“Exactly,” he says. “A reporter. She doesn’t care about Stacey. Or any of us. She just wants to make a name for herself. That’s why we should stay as far away from this whole thing as we can.”
“Dooney isn’t staying away from it. You saw him tonight. He’s loving this.”
Ben closes his eyes and rubs his temples like he has a headache. His expression is the same one he has when he sees his mom hauling stuff into the garage—like he wishes he could snap his fingers and make all of it disappear, me included.
Something about this makes me furious.
“Oh yeah. It’s such a pain in the ass, isn’t it? The fact that someone else had something terrible happen to her.” It comes out more sarcastically than I mean it to, but I don’t stop. “And what if Dooney did do this? So now he’s got a hotshot lawyer, right? What if he gets off the hook? Won’t he just think he can go on acting this way forever? Did you see how Coach and Mr. Jessup were smacking him on the back tonight? It made me sick.”
Ben places his hands on my shoulders and looks right into my eyes. “Kate. We are not the police. This is not our problem.”
I wonder if he’s lost his mind. “Not our problem? Your two best friends might’ve raped someone.”
“Why would Deacon and Dooney rape anybody?” he asks. “They can both have any girl they want. You saw Stacey hanging all over them at the party.”
“That doesn’t mean she wanted them to fuck her.”
These words drop Ben back against the couch like I’ve slapped him in the face. “We don’t know that,” he says quietly. “We weren’t there.”
“Exactly,” I say. “For all we know, it’s just as likely that Dooney and Deacon are the ones lying. Don’t we owe it to Stacey to believe she might be telling the truth?”
“I don’t owe her anything.”
Something about these words cracks me open. I try to choke back a sob, but start crying despite my best intentions.
Ben reaches for my hand. “Kate, no—please, I didn’t mean—”
“What about me?” I choke. “Did you owe me something? I was just as wasted as she was. Why do I get driven home and kept safe but not her? Why not just leave me to Dooney and Deacon and the boys in the basement?”
“Because I love you.”
He fires this back at me, then smacks a hand over his mouth. The words roll through my chest like a thunderclap. More tears stream down my cheeks and I try to wipe them away, but they won’t stop coming. How many times did I imagine hearing I love you from Ben? How many times will I wish I had kept my mouth shut so I didn’t have to hear it like this?
Ben collapses onto the floor, turning around to sit with his back against the couch, his arm against my leg. We stay like this for a long time staring at the dark TV screen on the opposite wall, watching different movies in our minds.
Mine is the image of Ben, walking back to Dooney’s that night, pausing on the stairs to tell Rachel and Christy good-bye as they leave. He finds John and Deacon in the kitchen, finishing the Cabo Wabo with Stacey. Ben waves away the shot they offer. He bumps fists with Greg. He hears Randy call up the stairs from the den. He stops at the top of the stairwell and yells a later back down.
Then he leaves.
In my mind’s eye, I see him closing Dooney’s front door and walking to his truck. He climbs in, he turns on some music, and he drives home. I see the Ben I have always known, being the person he has always been: honest and kind.
I see the guy who loves me.
Of course he’s angry and confused. Of course he doesn’t know who to believe. Isn’t that exactly how I feel?
Finally, Ben reaches over and slides his hand around my ankle. He runs his fingers up and down on my calf, hesitant, searching out some common ground between us. “You have such great soccer legs.”
“The better to kick your ass with.”
He turns toward me with a sheepish grin and I roll my eyes. “Where the hell did you learn to unzip a dress with one hand? Was there a clinic on that at basketball camp?”
“I’ve been the man of the house for a few years now,” he says quietly. “I’m good at zipping them up, too. Here, lemme show you.”
He stands and takes both my hands, pulling me to my feet. He turns me around and pulls the zipper up my back, adjusting the fabric on my shoulders. Then he places a tender kiss on my neck.
I turn around. He leans in and kisses my lips once. “Can I have a do-over?”
I nod.
“I love you, Kate Weston.”
“I love you, too, Ben Cody.” The words tumble out in a whisper.
He drives me home and walks me to the front door. Beneath the porch light, he gives me one last kiss. He wraps both arms around me, pats me on the back, and whispers in my ear the words he said that first time he hugged me when we were five years old.
“It’s okay. It’s going to be fine.”
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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