Marx Girl

“Tell me more about you.” I smile.

Ben’s brow furrows and his back straightens.

“Not much to tell.” He sips his wine. “Tell me about your job. How long have you been there?”

I watch him as I sip my wine. It’s classic Ben to change the subject to be about me whenever I ask him anything about his life.

I raise my eyebrows. “Well, my job is great.”

He sips his beer, watching me intently. I smile into my wine glass. I had forgotten this about Ben. When I say something, he really listens. I remember the big conversations we used to have late at night about my hopes and dreams, and I wonder if I did all the talking back then, too.

He seems to know every detail about me, but I know absolutely nothing about him. “But my boss is a complete bitch,” I add.

He smiles cheekily and raises his eyebrow in question.

I shake my head. “I don’t know, I think she’s going through the tunnel or something. One minute I’m the best employee she has, and the next minute I’m on her shit list.”

He rolls his lips to stop himself from smiling. “Only you that she hates?” he questions.

I shake my head. “Oh no, she hates everyone at one time or another, every day. We all want a dartboard in the lunchroom, with her face as the bullseye.”

His smile does break through this time.

I shrug. “It’s a great job and I get to travel the world, so I just have to put my head down and go to lunch at one every day.” I smile into my wine glass. “I’m hoping she gets head-hunted real soon by a large opposition company.” I sip my wine. “Or a cannibal pigmy,” I add dryly.

He holds his beer up and we clink glasses

My eyes hold his. “Tell me about your family,” I say.

His face falls. “Not much to tell.” He shrugs.

“Where do they live?” I’m so curious about his family. I’ve often wondered about them.

His gaze drops to the table.

I wait for a while and a frown crosses my face.

He stays silent. I can see that he’s struggling with something internally.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” He forces a smile.

“Ben…”

“Can we change the subject? I don’t really like talking about my family.”

“Why not?”

His eyes stay fixed onto the tablecloth.

“Ben.” I grab his hand over the table. “Didn’t we just have this conversation about you talking to me?”

He nods subtly.

“How can I get to know you if you won’t tell me anything?” I ask softly.

“I just…” He pauses.

“You just what?”

“It will just change the way you see me.”

I squeeze his hand as I wait for him to talk. What’s he on about?

God, this man is mercurial.

“Nothing could change the way I see you,” I whisper softly. “Why would you even think that?”

His eyes search mine and I know he wants to believe me.

“This is one of those times, Ben, when you need to talk to me and let me in. How can I get to know you better if you don’t tell me anything about yourself?” I smile softly, and gently squeeze his hand.

He watches me for a moment, and I can see his internal battle with himself until, eventually, he replies.

“My sister died when she was twelve.”

My face falls.

“She was abducted.” He gets this sad look in his eyes.

What?

Oh, my God.

“Oh, Ben,” I whisper. “I ‘m so sorry. ” I squeeze his hand. “How old were you when this happened?”

“Twelve.”

I frown as I do the math.

“We were twins,” he says softly.

Tears fill my eyes. Dear God.

“My father took his own life twelve months later. He blamed himself, and couldn’t live with the guilt.”

I squeeze his hand that bit tighter because I don’t know what to say.

Ben stays silent.

“And your mother?” I eventually whisper.

“She enrolled me in the army when I was fifteen.”

“So young?”

His eyes meet mine. “She was dying of cancer and she knew the army would take care of me.”

I blink to try and stop the tears as I picture a fifteen-year-old boy all alone in the world. The lump in my throat gets so big I can hardly hold it.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” I whisper as tears fill my eyes.

His gaze drops back to the table.

We sit in silence for a moment as I try to process what he’s just told me. What I do say now?

“Thank you for telling me,” I eventually say. I wanted to know his history, but now that I do know it I feel guilty for making him think about it.

He nods once, his eyes downcast.

I watch him struggle—this big, beautiful, dominant man—and now I see him so clearly… a scared fifteen-year-old boy. It breaks my heart that he hasn’t told me any of this before now. I need to change the subject, but I’m too rattled to even try.

He watches me, as if expecting me to run, and I scramble around in my bag for a tissue.