, too, looking eager at the possibility. But it’s Hope who is my undoing.

“I know. I’m sorry, I didn’t know what to say,” Hope tells me.

“I don’t sing in front of people ... not like this. Singing on the boat was a big deal.” Maybe I should’ve made that clear because there’s no way I can do what she wants me to do. I can already feel the panic bubbling up. It seems like everyone’s looking at me, but when I dart my eyes around, the only ones I see are Hope’s. No one else is paying me any attention ... yet. But when I start to sing, they will. And then all those nerves will rise to the surface, making my voice crack and my heart race. “I can’t.”

“If I can run away from my wedding, you can sing ‘Strawberry Wine’ with me,” Hope commands, sounding sure of herself. And of me.

Wait . . . what?

The shock of what she’s said short-circuits the anxiety, and I think maybe I misheard her. “You’re gonna sing with me?” I repeat.

She pats me on the chest, her touch easy and casual like she’s done it hundreds of times before, but it’s new and fresh, the buzz of it centering me instantly. “Don’t get excited. I can’t carry a tune in a bucket, but I’m a rock star in my car,” she brags with zero shame.

Kaitlyn seems to have caught wind that something’s up, because she rushes over. “Oh my goodness, are you going to sing?”

I don’t know if she’s asking Hope or me. I know my answer: fuck no.

“Yeah, we are. Is ‘Strawberry Wine’ okay? It’s the only strawberry song I know. You know it, too, right, Ben?” Hope looks at me like this is a done deal. And maybe for her, it is.

“Oooh, Iloooovea theme!” Kaitlyn singsongs. “But maybe ‘Strawberry Fields Forever’ instead?”

Maybe she could sing with Hope? I’d play if I had my guitar, but singing? Nope, not me.

I don’t know what happens. I might’ve blacked out from hyperventilating for a second if I’m honest, but the next thing I know, I’m holding a cheap guitar from the resort’s music room and fucking with the strings, trying to get them in tune. Hope is sitting beside me, looking up at me like I hung the moon and can fix the world. Or at least fix tonight for one sad little girl who’s curled up in her dad’s lap by the fire.

“I’m not a singer, but I know the words, so ...,” Hope tells everyone.

“If you sing, you’re a singer. That’s all it takes,” Richard encourages her.

If only it were that easy.

Hope starts slowly. Her smile is warmer than the fire, her eyes sparkling brighter than the stars. She looks at me expectantly, and I want to sing with her—I swear I do—but I clench my teeth and play the accompanying tune. It’s the most I can do.

A few other voices join her, singing along, and Hope begins to sway. And still, I play. There are some decent voices in the group but several that are really off-key. No matter what, they all sing, finding acceptance and camaraderie.

Hope leans into my shoulder like she wants to be as close to me as possible, but the guitar is in her way, keeping her from climbing into my lap. Still, she smiles up at me like she’s making sure I feel how special this moment is.

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