CHAPTERELEVEN
Becca
I stand at the window of the hotel, looking out at the street below. Dad didn’t want to get an Air BnB. He said he didn’t want anywhere homey, not until he’d chosen somewhere to set up permanently.
“Plus,” he added, tapping the side of his nose, “the company’s paying.”
The evening is cool and crisp. The stars stare down, and I wonder where Ben is; as his voice sets my veins to burning, the thought of him makes my body tingle.
I refocus my eyes, studying my expression in the glass. It’s taken a lot for me to work up to this point, formulate this plan, and build up my resolve.
It’s simple. Ben is never going to want what I want.
Maybe he wants a fling, some quick sex, some dangerous fun.
But all the love, joy, happiness, and the future, the life? He doesn’t want that. He can’t, not so quickly. And even if he did – which he won’t, ever – there’s no way we can act on this.
“Okay….”
He trails off, his voice gruff, giving nothing away.
It’s impossible for me to tell if he’s angry or interested or what. Only the way he said my name, just now, was heavy with emotion. It was like he was as happy to hear my voice as I was to hear his.
But now, I’m not sure if I imagined that part.
I have to end this before it begins.
“Has Alex invited you to the dinner yet?” I ask, turning and pacing up and down my room.
My hand is shaking. My chest feels like it’s too tight from the way my heart keeps pounding. I wish it would slow down, just like I wish my body would stop pouring sweat.
My core screams inside of me, telling me I’m making a mistake. I need to stop. I can’t end things with Ben.
But what am I ending, really?
“Yeah,” Ben said. “I’m guessing he’s invited you too.”
I drop onto the end of the bed, staring at the carpet – the fabric shifts and wobbles from side to side. I wipe at my face, at the stupid, pointless tears, making the whole room shimmery.
“I was thinking about it,” I say.
“The party?”
“What else?” I snap, with way too much anger in my voice. “We’re going to be…well, it’s going to be awkward, isn’t it?”
A pause. I wonder what he’s thinking?
Is it about a little boy or girl, with his eyes and my hair and a combination of our laughter? Does our child have a camera on a strap around their neck, their face bright with a stunning smile?
I smooth my hand over my belly, telling myself I can’t feel it, the way my gut tightens, as though hinting at a life he’s going to give me one day.
“I guess it could,” he mutters.
“But we can’t let that happen,” I say quickly. “We have to do everything to, sort of, well….”
This is the part I’ve been building up to, the part when I tell him we have to end whatever this is. But now the moment’s here; the words won’t come out. It’s like there’s a blockage inside of me.
It’s like there’s a small piece of me that thinks this can work. When it can’t. Ever.