Fade In (31 page)

He fills a lonely hole in me that I alone created. He deserves my honesty. He deserves my best.

That's why, on our last night in the cabin, I don't hesitate to tell him a secret—while riding him, mind you.

“I want all of you,” I say on a sigh in his ear as I sink onto him and we both come apart.

Baby steps, right? First, sexual truths. Then full-on mature adult relationship. Right? Also, in my defense, it was one of the best orgasms of my life. I also almost barked. Clearly, you can see what I was dealing with. Is that temporary sanity?

It's his perfectly sweet reply that I question.

“I'm figuring it out, Tatum. I promise,” replays in my head.

We drive through the towns along the beautiful coast of Oregon on our way to what is home to the Goonies. Talk about a man losing his shit. When we walk through the Oregon Film Museum, Ben goes back in time.

All of the quotes that he remembers come spewing from his reminiscent face. He even looks younger. It's a pleasure seeing how happy it makes him.

I tell him to quit being such a fan-boy as he suggests that we buy matching Goonie hoodies. Don't get me wrong. I love the Goonies as much as the next girl, but Ben knows weird facts about the whole movie. He knows more about some of the stuff we see than the twenty-five-year-old guide who keeps asking us if we are finding everything and if we've been here before.

So, when he practically begs me to be shirt buddies with him and buys the exact same one just smaller, I simply can't resist. He says, “We'll be shirt buddies!” right in front of the cashier. It's priceless. His face is a cross between a Christmas tree, a grand-prize winner, and that expression girls get right before they start the speed-clapping for joy. Everyone's done it. Even Ben it seems.

“Now that we've been to the mother ship, we're official Goonies together.” He tells me this like it's on a checklist of benchmark relationship milestones. “Together,” he reiterates with a smile.

We snap pictures in front of the Goonies house and on the beach in front of Haystack Rocks before we skip town. Then we coast into Seattle on a high from the silly day we’ve had. On the drive, I send some of the photos to Winnie and Cooper.

They call immediately. Winnie confirms that everything is going smoothly for the wedding and that I'm to keep having a great time. Cooper asks to speak with Ben about our Goonie adventure. Who knew that every man this age wants to be a Goonie? They laugh on the phone reciting line after line. I'm pleased that they get along so well.

Much to our surprise—not—it's raining when we pull into our amazing hotel near Seattle's coastal trademark in the Pike Place epicenter.

This night is sort of a surprise to me. Ben did some looking around the other day on my laptop while I painted my toenails at the cabin. It had been such a long time, and I took extra care to do a good job, applying the polish as well as I had in my early twenties when all I’d been able to afford was Sally Hansen and ninety-nine-cent flip-flops.

I took pride in how good they looked. Ben even stopped his Seattle stalking to comment on how nice they were before he patted his lap for me to sit on it.

“Now, I that have everything lined out for Seattle. Come here. I want you to see is this.” It was a weather forecast for The Keys. Hot and sunny and perfect. I kissed his forehead and wrapped my arms around him. “This is the island we’ll be on.”

“Our own island?” We’d planned on getting a beach house or something like it, but a private island! That was just too much.

He finally told me that there would be island staff in the main house and there are also a few other bungalows. But they are off in their own secluded sides of the small landmass.

So you'll forgive my lack of excitement as we pull into Seattle and it's gloomy and rainy. But what did I expect?

Our first night is spent going down to the Ferris wheel that's near the ocean and just outside our hotel. The stops raining just long enough for us to ride. I could have skipped it, but being tucked into Ben's side was a nice touch.

We eat at a wonderful seafood place not far from there and end up at the hotel bar before ten thirty.

“Are we getting old?” I laugh as I make fun of both of us for being a little more pooped after each leg of our trip. As wonderful as it is, the adventure is slowing us down little by little.

“No. We’re just smarter,” Ben wisely corrects.

“Okay? How does partying in the hotel bar in one of the best nightclub cities in the country qualify as smart?” I feel like I'm seventy and Einstein over here thinks it great.

“Well we can drink all we like and crawl up to our room.” He leans in and says to my ear, “And it will only take about five minutes for me to get inside of you instead of twenty-five or thirty if we'd gone anywhere else.”

“Agent Ben, it sounds like you are trying to get me drunk.” I pretend to be offended. “That doesn't sound like you at all. Where are your high morals tonight?”

He laughs. He's drunk more tonight in this bar than he has the whole trip. Usually, when we have drinks, it's a few beers, some wine, or a cocktail. Tonight, he's drinking bourbon and ice. And he's had about five. “What morals? Agent Ben has weak morals. Trust me.” His eyes are far away in thought now.

I've never seen him like this and it concerns me. But shit. Who doesn't have a bad drunk once in a while? I have them all the time. I respect his space and resign to letting him drink it out.

In the back of my mind, I wonder why I haven't gotten him drunk before. Maybe he'd clear up some of the mysteries that only every once in a while pop into my head.

What do they matter now though? What would they change? If I really wanted to know, I could have found out. Right? Obviously, knowing where he came from and why he went to D.C. that weekend are none of my business. If Ben wants me to know, he will tell me. It isn't like he doesn't speak his mind.

That's probably one of the things that make it so easy to trust him. He just tells me things the way they are.

I excuse myself to go to the ladies’, and when I'm on my way back to the side of the bar where we've take residence, I see a woman standing rather close to Ben.

