Page 9 of I Do With You

When I get a look at myself in the bathroom mirror, my eyes pop open as my hands fly to my hair. Now I know what Ben was smirking at. I’m a mess! Some combination of a deranged raccoon with makeup smears down my cheeks, a fallen angel with frizzy hair sprouting out in a halo around my head, and a zombie bride in a muddy dress.

“Hamburger-fucking-Help-Me, Hope, you’re an actual walking, talking dumpster fire.” The girl in the mirror doesn’t argue, agreeing with my too-accurate assessment.

Even with the buttons undone and a sudden desire to let hot water wash the wildness away, it takes me several minutes to get the dress all the way off, and I leave it puddled on the floor, a dirty reminder of a day gone wrong. Not that running was wrong, but maybe the whole wedding was.

Nomaybes about it. I never should have let things get this far.

The doubts and concerns I had didn’t start today. Or even yesterday, last week, or last month. They’ve been slowly growing despite my attempts to ignore them. Today was just the day they refused to be ignored any longer.

I start the water, turning it as hot as it’ll go. I need to burn today off me. All of it.

I make quick work of lathering up, not giving myself time to cry, or think, or wallow in the what-ifs. I focus on getting the sticks and bobby pins out of my hair, the mud off my legs, and the makeup off my face. When I’m scrubbed clean, I dry off. The vanity is well stocked—wouldn’t expect anything less of the resort’s staff—and I find a hairbrush, deodorant, and the bougie toothpaste and toothbrush set Dr. Payne recommends and sells. I use those, feeling more human, and only then do I open the door to the bedroom.

There’s a stack of clothes on the bed, and when I hold them up, I find plain black sweatpants, which thankfully have a drawstring at the waist; a T-shirt from a band I’ve never heard of; and a flannel that’s a good two or three sizes too big for me. I pull them all on, wrapping the shirt around my body like a cozy blanket.

“Now what?” I mutter, not sure what to do. I should be at my reception, cutting the cake and dancing with my new husband, but here I am ... still running.

Chapter 4

BEN

I struggled for a ridiculous amount of time on what clothes to leave for Hope. A Midnight Destruction shirt is a stupid risk that has the potential to lead to questions I can’t and won’t answer, but there’s no way she could know it’s my band, and even if she got curious enough to google us, there’s absolutely nothing that’d tie the band to me. Still, I held the shirt in my hands for more minutes than I’d like to admit until the idea of wrapping around her in comfort made me decide to take the chance. When she reappears with wet hair and a bare face, wearing my clothes, I know I made the right call.

She seems small—not in size, though she’s probably five-five at best, but in presence, like she’s trying to shrink away from ... everything. She’s a walking, talking beautiful disaster. Or at least, she is today, but I get the feeling that’s not her usual MO. At least not thedisasterpart.

“Hungry?” It’s the one thing I do know about women: if they’re having big emotions, they want comfort food. My mom did, anyway, and fuck knows I helped her through more breakups than I should’ve. She had a new man almost every other month, each one deemed The One—the guy who was going to marry her, be my dad, and save us from our woefully bereft lives. The only problem was, they never were,and over time, all I really wanted was for Mom to stop living like the two of us weren’t enough.

Hope shrugs. “If you are.”

I raise a brow. She knows whether she’s hungry or not but isn’t saying. Along with her repeated apologies and appreciation for the littlest things, I’m beginning to wonder if Hope has ever spoken her mind. But there was that moment in the woods where she snapped at me, and a completely soft person wouldn’t have the guts to run from their own wedding, so she’s got a spine in there somewhere. She needs to use it.

Pot, kettle. Black, much?

Yeah, but Sean and I are a completely different situation. Or maybe I’m just fooling myself and seeing in others what I refuse to see in myself.

I pull out the small snack tray that was left in the fridge for my arrival and set it on the counter before turning around. “It’s more Lunchable than charcuterie, but it fills a void. Beer or wine?” She’s got to have an opinion there.

“I’m fine.”

I harrumph and grab two beers. I pop the top on both, setting one on the counter to encourage her toward the food. After a moment, in which I take a solid swig of my own beer and simply look at her, Hope caves and approaches like a dog who’s been beaten and is scared the promise of food is a trick. It tugs at me inside ... and pisses me off.

How did she end up this way? Is it because of the guy she ran from? I hate men who use intimidation against women. It’s a sign of their own weakness, to need to bully someone that way. She said she’s worried her siblings might track down her fiancé, but I’m thinking maybe I could handle that for her instead. A solid lesson in how to be a good human would serve him right.

She takes a good swallow of her beer, long enough that I feel like she drinks the stuff occasionally.

“These are fucking delicious,” I tell her, hoping to entice her as I grab a toothpick holding a cheddar cheese cube. “I had a handful of them when I got here.”

She mimics my move, taking one and biting into it carefully. She chews slowly and hums. “Mm-hmm, they get these from the grocery store on Bennett Drive.”

Accepting the victory, I say, “Bring your beer.”

I’m taking charge here, for her own good. Because Hope’s day has been a shit show and I’m guessing she’s feeling some sort of way about it, but she needs a safe space to let those thoughts free. I move toward the living room, dropping the snacks on the coffee table before plopping down on the couch. I gesture to the chair where I’ve been sitting to play guitar. It’s warm, brown leather, with arms that’re perfect to lean against, and it’s situated right by the window. Seems like a great place to fall apart, given the fact that I’ve done it for the past few days, in my own way.

“I think I owe you a life story,” I remind her.

Do I want to share? Abso-fucking-lutely not. But is she going to jump right in and spill her guts to a stranger? Also no. I can give her an edited version that’ll keep my identity safe and help her feel more comfortable. Maybe it’s just pop psych therapy, but that’s about all I can offer.

Light comes into her blue eyes, and a warning alarm sounds in my brain. She’s dangerous. I could tell her things nobody knows just to bring that life into her.

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