Page 48 of You Only Need One
“Everything is on track. No problems so far.”
“Good. That’s so good to hear.” She pauses and then places her hand on my shoulder. “I just want to thank you again. You are saving my son, and that is something I will never be able to repay you for.”
The outpouring of thanks unnerves me.
She seems to pick up on my discomfort and lets her hand drop while changing the subject. “Are you here to visit Ben?”
I nod.
“That’s kind of you. He mentioned you came before for a treatment.” She lowers her voice. “He doesn’t like his father or me sitting with him, so it’s good to know he has a friend he’ll let in.”
“My brother pretended he didn’t like anyone with him either. But I never listened to him. Little sisters can do that.”
We share a grin.
“Well, he’s already started, so you’ll find him upstairs. I’m heading back to work. I hope I’ll see you again soon, Holly.” Then, with the quick snick of her heels, she departs, leaving me alone in the kitchen.
And I realize I’m an idiot.
What would I have done if she hadn’t been here to let me in?
If Ben had been alone, I would have been forcing him to stop his treatment in the middle just to come open the front door, and then he’d have had to start up again. I berate myself for the oversight. Usually, I’m better at planning than this.
With nothing left as an excuse to stall, I climb the stairs. In a matter of seconds, I’m going to see Ben. Like a wanderer in the desert, I’m thirsty for him. Taking a pause, I let my craving roll over me. Then, I soldier on, confident the unwanted infatuation will pass with time.
Down the hall, I see light glowing from his treatment room. There’s also some noise, voices shouting. Pausing just outside the door, I try to figure out what movie is playing. Denzel Washington’s voice is distinct, but that guy has made so many movies that I need more clues to narrow it down. It’s not till I hear him complaining about being unable to read his newspaper that I get it.
“Training Day!” I proclaim triumphantly, bouncing into the room without considering if my dramatic entrance is a good choice.
Ben practically jumps out of his seat, the pencil and sketchbook he was holding clattering to the floor. He collapses back after realizing the intruder is a friend. “Holy hell!”
“Close, but you’re missing an L. My name is Hol-ly.” I drag out the L sound to exaggerate the joke while I move to pick up the stuff he dropped.
Strange, my anxiety from before has disappeared. Being with Ben now, I am centered and myself. No more nerves.
Ben, on the other hand, is still shocked.
“You—how—I—” He shakes his head, as if that’d help him start the right sentence.
I place the sketchpad in his lap and pat his hand. “Deep breath. Your mom let me in.” Now, I pause and realize that, if Ben truly doesn’t want to hang out with me, then this is a totally stalkerish move.
How the tables have turned.
Have we established enough of a friendship for me to show up, unannounced?
“We haven’t hung out in a while. I thought you might want some company. I can leave, if you don’t though.” I gesture to the door and take a step back to show I’m serious.
“No!” He reaches out and clasps my hand, the warmth of his skin driving away any self-doubt. “Stay. You’re always welcome.”
His thumb brushes a few circles on my palm, sending pleasant chills up my arm and down my spine.
Well, that’s not going to help smother butterflies.
I slide my hand from his. He frowns but lets me.
“Looks like you got rid of my chair. Be right back.” I drop my bag on the floor and retreat from the room to grab a seat. The physical exertion of dragging the dining room chair up the stairs helps take my mind off how sensitive my skin feels after his touch. I stop at the top of the landing—not because I need a break from the weight, but because I need to take a deep breath before being in the same room as Ben again. These past three weeks haven’t done anything to lessen his attractiveness. My errant imagination considers disregarding this chair and settling on his lap instead. Possibly running the backs of my fingers over his stubble. Maybe unbuttoning his shirt to discover more tattoos.
“Get yourself together, Foster,” I mutter the words.