Page 69 of Secret Nights and Northern Lights
By the time we make the drive back to Akureyri, the sun has set for the day, but we manage to find an open market five minutes before closing time and quickly pick out sandwiches from the deli to take back to the condos. After last night, being completely alone with Ben should be easy, a welcome relief even, but as soon as we walk into the quiet condo, tension permeates the air. Things feel not exactly awkward—because it’s Ben. But also, they’re notnotawkward either—again, because it’s Ben.
Needing to clear my head, I announce I’m going to shower before we eat, further unsettled when all Ben does is nod like he’s not even listening. I slip upstairs and gather my clothing, then head into the bathroom and turn on the water. Once I’m under the hot spray, tension melts from my body, but anxiety still churns within.
There’s a chance this could all be in my head. Ben didn’t feel well earlier, maybe he still doesn’t. Or maybe he’s in his head as much as I am. What happened between us last night was certainly monumental—can I blame him for being shaken up today?Twenty-four hours is just long enough to doubt your entire belief system.
I know from experience.
It’s not fair to him for me to draw the parallels between then and now, but it’s almost impossible not to. Just like the instant I flipped open that pizza box last night, I knew the second Ben slipped into my bedroom the night of my seventeenth birthday that everything was about to change. I just had no way of knowing how drastically.
Ben sat on the side of my bed that late-August night and held out a velvet box that fit in the palm of his hand. Opening it, I pulled out a thin gold chain with a delicateMcharm that I knew must have cost way too much of the money he earned working at The Boathouse all summer. I remember how timid he was when he asked if I liked it, how my heart overflowed when I swore to him Ilovedit.
What I really meant was that I lovedhim. Too scared to say it outright, I pulled him between my sheets, kissing him as if I could say it with my body instead. When we reached the point where we usually drew the line, I instead persisted, Ben whisperingAre you sure?in my ear at least three times. But I had never been more certain of anything in my life. Whether or not it had been vocalized, I loved Ben. And Iknewhe loved me, too.
Everything about my first time was greater than I could have imagined. The complete trust I had in Ben. The way he told me how beautiful I was over and over again. The magical new collision of pleasure and pain. Afterward, he held me for as long as possible, until the sun started to shine through my window and he had to leave or risk being caught when someone woke up.
I finally fell asleep that morning with my fingers pressed against theMat my collarbone, dreaming of marrying Ben Carter one day.
Only to wake up later that afternoon to a series of text messages that flipped my world upside down.
Ben Carter
I’m so sorry, Ems.
I don’t think I can see you anymore.
It’s nothing you did. It’s me.
I’m so sorry.
Instantly nauseated, I threw off the covers, hurriedly dressed, and ran downstairs, hoping he was still at my house. He wasn’t. He also wasn’t answering my calls or responding to the texts I fired off asking him what the hell he was talking about. I called The Boathouse. He wasn’t working, either. So I did the only other thing I knew to do. I ran down the street to his house.
His red pickup was in the driveway. And for a moment, one stupid, fleeting moment, I thought everything was going to be okay. This was a misunderstanding, that’s all. There was no way Ben really meant he didn’t want to see me again, not after last night. I pounded on the door of a house I’d never been to, and minutes later when he stepped outside and pulled the door closed behind him, I knew as soon as he looked at me, his green eyes eerily vacant, that he meant what he’d said.
Still, I stayed on that porch for god only knows how long, pleading with him, telling him I was sorry if I did somethingwrong, that whatever had happened was fixable. But his expression remained empty, as if he weren’t even there, as if he couldn’t even hear me. At least until I said what I’d been holding back all summer. That I loved him. When I said those words, he paled as if I’d slapped him instead.
I remember the tears streaming down my cheeks when reality set in that he wasn’t changing his mind. The way I yanked off the necklace he’d just given me and forced it into his palm. The way the only words he seemed to have for me wereI’m so sorry.
When I left his house that day with my heart utterly shattered, I didn’t know that would be the last time I’d see Ben Carter until he walked into Calvin’s office fourteen years later. There was no way then to foresee that he’d disappear altogether. His cell phone number would be disconnected. He wouldn’t come to the house anymore. He’d quit his job at The Boathouse. He even stopped coming to school. Rumors swirled that he’d dropped out, became addicted to drugs, maybe even was a missing person.
Ben Carter became a ghost, and he haunted me every single goddamn day.
I couldn’t function for months. Couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, cut all ties with my friends and let my grades drop. Everyone knew something was wrong with me, but since we’d kept our relationship a secret, no one knew what that thing was. I didn’t have anyone to talk to, and what’s worse was listening to my father and brothers unknowingly and relentlessly talk about Ben in front of me. Inquiring where he was and what could have happened and why he didn’t come around anymore. And I had to sit there—knowing my brothers were confused and hurting, too,even if they were too proud to admit it—riddled with guilt that it was somehow all my fault.
A knock on the bathroom door startles me.
“Ems, you okay?” Ben’s voice calls through the door. “You’ve been in there for a really long time.”
“Yeah, I’m okay,” I call back, shaking off the painful memories I can still feel viscerally. “Just relaxing, that’s all.”
But when I reach for the shampoo bottle, my hand trembles.
By the time I make it downstairs, Ben is plating our deli sandwiches and chips at the kitchen island. He’s dressed in a black shirt and dark jeans, the golden ends of his wet hair gleaming in the overhead lighting.
“Hey,” he says at my appearance. “I went ahead and showered down here.”
“Oh. Okay.” I twist my hands in my oversize tee and take a seat at the counter. Despite the things Ben said, it’s entirely possible that last night didn’t mean to him what it did to me. Maybe while I’ve been realizing I’m in love with Ben again, he’s been realizing what happened between us last night was a mistake. Just like fourteen years ago.
It doesn’t help my inner turmoil that we eat mostly in silence, with Ben making occasional comments about the photos he thinks will work for the article so far. After we finish, he clears our plates, and I meander over to the glass door and stare out at the city lights across the water, still trying to shake the memories from upstairs and regain that elusive, mystical feeling of being an ocean away from home and at total peace.
