King of the Court

He leans forward, and I think he’s about to drop his hand on top of mine, to give me comfort, but I pull it away before he can, fisting my hands on my lap.

“The house”—my childhood home—“was ruined, and it’s fine because she needed to be in a facility anyway.” My words are tumbling out of me quick as lightning now. “I left college to help take care of her, so there you have it. That’s why I’m here in Pine Hill.”

There’s a beat of silence before he utters a quiet apology.

“I’m sorry.”

God, why do comforting words from a near stranger have the ability to unravel my steady facade? I’ve had all this anger burning inside me for the last few years, and there’s no one to take it out on, no one to hold accountable. I can’t sit down at this table with fate and demand answers, but Ben’s here, and his comforting words draw tears to the corners of my eyes. I try my damnedest to keep them right there though.

I sniff and look away.

Ben gives me relative privacy to gather myself by picking up his sandwich and taking a huge bite. He groans like it’s remarkably delicious.

“Now this is a world-class peanut butter and jelly. Wow, where’d you learn to cook like this?”

A relieved laugh bursts out of me, and I shake my head to let him know he’s being absolutely ridiculous. But he’s helping. I turn back, pick up my own sandwich, and take a bite, feeling the tension start to ease from my stomach.

He takes another bite and feigns utter ecstasy as his eyes roll back in his head.

“Where’d this bread come from? Some French bakery?”

I grin. “It’s just your standard white bread from Piggly Wiggly.”

He chokes on his bite. “That cannot be the name of a real place.”

“Piggly Wiggly? It sure is. No Trader Joe’s in Pine Hill.”

“What kind of food can you get there?”

While we eat the rest of our sandwiches, I regale him with stories about all Piggly Wiggly has to offer: live crawfish by the pound in late spring, cans of soda for less than a dollar, the best local jams and pickles and honey you can find.

He eats every lick of the PB&J I made him and cleans his own plate in the tiny sink, looking back at me after he dries it so I can tell him where it goes.

“Just up there on that shelf,” I say, pointing to the right of his head.

He lays it down carefully and then turns.

Standing in the middle of the trailer like that—tall and formidable—it’s funny to see how much space he takes up. I think he could easily stretch his arms out and touch both walls if he wanted to. I’d forgotten, momentarily, what a strange thing it is to have him in here with me. I’m always alone here at night.

The song of the cicadas and crickets pours in to fill the quiet as I finish my sandwich and stand to clean my plate. Ben’s still hovering by the sink, and he doesn’t budge when I come over.

He turns and props his hip against the counter, and I stare up at him with a quizzical brow.

When he doesn’t look away, I scrunch my nose. “What?”

“You’ve got peanut butter on your cheek.”

I swipe at it with my hand, and his devilish grin spreads wider.

Clearly, I didn’t get it.

The paper towel roll is mounted under the cabinet behind him, so I lean forward and yank off a sheet. My shoulder brushes his arm in the process, and that little bit of contact is too much. Alarm bells ring in my head. Every hair on my body seems to stand on end in warning. Tread lightly. This is not a man to trifle with. Ben is…a black hole. And I’d do well to remember that.

I wipe my cheek, and then wipe it again for good measure. Ben nods, takes the paper towel from my hand, bunches it up, and shoots it through the air like a basketball. As expected, it sails straight into the itty-bitty trash can sitting at the end of the counter.

“Showoff,” I tease, trying to play off the moment as I take a step back and cross my arms over my chest. It’s a defensive pose and I know that, but we’re in uncharted territory and I’m uncomfortable with all the possibilities that lie before us.

He said he wanted to see me home safely, and he has.

I made him a sandwich and he ate it up.

It’s time for him to leave.

Leave or…

He takes a step toward me. I step back. His dark lashes cluster together as he narrows his eyes, looking down at me with a question in his gaze.

Another step forward and another step back.

There’s no way around it. Evolution has programmed my brain to be wary of predators his size. He’s more bear than man. What do they feed these NBA players, anyway? Straight protein with an extra dose of steroids?