His silence was making this weird now. Deciding to rest on my back as a pathetic attempt to escape the rotten feeling in my chest, I turned away from him.
“Stop,” he suddenly said, pulling me back to my side. “Don’t run off.”
“You haven’t said anything in, like, two minutes, and it’s weird now.”
“It’s not weird. I’m just thinking.”
“What’re you thinking about?”
“Your story, of course.”
“And?”
“And I’m sorry you had to go through that.”
Ugh. I sighed. “I don’t want a ‘sorry’, Ben.”
“What do you want then?”
“The truth. Your true feelings! Lay it to me thick. I know it was whorish, and I just wish people would start telling me that instead of saying ‘sorry’.”
“You’re right,” he then said firmly. “It was whorish. It was wrong. It was a stupid cry for attention that backfired. But that doesn’t mean you have to carry that reminder on your face every day for the rest of your life. You. Didn’t. Deserve. It.”
I looked at him warily. “You’re not just saying that?”
He stroked the scars again, and brought his face inches from mine. “No, I’m not just saying that. But you’re letting them win by giving them control over your feelings. Instead of looking into the mirror and remembering the night they did this to you, remember the mistake you learned from. Because it has changed you, right?”
I nodded.
“Good. Imagine the road you’d have been on if you’d kept going, and then think of what you’ve filled your life with now. Tell me which life you prefer.”
“This one,” I said without question.
He smiled. “So what the hell do you have to be depressed about?”
I smiled back. “Nothing, I guess.”
But I knew all this already, didn’t I? It was the message Mom and Emily had been telling me for months now. One that didn’t seem to stick. Yet when they were said by Ben, it made sense in a way I’d been desperately wanting to grasp.
“Like I said,” he added with a tender kiss, “you’re beautiful, and don’t tell me otherwise.”
I didn’t because I wanted to believe him.
He thought I was beautiful, and it was about time I really tried to think so too.
*****
Emily: Did you get laid tonight. Text me ASAP if you did.
Me: Sure did.
Emily: Skank.
Me: Correction – “happy” skank, thank you very much! Did you get lucky too?
Emily: Another limp dick. I think there’s something in the water. Why else are they all so deformed? *and I’m talking bent at the tip kinda deformed*
Me: Ha. Sorry, babe. Can’t always get it good.
Emily: It’s going good for you!
Me: Yep =)
Emily: Is he big?
Me: Yep =)
Emily: Like, really big?
Me: Yep =)
Emily: Is he good?
Me: Yep =)
Emily: Did he go down on you?
Me: Yep =)
Emily: Fuuuuuck! I hate you.
Me: We did it in a taxi too ;)
Emily: OMG!!!!!!! :0
Me: & we were soaking wet. It was hot.
Emily: …:0 :0 :0
Me: Now we’re cuddling and you’re distracting me. Good night, ho.
Emily: :0
Chapter Thirteen
The Royal Show
After we had breakfast and another raunchy love fest in the shower, I took the taxi home. I reflected on our shower together all the way there. It was hotter than the first time, especially because his shower was freaking massive and bending down didn’t warrant having my face plastered to the glass.
I was walking on sunshine, and singing that silly tune in my head as I walked into the house only to climb the stairs and find Emily asleep on my bed. I paused by the doorway and watched her in concern. It’d been a while since she’d come to sleep over because she’d had a fight with her father. She did it to escape him, and seeing her in my bed again made my heart clench.
I quietly grabbed a change of clothes and backed out of the bedroom, shutting it quietly behind me. Halfway down the stairs my phone rang, and seeing “PRIVATE NUMBER CALLING” made me smile from ear to ear.
“Hello.”
“Hey, beauty,” said Ben, “just making sure you made it home.”
“I did. You know, it wouldn’t kill to give me your cell phone number so I can text you all day.”
“I can’t. I only have a work phone at the moment.”
“Is that what you’re calling me on right now?”
“Yes, it is.”
“So then get yourself a normal phone for private use. Hint, hint.”
He chuckled at my double meaning. “I’ll think of that. I prefer coming to see you instead of texting. Makes things a little more real. Plus you don’t know who is behind the scenes reading.”
“Well, if you want to be medieval about our relationship then I’ll just have to accept that, so long as you’re around a lot.”
He hummed in thought. “Relationship, huh?”
I froze in the hallway. “What else would you describe this? You said last night it was more than sex, so I automatically assumed that –”
He silenced me with his laugh. “I’m kidding, sweetheart.”
I relaxed. “It’s good you weren’t here to make that joke.”
“Or what?”
“Or I’d have kicked you up the ass. Or, wait,” I mused, “you’re English, so it must be ‘arse’, right? Or is it bollocks?”
“You’re being painfully stereotypical.”
“Stereotypical would have been inviting you over for scones and tea.”
“Yeah, let’s not push it. You do forget I immigrated here fifteen years ago.”
“I came here ten years ago and I’m still catching up.”
“No,” he disagreed, “you’ve got a jumbled accent. Another giveaway you weren’t a tourist.”
I strode into the kitchen and opened the fridge. I pulled out a chocolate bar and tore it open.
“What’re you doing?” he asked curiously.
“Pulled my chocolate out of the fridge,” I answered, taking a bite and leaning back against the counter.