Page 27 of Between the Blue
What?
Apparently the half of a second it takes me to process this information is too long for James’s–Ben’s?– patience, however. He drops my hand, turning away from me.
But it’s pointless, because I move to stand right in front of him again.
“But your gym bag…” I trail off. “It says James on it.”
He looks down at me, his eyes flicking between my own. “That’s my last name,” he says.
We stare at each other for a moment, silence falling between us.
“You have two first names?” I finally blurt out.
His eyes squint, and he slides his headphones back on his head. I’m sure he’s not going to give me an answer to my dumb question, but then I hear him mutter, “Ben is short for Bennett. So, if you consider that a first name, then yeah. I guess.”
“Oh,” I breathe.
It’s not much to continue a conversation with, so he takes the easy out, pivoting around me and walking off. I blink a few times before I spin around, catching him by the arm.
“You just let me call you the wrong name for the last three weeks?”
His body goes rigid for a few seconds before he finally turns to look at me. But he doesn’t say anything.
“Ben?” I question him.
Something odd flashes across his face before he flexes his jaw.
“I didn’tletyou do anything,” he practically growls, yanking his arm from my grasp. “I think I’ve made it clear more than once that I have no interest in you calling me anything at all.”
My spine steels as my head pulls back.
Ben steps away from me, sitting back down on his bench as I continue to stare at him, speechless. He starts to put his headphones on, but then pauses as his gaze flicks up to me.
“Are you okay?” he suddenly asks.
I blink at him. “What?”
“You look like you’re getting a little worked up.”
I shake my head, an incredulous scoff bursting out of me. “I’m not worked up,” I lie.
“Are you sure?” he questions me.
I throw my hands in the air, utterly in a daze from the mental whiplash this man is giving me.
“Because your face is getting all red,” he says, lifting his chin towards me. “Almost like …” he trails off, tilting his head, “a cherry.”
My lips part, but before I can retort, he pops his headphones over his ears, laying back on his bench and beginning his next set of presses without another word.
I have half a mind to storm over and rip a plate off of one side and watch as he flails with the unbalanced bar, but, instead, I find my feet turning in the direction of the locker room.
He’s not worth it. And I only have five minutes left of my workout anyways.
As I tear through the weight room and down the stairs, a thought suddenly occurs to me.
People are my thing.
But can he even be counted as a person?