My Ben.

It takes everything in my body not to sprint the straight shot to him and stake my claim. Not that we've ever labeled what any of this is, but it feels like something. Sure, we haven't swapped class rings or anything, but dammit, we're shirt buddies.

He's
my
shirt buddy, bitch.

I summon the calmness and mental clarity of a saint that I am not. When I walk up behind them, I hear her say, “I don't think she's that into you. I've been staring at you and waving and she doesn't seem to mind. Any woman that doesn't give a fuck if another woman is eye fucking her sexy man isn't that interested.” Her voice is dripping with persuasion.

“You don't know what you're talking about,” Ben says to her rather shortly.

“Why don't you ditch her and come up with me? Or I'll give you my extra key and you can stop by later?” Slut. It would have been more subtle for her to write “I'm a sure thing” on her hot pink dress.

Ben's voice has an edge to it now that's never been present when he’s spoken to me. He snarls, “She couldn't see you. Lucky her. I'm not interested in anything you have to offer.” He looks her straight in her cock-sucker and tells her to fuck off with a shoo-fly hand.

“She better start paying attention. I hope she keeps you happy. Because if not, one of these days, someone's gonna be a lot luckier than her and me both.”

She turns to leave and sees me. The tramp winks at me and slides her card onto the bar by his glass. Ben doesn't know I'm there since his back is still to me.

She walks straight past me, saying under her breath as she passes, “You need to keep your eyes on him.”

I don't move still, reeling from her gall. Ben knows I'm coming back soon, but I kind of want to see what he does to the card. My brain screams,
Get rid of it!
My heart prays for a sign that he meant exactly what he just said to her.

The bartender comes back to stand in front of him. Ben hands him the card and motions for him to pour four fingers instead of the two he'd been ordering.

I feel relief, but I’m still worried about what is festering in his head.

I take my seat.

“Good, you're back. Let's go up to the room.” He tips the almost full tumbler of amber alcohol back and I finish my glass of wine. He pays for our drinks and buys a bottle to take up with us.

On the way upstairs, I feel a tension that I'm not used to from him. Forfeiting my pride, I ask, “Are you all right?” and squeeze his hand to get his attention.

The first time I ask, it doesn't make it past his ears.

“Ben, are you okay?” I say louder and lean around to look at him.

His eyes are glassed over and hazy. Coming from someone who hides emotions, I can spot it when I see it. I also know that, when someone is feeling as much pain as I see in his eyes, it's a delicate situation and I have to walk lightly so as not to fortify his defenses with questions that he doesn't want to answer.

He's drunk, but he's also somewhere else and unfortunately isn't letting me go with him.

“I need a shower. Do you want to join me?” I smile as cheerfully as I can, pretending I'm totally oblivious to the storm he's hosting internally.

“No. I'm just going to sit outside for a while.” His eyes are still hollow, but he gently kisses my temple.

Ben goes directly outside, taking the bottle with him, and I fight my gut reaction to follow and pry.

I shower and think over all the day's conversations. Nothing springs to mind. I can't think of anything that was tumultuous or even instigating much of a debate. We had a great time. It was right after we ate that his mood shifted.

I just don't know what it is.

I dry off and lotion myself, trying to choose a path—talk to him or let him work it out on his own. I'm afraid of how it will feel if he doesn't tell me what's going on and what my mind will come up with if left to guessing.

Ben wouldn't let me be like this though. He would be there. Not prying, but giving me silent support. So that's what I decide to do.

I put the hotel robe on and go to him on the balcony. I curl up on his lap and wrap myself around him.

At first, he doesn't move to hold me, but I softly say, “I'm here. Whatever it is that's messing with you, let it go. I'm here.” I kiss his neck and ear. “I meant what I said the other night. I do want all of you, too.”

Ben's arms embrace me and he buries his face in the crook of my neck. I only know he's crying when I feel the tears land on my arm and run down my elbow. He stays like that for a long while. Silent and fighting to hold on to his emotions.

“Shhh. Benny,” I whisper and slowly rock us, trying to calm us both at this point. I'm almost crying myself. I'm a sympathy crier. Almost all of the tears I've cried over the last ten years were because I saw other people crying first.

When he does speak, it's slurred. He says, “I'll fix it, Tatum. I have to fix it.”

Whatever it is, I believe he will.

Today, we've done all the touristy things. We hit record shops and went to museums. He took me to see the market where they throw the stinky fish and we rode up the Space Needle to have an early dinner.

Ben's bad mood disappeared in his sleep. When he woke up, it was like it had never been there at all.

Since tonight is our last night before we fly out tomorrow afternoon to Florida, we're going out.

“I owe you a better night than last night. I'm sorry I drank so much,” he apologizes for the third or fourth time, and he looks at me regretfully.

“Don't worry about it. And yes. You will take me out tonight. See what happens when we act old?” I bump his shoulder with mine as we walk back to the Four Seasons. “Besides, I have a dress that I haven't gotten to wear yet and I haven't seen you in a tie in, like, weeks. That's too long.”

“Oh we'll do it up right then tonight. All you have to do is ask for what you want, remember?” His thumb runs over my knuckles, just how I like it, as we walk into the hotel.

“Oh that's right. Ben, please take me out tonight and free my pretty pucci print from its garment bag.”