“You can have Ben and help us, you know. It’s not an either-or scenario. There’s plenty of people who date who are single parents. Or are coparents. Or whatever.” Emily shrugs a shoulder. “Wouldn’t you want me to have a partner?”
“Well, sure—”
“You wouldn’t think less of me for dating, would you?”
“No!”
“Then I’m not sure what you’re looking for, but he sounds very much like someone worth getting to know more. In my humble opinion.”
My phone chimes then. Somehow the arsehole knows I’m talking about him. His ears must be burning somewhere out there.
Arrived early in Cardiff. B xxx
“Shit. It’s Ben. He’s here. Well, not Swansea-here. But in Cardiff.”
Emily considers me, tapping her lips with her fingers. “Have him stop by. You can go out for a drink and talk after.”
“Here?” I do a double-take. My voice climbs.
“Why not? I’m curious to meet this man for myself. Would that help?”
“Maybe,” I relent.
“He’s important to you?”
Swallowing hard, I nod. “Very much.”
And that’s how I end up texting Ben to come to Emily’s house.
Chapter Forty-Eight
By the time Ben turns into the driveway at Emily’s, I’m fighting back every instinct that screams panic attack. I breathe. I do grounding exercises. I pick five things around me to focus on.
The soft moss green of the curtains. The firmness of the stripped pine floorboards under my feet. The scent of Emily’s fresh-baked scones. The foam of the sea as seen from the windows of the entry. The sound of Emily talking to Carys in the background.
Through the window of the front door, I watch Ben get out of Posh Van. He has black and purple streaks in his hair and is wearing his familiar beat-up leather moto jacket. He pauses to take in the sea view. Probably to take a breath of the ocean air too.
My heart lands in the vicinity of my mouth as I watch him.
Do I stay here and wait for him to come to the house? Do I go to him?
Instinct takes over and I head outside into the crisp afternoon air. The sun peeks through breaks in dove gray cloud banked overhead. Walking past the hedge, lush even at the end of January, I approach Ben. My stomach careens.
Why does the man cause a full systemic reaction?
He looks just as tentative as he approaches me, but he brightens as he searches my eyes. What he’s looking for, I don’t know. If he’s seeking a man who can’t even talk, he’s found it right here.
“I’ve missed you.” Ben’s voice wavers.
I gulp. Shit. He’s supposed to be the composed one.
“Missed you too,” I say. I press my fists inside my overcoat pockets.
Wind ruffles our hair, the splatter of rain like slices of ice. Even so, neither of us moves. Neither of us dares. Like this moment is sacred as we take stock of each other.
Ben’s face is drawn, white under freckles. Like the man’s not been sleeping well, he has shadows beneath his eyes.
It’s hard to remember a time before Ben. The promise of him, the tease of him so close like a fire that burns underground in winter, waiting for the promise of spring. But I’m fairly certain we can turn our own seasons.
