“I can’t breathe,” she murmured, taking in deep breaths. “Why? Why would you think that? Did you carry this grudge all these years? Why would you punish me for my parents pushing me so hard? They controlled me, and it didn’t go so well. Now I’m trying to spread my wings. Maybe a little late, but still . . . why would you think of me like that now? I thought you believed in me. I’m changing, Ben. Getting better.”
“I do believe in you. I just had to know you believed in me.”
“That’s not fair,” she choked out, rolling over to face the other way.
“Murph, look—”
“Don’t look me. I’m exhausted from the day and the cider. Let’s not talk anymore. Let’s just go to sleep and get through tonight, and then go home in the morning.”
“But, Murph . . .”
“No.”
Her voice was hoarse with tears, and I was too much of a nice guy to push further. I didn’t think I was wrong to protect myself, but Murphy obviously disagreed.
26
Murphy
The morning after Ben and I had sex at Scott’s was more awkward than the morning after prom.
We didn’t talk as I’d promised we would. Instead, I’d dressed as fast as I could in the clothes I’d worked in the day before, smoothing out the wrinkles and hoping I didn’t reek.
I’d looked more like a tired hag than someone doing the walk of shame while saying good-bye to Scott and thanking him for his hospitality. He made me promise to buy some of Griff’s cider. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I couldn’t possibly ever drink it again after the night I had.
Branson had been quiet for the majority of the ride home, probably dreading seeing his mom. I’d made up some excuse as to why I needed Ben to drop me off first—laundry day—and jumped out of the Jeep as soon as he pulled to a stop in front of my place. I did tell Branson it was nice meeting him and gave him a warm smile, but he just responded like a teenager with an apathetic chin lift.
Now, a week later, I was still avoiding seeing Ben.
It’s not like he tried very hard, texting me his partner had to travel out of town to care for an ailing parent and he was working overtime. He sent apologies and heartfelt expressions of his feelings, not to mention updates on Branson and helping him find some better activities, but Ben didn’t push to see me. Granted, I’d only texted back with Okay. No worries.
“The book club was so much fun,” Hunnie said as I sat on her couch, my head only half in the conversation. “Hey, what’s got you in knots? I know it can’t be working for me, because I love everything you do. Is Gigi giving you a hard time?” She leaned over and poked me in the shoulder. “I’m talking to you, babe. Where the heck are ya?”
“No, it’s not you. You feed me sweet, sticky goodness, so it could never, ever be you.” I brought a spoonful of honey to my mouth.
“Hey. That right there is top secret. I’m upping my game when it comes to the cinnamon honey. That little bite of nutmeg and clover really makes it pop, though, am I right? I’m warning you, though, don’t mention it to Gigi. She and Holden . . . they’re enough to handle without all the honey innuendo.”
“I think that’s you, Hunnie, with all the innuendo. Not Gigi.”
“Whatever. To-may-to, to-mah-to. One woman’s honey is another woman’s aphrodisiac.”
Laughing, I choked out, “Now, there’s a caption for a picture.”
“Maybe we could make stickers with that saying on it. Here’s your aphrodisiac . . . I mean honey. I could send them out with orders.”
“I was kidding, Hunnie.”
Sitting up straighter, I pushed all thoughts of Ben out of my head. “In all seriousness, we should pour it over oatmeal. Add some fresh apple chunks, sprinkle some cinnamon on top. It’s the perfect fall combination and will make a fab photo, and we’ll think of something a little more PG to say.”
“Yes.”
At the sound of the kettle whistling, Hunnie popped out of her chair. She poured two mugs of tea and put them on a tray with bottles of various honey infusions, then was back in a hurry. Once I had my tea in hand, she stared me down.
“Now tell me what the hell is irking you. The book club was a success. Gigi is gushing something ridiculous over the navy-blue-colored cupcakes . . . people are coming in and requesting them. The women want color-coordinated icing for their kids’ parties and sports teams and their own damn parties. Zara said at least five have already come in and asked when the next meeting is, and you gotta remember, this is Colebury. Five people means a hundred. Gossamer said they’re selling navy lingerie to go with the book. You’ve turned Colebury topsy-turvy, and you’re moping around.”
I shook my head at Hunnie. “Are you ever going to be quiet so I can answer?”
“I’ll shut up now,” she said, rolling her eyes.
“Ben and I had an argument.”
“Over what? I’m sure it was something silly. The guy’s a sticky puddle of goo when it comes to you. Did you ask Gigi about when I told her to lather Holden’s . . . you get my drift, right? I’m your boss, so I’m trying to be professional, but all she had to do was lick it off, and he was all Weekend at Bernie’s for a few hours. Catatonic, if you get my drift. Have you tried that?”
Before I could answer, someone knocked on Hunnie’s door, which never happened.
“Are you expecting someone?” I asked her. “Shoot, it’s Saturday night. Do you have a date?” Here I was feeling sorry for myself, not realizing maybe Hunnie had plans.
Not bothering to answer me, Hunnie got up and looked out the side window before opening the door. “Ben,” she said with surprise, like it was the
