Page 108 of Beautifully Conflicted

I chance a look at Bennet, who’s still looking like a deer in headlights, and do my best to keep diffusing things. “I’ll just grab…yeah.”

Darting to my room, I grab the first two pairs of sweats I can find, hopping into one pair and taking the other to Bennet. The flaw in my plan becomes obvious when he gets his good leg in but can’t reach his foot with his leg wrapped, and I end up not only feeding his foot into the pant leg but helping him stand and pulling the sweats over his hips in a move that’s clearly well-rehearsed.

Thank God, I didn’t smack him on the butt like I usually do when I help him dress.

Not that it would’ve changed anything. The damage has been done, if the glare Bennet’s dad is sending our way is any indication.

“How long has this been going on?” His voice is eerily level, a forced calm that I’m guessing will snap at the slightest provocation. A quick peek at his mom reveals nothing—she appears just as frozen as my boyfriend is—leaving me more than a little panicked about how this is going to play out.

My gaze darts to Bennet, looking for cues, my lips pressed firmly shut so I don’t answer for him and make things worse. His Adam’s apple dips as he swallows, though to his credit he seems to stand a little taller before speaking, a slight movement that makes him wobble on one leg and has me putting a hand on his waist to steady him. Still, his voice is clear when he says, “A few months, give or take.”

Bennet’s dad clicks his throat, giving us a critical once over. There’s less disgust in his expression than I anticipated, but the disdain is evident. “You know my feelings about this.”

“I do.” Bennet takes my hand in his, and while that little gesture sends my heart into overdrive, outwardly I’m the picture of calm. A friggin’ rock, ready to hold my man up if needed.

“But you don’t care.”

“I do. A lot, actually. And I’m really hoping you don’t ask me to choose, Dad, because you won’t like my answer. Iwantyou in my life, but IneedDamien in it, too.”

Bennet’s mom gasps, like the magnitude of the situation just hit her, and she reaches out to put a hand on her husband’s arm. “John,” she whispers.

But John doesn’t acknowledge her, just shakes his head at his son almost imperceptibly, as if Bennet isn’t worthy of any more effort. As ifJohn’sthe one who has the right to be offended.

“Let’s go Irene.” He spins away from us and puts a hand on his wife’s back, nudging her toward the door. Yet, her head keeps swinging between the three of us as if she wants to speak but can’t find the words.

Next to me, Bennet’s face is draining of color, his hand becoming clammy in mine as his eyes take on a vacant quality. I’m literally watching his heart break, and despite the hatred I want to feel toward his father for that, my own chest grows increasingly hollow as I watch my boyfriend’s world crumble, as if our linked hands enable me to experience his despair.

“He’ll forgive you,” I call after Bennet’s dad, who pauses right before walking out the open door. “When you realize the mistake you’ve made and apologize, he’ll forgive you. That’s the kind of man he is.”

John steps into the hall without ever looking back, Irene’s muffled sob echoing through the apartment even after the door clicks shut.

Neither of us move for what feels like an eternity. Bennet’s too stunned, and I’m too afraid of triggering him in ways I don’t know how to fix. So, we stand there, staring at the door, until Bennet finally whispers, “Did that really happen?”

“Yeah, Lucy.” I give his fingers a reassuring squeeze. “It did.”

When Bennet finally brings his eyes to mine, they’re a little glassy, but no tears are ready to fall. “You should probably get to class,” he murmurs.

“Fuck that. You’re more important.”

He tries to smile, but barely gets the corner of his lip to turn up. “I don’t feel very important right now.”

“That’s why I’m not going anywhere.” I lie on the couch, tugging his arm to get him to follow suit, and help get his leg propped on a few pillows before tucking his head into my chest. For the second time, in less than a week, I hold my boyfriend while he tries to reconcile another loss.

Bennet

Hours later, I’m not even sure how many, I still haven’t moved from the couch. Neither has Damien, dutifully holding me together in every sense of the word.

I’m pretty sure it’s the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest under my cheek, his arms wrapped securely around me, that have kept me anchored to something resembling hope instead of spiraling into a black hole of self-pity. I don’t even marvel at that anymore, wondering how the hell he became so vital to me when I was determined to hate him just a few months ago. I just know I don’t want to do life without him.

That even though our life might have more adversity than I ever wanted to take on, it’s also going to have more joy and laughter and unconditional love. All the things he’s brought me just by being who he is.

It’s a comforting thought amid the raw wound my parents left behind. A wound that’ll probably hurt even more once the full scope of our confrontation sets in. Truthfully, the confrontation itself was quite a bit tamer than I was anticipating.

“I expected him to yell,” I confess as Damien’s fingers sift through my hair, which they’ve been doing ever since he brought me to thecouch. “I was ready for anger. Ready to yell back. I didn’t expect the cold detachment.”

Damien’s hand stills, probably a reflex given I haven’t said a word until just now, then resumes with an even softer touch. “I’m not sure one would be better than the other, but at least this way neither of you said anything that would be hard to forgive.”

“He basically disowned me,” I object.

---