“Do you have siblings?” Ben asked. It was a spur of the moment question, fueled by his desire to learn more about Dante.
They were walking through the park still, no real destination in mind.
“I do.” He glanced over and grinned as though he was letting Ben get away with something.
“Are you close with them?” He knew the answer to his question. Dante was alone. He might have family but he was as alone as Ben was with his. He just didn’t know the why of it.
Dante shook his head.
“No. I haven’t seen any of them since I left Italy. It was their decision.” He spoke with longing, not the detachment Ben felt in regards to his own family.
“Do you miss them?”
It took a moment for Dante reply. It often did with him. “In some ways, I guess. But they made their choices. They put their beliefs over me. There’s nothing I can do about that.”
Ben understood that. He did. His father had always put his career over his family, and his mom put his father over everything else. But still... “I think I could forgive them. Or maybe I just want to believe I could, but I’d like to think that if they had a sincere change of the way they think, that I could forgive them.” Or maybe he just wanted to believe that so he had a reason to think that if Bonnie were still alive, that she could forgive Ben for not pushing her to get help. For not telling someone other than their parents. For enabling her to slit her own wrists. He’d walked away from her that day, knowing she would hurt herself, just not to what extent.
Ben felt Dante’s eyes on him. He didn’t stop moving but turned Dante’s way. The other man didn’t look away. “You’re a better man than I am.”
Ben wasn’t so sure about that. He was also done talking about family.
“So, Abel. He was into art?” Ben asked, unsure why he was suddenly curious about Dante’s ex.
“A different kind of art. More like that on my back. The tunnel...that was more for me.”
It had to have taken him a long time to do that painting, and he’d done it knowing that it would be wrecked from local thugs and homeless. Yet it wasn’t as though Dante hadn’t done something major for Abel as well. He’d let the man create a masterpiece on his skin. One that would stay there forever. “So you like art, too?”
Dante shook his head. “Not really.”
It didn’t make much sense to Ben why Abel would paint that for Dante if he wasn’t into art but he didn’t call Dante on it.
“That’s a lie, I guess. Graphics are a different form of art. I’ve just always been more into computer generated. Art is emotions, while electronics aren’t. One plus one is always two, but when people and emotions are concerned, that’s not always the case.”
Ben could see that in Dante. He respected him for it too. “It’s why you’re always level.”
Dante laughed at that. “Or I’m good at pretending. This, bringing you here today, that’s not one plus one equaling two.”
No, it wasn’t. “My wanting to be here isn’t either.”
“Yet here we are. Again.” Dante nudged Ben’s arm. It was such a relaxed, comfortable thing to do. Ben had had Dante’s dick in his mouth, inside of him. Dante had his mouth on Ben as well, yet he’d never before done something as simple as nudging Ben’s arm.
As crazy as it was, Ben liked that he’d done it now.
Ben looked up, at Dante and then past him, at something that caught his eyes. It was a blond woman, sitting on a bench, her legs pulled close to her chest and her arms around her legs. She wore a bright, red jacket. Old and full of holes but the red still vibrant.
“Isn’t it pretty, Benny? The red.”
For a split second, his heart dropped. He squeezed his eyes closed, and then opened them again. Bonnie?
“Ben.” Dante’s voice was strong, stern in his ears.
It wasn’t his sister. Couldn’t be, yet Ben found himself walking toward her. Dante was right behind him. The closer they got, the faster he moved. The more his heartbeat picked up again.
When he got to the woman, Ben stopped in front of her. She jerked her head up, fear in her eyes, dirt lines running down her face, paths made with tears. It was then he realized this wasn’t a woman, she was a girl. Couldn’t be more than seventeen or eighteen.
“I’m not going to hurt you.” He held up his hands but she didn’t look convinced. She scanned the area as though looking for a way to escape.
She had the same look in her eyes that he’d seen in Bonnie’s—fear, and pain.