I’d talked Ben into helping me with biology and calculus, all the while not-so-secretly crushing on him. He never really responded to my crush, so I left prep school feeling like a fool. Only recently did I understand that he’d liked me back then, but pride kept him from acting on his feelings.
In those days, I’d been nice, befriending him in private. But outside of that, we were from two different worlds and not meant to associate. Ben had tried to hide his hurt and disappointment, but his feelings were pretty transparent. Except, I thought he liked me like a friend.
The final blow to our non-relationship was when he took me to the prom. Bradley Burnett had dumped me two weeks before the dance, and I was desperate, so Ben had been nice enough to pick up the slack.
Across the counter from me, Ben cleared his throat once, then again, yanking me out of my walk down memory lane.
“Murph—look, it’s nice running into you. And yeah, I live nearby. I work at the hospital over in Montpelier and have an office in town. In fact, I have to get to the office to see a few patients right now. That doesn’t mean I don’t wish I had time for your theories on why I didn’t stay in the city. I certainly have my own as to why you’re slumming it in a coffee shop in the middle of nowhere. But, really, I have to get back to the hospital.”
“Sure. Sorry, it was just so nice to see you.”
My head felt congested like when spring allergies first come on. A dull ache throbbed in my forehead and ears, the kind of ache that lingered. I wondered why Ben was here in Colebury—at least a half hour from Montpelier—while his blue eyes urgently bore into me, trying to tell me something telepathically. Maybe he simply wanted me to leave him alone.
“Um, my Americano?”
My cheeks burst into flames. “Right. I’m on it.”
Forcing myself to look down at the counter, I made the drink. At least this wasn’t an order I could mess up. My thoughts, typically a jumbled mess of espresso drink recipes, was now swirling with memories of Ben then compared to the reality of Ben now . . . this new version of him.
When I handed him the reusable mug, he tightened the cap and said, “Thanks. You didn’t try to poison me, did you?”
Swallowing my pride, I shook my head. “Of course not. I would never. Plus, Zara wouldn’t be too happy with that. She’s a good one,” I said, the last part a whisper. She’d given me a chance, after all.
“At one time, you did try.” He raised a brow, alluding to the badly spiked punch at Burnett’s after-prom party.
I’d felt compelled to go to that stupid party, determined to show my ex what a good time I was having with Ben. Except, poor Ben got sick and spent the evening puking, and I was at a loss about what to do with him. I’d never been very good at putting anyone else first. After all, I’d never had to.
Ben took a long sip of his coffee, mesmerizing me with the bob of his Adam’s apple. He cleared his throat, drawing my attention away from his corded neck. “Not bad.”
Take that, Little Miss Perfect.
“Wow. Murphy Landon. In the Busy Bean. On the opposite side of the counter than I bet you’re used to being, huh? Tell you the truth, I’d never thought I’d see the day. You doing this,” he waved his hand at the counter, “right here in Vermont.”
He stared at me with equal parts fascination and contempt, probably because I let him get rip-roaring drunk and make a fool of himself way back when.
“It’s an honest job,” I said, “and I happen to need it. Anyway, I thought you were in a hurry, but now you have time to make fun of me?”
I frowned at him, feeling the need to defend myself when I didn’t owe Ben a single thing. After all, I’d come to believe that he hadn’t always been honest with me. Not to mention, Ben was just as guilty about lumping me into stereotypes as I had done with him. Right?
“Oh, I’m sure you need this gig. Like you needed good grades in high school, as if you weren’t going to get into the Ivy League from Pressman. Aw, sorry.”
He ran his free hand through his hair. It happened to be his left, and I made the mistake of noting he wasn’t wearing a wedding band.
“I don’t mean to be rude,” he said. “This is such a shock, seeing you here, and I’m not handling it well. You look good, Murph. Nice to see you. Honestly. I mean it,” he said, holding a hand up as if he were swearing to it.
Mugs were piling up down the counter for me to fill with drinks, but I couldn’t take my eyes off Ben. He thinks I look good? What does “good” mean?
“Good seeing you too,” I said. “Looks like you’re doing well.”
Ignoring my comment and obvious assumption of his status, he said, “I just have to know one thing. Have you had some of the real maple syrup yet? You always were fascinated with it in school.” His lips tipped up into a smile and he chuckled, and he might have sort of winked.
Is he being playful now?
Either way, I couldn’t stop the genuine smile spreading across my face. “From your family’s farm, actually. I saw a big table of it at the farmers’ market when I first got here.”
I stopped for a second and tried to think how long it had been, then I remembered fleeing from New York before the semester ended. I’d left my boss in a tizzy, but my sanity was more important at the time.
“It was back at
