I hadn’t seen much of Ben in January, since I’d had Dylan to focus on. Not much this month, either. Maybe he was seeing someone, because his truck didn’t pull in till late some nights. Or maybe he was just going to his own house, if the renters had left, that is.
The truth was, I liked having Ben in the studio. It wasn’t just that he was a good friend to Zeus, or my father’s best buddy. Seeing his light on, knowing he was awake when I got home, definitely took the edge off my loneliness. As did having a dog. As did seeing my sister more. As did knowing Dylan would be home for a good part of the summer, and that was just a couple of months from now.
But the surprising truth was that somewhere over the past six months, I had found that I liked living alone.
Go figure.
* * *
Later, the Land Ho! was crowded and festive as always, being one of the few affordable restaurants that was open year-round on the Outer Cape. We got the table under the “Mr. Speaker” sign (for Saint Tip O’Neill, our illustrious congressman from way back when) and ordered piles of fried food—scallops for me, clams for Ben—and drank Outermost IPA.
I told him about my recent dustup at the hospital, and he clinked his glass against mine. He described Zeus’s glee on the boat, sitting like a good dog on the bow, ears flapping, barking at the seals and leaving the scallops alone.
“Was my dad with you?” I asked.
“No. He hasn’t been coming out as often.”
“But the Goody Chapman is his truest love,” I said.
“I know.” Ben scratched his forehead. “I think he has a girlfriend.”
“I think so, too! He’s been weirdly evasive when I ask where he is. Tells me it’s none of my business, which is the first time in my life he’s kept a secret.” I ate another scallop. “Supporting the local fleet,” I said, and he grinned that crooked smile that showed the crow’s-feet around his blue eyes. Nice. “So who do you think it is?”
“No clue. But he asked me if there were any florists around the other day.”
“Really!”
“Yep.”
“Well, I didn’t get any flowers, and I’m pretty sure Hannah didn’t get any flowers . . .”
“The plot thickens,” Ben said.
“In all the years since the divorce, I don’t think he’s ever had a girlfriend. Or he’s a secretive old bastard and hasn’t told me.” I took a sip of beer. “How about you, Ben? You seeing anyone?”
He gave me the side-eye. “None of your business.”
I laughed. “So it’s a yes.”
“Actually, it’s a no. I’m too busy babysitting a recently divorced woman with a tendency to trap wild animals and release them in people’s houses.”
I laughed around my beer. “Who told you that? Not that I’m confirming such a preposterous story.”
“Hannah mentioned it.”
“Traitor. I still admit nothing. Hey, there’s a woman for you, Ben. My sister.”
He ate a french fry. “Nah. We’re just friends. Have been for too long to mess it up by dating.”
I remembered what Hannah had said about men telling her she wasn’t pretty enough. “But you think she’s attractive, right?”
“Sure. I like a tall woman.” He looked at me and winked, since I was short, and I kicked him under the table.
“So you never said anything to her, did you? About dating her?”
“No, I just told you. We’re friends, more or less. I saw a lot of her when she lived in Provincetown. She’d bring her friends down to the wharf and say hi to your dad. She’s good people, Hannah.”
The image of her visiting our father warmed my heart. I always assumed she ignored Dad as much as possible, since it fit the “us versus them” narrative I’d spun. But back to the current subject. “So why wouldn’t you date her? Friendship is a nice place to start, isn’t it?”
He frowned. “You fixing me up with your sister?”
“Just . . . a fishing expedition. See what I did there?”
He rolled his eyes. “I like Hannah. I have never had a negative thought about Hannah. I do not wish to date Hannah for the simple reason that, for one, the idea never crossed my mind until you shoved it in there tonight, and for two, I doubt I’m her type. Never got the vibe that she was interested, you know?”
I didn’t know. I thought everyone got the vibe from Ben. Those crinkly blue eyes, the hair that always seemed in need of a trim, the slow, bad-boy smile and ashy laugh.
I realized I was still looking at him and hadn’t answered.
“Hey, how was everything?” our server asked, and I jumped a little.
“Great,” Ben said. “What do you have for dessert?”
“Apple pie, blueberry pie, New York cheesecake, chocolate lava cake—”
“That one!” I said. “Please.”
“And you, sir?”
“I’ll just share hers,” he said.
“The hell you will,” I said. “Two chocolate lava cakes, please.”
The dessert was orgasmically fantastic, and by the time I was done, I was thinking about unbuttoning my jeans and/or ordering another one. Instead, I wrestled Ben for the check.
“I asked you,” I said. “Consider it your babysitting fee.”
“It’s Valentine’s Day. Let me get this.”
“How sexist of you.” I paused. “Is it really Valentine’s Day?”
“Yes, Lillie.” He looked at me patiently.
“Huh. That explains all the hearts in the hospital cafeteria.”
“You’re so observant.”
“Shut up. Well. Happy Valentine’s Day.” With that, I snatched the check triumphantly and held on to it until the waitress came and took my credit card.
“Thank you, Lillie,” Ben said.
“You’re very welcome. Thanks for hanging out with me.”
Outside it was snowing a little, and it looked so pretty that Ben and I stopped to watch the flakes. Suddenly, a BMW sedan going way too fast pulled into a space, nearly grazing us. The license plate said CHSAFRM. I’d seen that before, hadn’t I? Something about farms . . .
The door opened, and Chase Freeman got out.
The boy who had tried to rape me.
I froze. In all the years since that night, I had not seen Chase Freeman. I’d spent the rest of the school year in the hospital and my summer had been consumed with physical therapy. He graduated, I started my senior year, and though we both went to school in Boston, Harvard and Emmanuel weren’t exactly in the same circles. It had been years and years since I’d thought of him.
But here he was. The license plate spelled his name. No farm involved.
I was suddenly very glad Ben was with me.
“You might want to slow down, buddy,” Ben said easily.
“You might want to mind your own business,” Chase said. He’d put on about fifty pounds since high school, and his face was bloated and red from drinking. He glanced at me and did a double take.
“Lillie Silva. Well, well, well. It’s been a long time.”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t answer. But I was shaking, I realized, and not because of the cold. Chase didn’t notice. “Oh, and hey. It’s Ben . . . Ben something, right? Soccer championship at Nauset High?”
Ben didn’t answer, either. He was looking at me.
“Whatever,” Chase said, snapping the collar of his coat. He looked me up and down slowly. “Luscious Lillie. Good to see you remember me.”
“Lillie?” Ben murmured.
My eyes were locked on Chase. I swallowed, dimly aware that this was fear, and even though it had been so long, I was terrified, I was crouching in the reeds, covered in mud, teeth chattering.
“Call me sometime,” Chase said. “I’m living in Eastham again. We can pick up where we left off.” He grinned, that smug, entitled, rich-boy smile, and my vision started to gray. Then he was opening the door to the restaurant, and he was gone.
“Lillie. Hey. Are you okay?” Ben said, taking my arm.
“Um . . .” I looked inside the Ho’s window.
“Let’s get in the truck,” Ben said. “It’s cold out here.”
“Okay,” I whispered.
The truck felt safe and dark. “What’s going on?” Ben asked. “You have history with that guy?”
“Can . . . can we just go home, please?”
He looked at me a minute, then started the truck. We didn’t talk on the ride home, but as we passed Governor Prence Road, which led to Chase’s family home, I shuddered.
At home, Ben walked me to the door. “I’m coming in, if that’s okay,” he said.