Page 45 of Secret Nights and Northern Lights
After he pours us each a full glass, we sit at the table opposite each other, the air thick and heavy while we both pretend to eat.
“We’re really not going to talk about it then?” Ben finally says, pushing his plate away.
I swallow a bite of pasta and take a long sip of wine. “Talk about what?”
“Hmm, I don’t know, Ems,” he answers dryly. “Take your pick. The way we had our hands all over each other last night,that kiss in the ravine today, or maybe”—the corner of his mouth flicks upward into the most aggravating, sexy smirk—“what you were doing in the shower when I arrived.”
My fork slips from my hand and clatters loudly against the ceramic plate, splattering pasta sauce all over my T-shirt. “Benjamin Harrison Carter!”
Laughing, he holds up both hands. “Okay, sorry. We won’t go there.”
I shoot him a reproachful look that screams,You’re damn right we’re not going there, while I futilely dab at my shirt with a paper towel.
“Let me take you somewhere,” he says then.
“What? Right now?”
“Right now.”
I don’t know if that’s a good idea. “Ben, I already showered. I don’t want to get dressed in all those layers again.”
He stands from the table, a look of determination tightening his jaw. “You don’t have to. Just throw on your coat and your sneakers. We won’t stay long.Please?”
With a resigned sigh, I nod, knowing there’s no way I can say no to Ben with the big, round puppy-dog eyes he’s giving me right now. I move from the table and slip on my sneakers and grab my heavy coat, and right before we head for the door, I down the remainder of my full glass of wine.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, Ben and I sit on a blanket he borrowed from the hotel suite on the black sand shore of Reynisfjara beach.At this hour, dusk fades closer to twilight, and there are only a few other visitors out, mostly gathered at the cliff comprised of basalt columns to climb the steep vertical stones and pose for photos. Ben and I weren’t supposed to explore this beach until tomorrow morning before we head farther east on our journey, but I don’t think this visit is about the job. He didn’t even bring his camera.
I gaze across the vast expanse of ocean and let out a long, peaceful exhale, pulling my legs into my chest and resting my chin on my knees, the sound of the crashing waves lulling me into a state of languor. The smooth rounded stones and gritty black sand make for an aesthetically luring coastline, but like most things that have no business being as beautiful as they are, there’s a danger lurking unseen. Sneaker waves have been known to take unsuspecting tourists by surprise on this beach, so one must always keep their guard up or risk getting swept to sea. Ben and I sit far enough away from the shoreline to stay out of harm’s way.
“Ems, I know I screwed things up back then,” Ben says softly and out of nowhere. My head jolts in his direction, but he keeps his gaze fixed on the horizon. “I know I hurt you. Badly. And I know I have no right after what I did to ask you to forgive me, but I think we have to talk about it. And about what’s happening between us now.”
Tears flood my eyes as my throat and chest simultaneously constrict, which is exactly why I don’t want to talk about this. Ben’s correct about one thing—he doesn’t have the right to ask for my forgiveness. So why keep bringing this up?
Anger simmers under my skin, mixing with years-old hurt, and when I speak, my words are clipped with resentment. “Fine,you want to talk about it so badly? Let’s talk about it then. You hurt me in a way that no one has ever hurt me before or since. You were the first person I loved, Ben, and you broke my heart so completely that still to this day, I can’t fully trust another man. Because how could I when theoneperson I thought I knew better than anyone else, the person that I cared about for my whole entire life, my goddamn best friend, ripped my world apart in a two-minute conversation and then literally disappeared as if he’d never existed. So, there you have it, that’s the end of the story. As far as what’s happening between us now, that’s called getting caught up in physical attraction.”
The second I say those last words, I know they don’t feel right from the way they settle heavy in my stomach like I swallowed a brick. But fourteen years’ worth of resentment isn’t easily overcome.
Ben turns to me, watching with pain in his eyes as I swipe my tears away with the sleeve of my coat. “If you’ll just let me explain. Please?”
Scoffing, I shake my head. “Oh, you want to explainnow? Where was the explanation when I showed up on your doorstep that next day? Or for the entirety of our senior year when you ghosted not only me, but my entire family?”
“I never wanted—”
“I don’t want to hear it!” I snap, ashamed my pent-up anger is surfacing on a public beach, even if no one is close enough to decipher my words. “You were everything to me, Ben. Fuckingeverything. That summer was the best summer of my life. I know it’s dumb because we were just kids, but I thought you were my person.” My voice falters, and my next words are nothing morethan a broken whisper. “I really thought we were going to get married someday. And I thought you felt the same way I did.” I pause, swallow past the painful lump in my throat. “I thought you cared about me.”
“It isn’t dumb, andof courseI care about you,” Ben says, voice strained like he’s been sucker-punched. “But I—”
“But nothing, Ben.” I rise to my feet, needing an escape from this conversation while I still have any chance of surviving it. “When you care about someone, you don’t sleep with them on their seventeenth birthday and then never speak to them again!”
I storm off in the direction of the car, my feet unable to transport me over the gritty black sand fast enough.
Ben doesn’t try to catch up to me, so I suppose I’ve managed to officially squash this conversation once and for all. For whatever that’s worth. Which right now, with tears spilling down both cheeks and an inconceivable ache throbbing throughout my entire core, doesn’t feel like a whole hell of a lot.
* * *
Back in my hotel room, alone, I clean up the remnants of our barely touched dinner and start to pour myself another glass of wine. Then I think,What the hell, and lift the entire bottle to my lips like an anarchist. Pinot floods my mouth and spills down my old T-shirt, but it’s already covered in pasta sauce anyway, so I ignore the wet spot and flip open my laptop.
