Page 37 of Only You and Me

I probably shouldn’t tell him this, but screw it, I’m about to be more vulnerable with him than I’m comfortable with, anyway. “It was your knock,” I answer, my voice barely above a whisper.

Ben’s breath hitches. “You remember my knock?”

I only shrug in response and head to my kitchen, expecting him to follow. “Do you want coffee? Then maybe we can sit on the back porch.”

“Sure,” he answers from behind me.

He leans against the granite countertop and watches me closely as I make our cups. After I pour them and move to put the creamer for mine away, he picks up both mugs. I could tell him I can carry my own, but it seems petty, so I simply lead the way to the back porch.

To his credit, Ben doesn’t pressure me to tell him what’s wrong. He simply sips his coffee, sneaking glances at me, and waits patiently for me to speak.

“So, someone has contacted me.” I wrap my hands around my warm mug to still them. It’s comfortable out for mid-May at sixty-five degrees and sunny. My porch roof keeps the sun from directly shining on us, though, so the hot coffee is nice.

“More flowers?” His voice is gentle, cautious.

“No. There were two more delivery attempts after we talked to the chief, but they were both declined. And after, there was nothing for about a week.”

As if there was a calendar up in the air in front of him, I watch as Ben’s eyes look up and move around and I can tell he’s working out the dates.

“A week? It should be two weeks if nothing has happened since the flowers stopped.”

I swallow past the lump in my throat. “Okay. Don’t be mad, but after a week I started getting hang up calls.”

I watch as Ben closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, and I appreciate that he’s not being a dick.

“How many? Five? Ten?”

“Thirty-two. In the last week. From two different numbers.”

Ben runs his hand through his hair and bites his lip. He stands and walks over to the porch railing, staring into the small backyard for a moment before he returns to his seat.

Right as he opens his mouth to speak, I blurt out, “That’s not all.”

* * *

BEN

I hold my fist over my mouth to keep from speaking as I stare down at the text messages on Trina’s phone. I’ve read the texts three times already and I’m concerned. Really fucking concerned.

Next to me, in my peripheral vision, I note Trina picking nervously at her cuticles.

Her voice is shaky when she says, “It’s bad, right?”

I set the phone on the small patio table between us and turn my body to face her. “I’m not going to lie to you, Trina. This really worries me.”

“Like on a scale of zero to ten, ten being the worst. How worried? Five?”

“More like an eight. Maybe nine.”

“Is that like a police detective eight? Or a personal eight?”

I narrow my eyes at her. “It’s a police detective eight. There’s not a scale high enough to measure my personal level of worry right now.”

She stares at me, not speaking for several long seconds. I watch her throat as she swallows what I imagine is a thick lump of discomfort at my confession.

“Hmm. Okay. I’ll keep that in mind. I’ll make sure I’m turning on the alarm system every night, then.”

I try really hard not to react to the fact that she implied she sometimes doesn’t turn on her alarm system. Jesus.

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