Page 50 of I Do With You

Too soon, Ben will leave, I’ll return to work and my parents’ house, and I’ll have to figure out what’s next. Normally, a completely blank plan would freak me out, and I’d feel pressured to add bullet points, highlight deadlines, and color-code my life. That desire is gone. In fact, I kinda want to chuck the whole planner, every calendar I own, and all the Post-it note reminders I have tacked up and just ... be.

Like I am today.

I take Ben to a lunch spot called Let’s F*rk. Literally, the sign out front has an asterisk to make it look likefuck, but they pronounce itfork. Inside, the old building is beautiful, with the original knotty-pineplank flooring that’s gone wavy, long plastic-tablecloth-covered tables providing family-style seating, and a display case at the counter that’s filled with fresh pies. “Despite the name, this place is known for its sandwiches, no forks required. You’ll need one for the pie, though.”

We order and take our sign—a laminated card stuck in curled fork tines—to a table. There are other people sitting at the communal tables, but we find two chairs together and sit down beside each other.

“Hi, Hope, Ben,” a woman greets us from a few seats away. “Beautiful day, isn’t it? Good to see folks out enjoying it.”

She knows me. She knows Ben’s name. She’s making easy, friendly small talk. But I have no idea who she is. “Uh, yeah. Great weather,” I agree as I rack my brain.

She’s in her fifties, with brown hair cut into a sleek bob and kind eyes. Her blouse is navy with pink flowers, and her nails are a matching shade of pink glitter that makes me think it’s her favorite color. I look up to her face again, and then it hits me. “Mrs. Abernathy?”

She smiles, laughing lightly. “In the flesh. Just a little more of it these days,” she says with a happiness-tinged shoulder shimmy. “Chasing after grandkids isn’t the same as being in the classroom all day.”

“Ben, Mrs. Abernathy was my third-grade teacher,” I explain, and he nods respectfully in greeting. “You here for the season?” If I remember correctly, her daughter and son-in-law moved several years back, and Mr. and Mrs. Abernathy followed, keeping their small house here to summer in.

“Yep, got in a couple of weeks back. Gail and her family will be here soon too. I can’t wait to take the babies to the lake. Maude is six and swimming like a fish, and Ezra will be able to float around a bit, too, this year. He’s almost two.” She shakes her head. “Time sure does fly. Why, a minute ago, you and Joy were this tall and running the classroom.” She holds her hand out about four feet high, chuckling.

“Think you mean Joy was running things. I was her shadow, following in her footsteps, whether they led me to fun, got me in trouble, or both,” I joke.

Mrs. Abernathy frowns. “No, you two were thick as thieves, but you egged each other on. Back then we would’ve said you were both a little bossy and sassy. Nowadays, we know better and would more accurately say you showed leadership qualities and had a strong sense of self.” Going serious, she pats her chest, right over her heart, and says, “I hear you still do. Good for you.”

We talk a little more, but what she says lingers with me. I always thought I was Joy’s coattail rider into the fray, her backup when things went sideways, and the voice of reason when she saw nothing but opportunity, regardless of the potential cost. But was I once equally daring? And if so, did I simply forget that? Or squash it down to play nice?

When our sandwiches come, she waves goodbye after telling me she hopes to see me again this summer. I’m sure she will. I’ll be here, in Maple Creek, where I’ve always been.

I don’t have to be.

Mrs. Abernathy didn’t stay put. She had roots running deep here, but when life called her to be somewhere else, she went. What’s that saying?You’re not a tree. If you don’t like where you are, move.I could do that. I could do anything. Like travel.

“What’s California like?” I ask Ben, who promptly chokes on his turkey-and-swiss on fresh-made sourdough.

“What?” he forces out as he takes a drink of water.

At his reaction, I drop my eyes to my plate, pushing a chip around mindlessly. “I was thinking that I’ve never been anywhere, and now might be a chance to travel. I’ve never been to Los Angeles, so I’m curious what it’s like.”

Am I asking if I could come see Ben in his hometown? Yes. Am I doing it outright? Nope. That strong, confident girl I was has been hiding for a bit too long to cannonball into the deep end like that. But a gentle toe-dip is doable.

“It’s extremes,” he starts, looking like he’s trying to figure out how to describe life in LA. “There are people with ridiculous amounts of money you can’t comprehend and people who wake up not knowingwhat, when, or even if they’re going to be able to eat. There’s a power dynamic where everyone you meet is testing to see if you can do something for them. Like networking to the nth degree. The weather’s beautiful; there’s the beach, but I don’t go often—or ever, really—and you can get any type of food at any hour. Want sushi pizza at three in the morning? You got it. Oh, and make it gluten-free? No problem.” He shakes his head at what I think is an exaggeration.

“Is sushi pizza even a real thing?” I ask, laughing at the weird image in my head. “How does that work? Like, do you cook the pizza and then throw the raw fish on it?”

He laughs too. “I wouldn’t know.” Slowly, he straightens, then directly asks, “Would you think about coming out? To see me?”

I can see the shy boy he says he used to be in the way his fingers fidget with the napkin in his lap. As anxious as I am about asking, he’s equally nervous about it, which is kinda adorable, considering he’s completely amazing, and I’d go a hell of a lot farther than LA to see him again.

“You’re the only reason I’m asking about California, Ben. If you lived in Texas, I’d be wondering if I need to buy cowboy boots to come see you. If you lived in Seattle, it’d be rain boots. New York City? I don’t even know, but I would probably buy something for that too,” I tease. “So, uh, what do you think?”

He doesn’t answer with words. Instead, he turns in his chair and arranges me between his spread knees. Gripping the back of my neck, he pulls me toward him, meeting me in the middle to place a firm, claiming kiss to my lips. It’s a better answer than I’d even hoped to receive.

I want to jump up and dance.

I want to throw my arms up in victory.

I want to shout from the rooftops that this incredible, understanding, caring, hot guy likes me, Hope Mercy Barlowe.

“Get your hands off her,” a sharp voice bites out. I jerk back to see Roy standing beside the table, holding a bouquet of red roses in a tightlyclenched fist. His eyes are cold stone as he stares at Ben, not moving a muscle but looking like he’s on the verge of explosion.

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