Page 53 of Ransom

The silence stretches between us, broken only by the steady drip of the faucet. "That's not an easy thing to do," I finally mutter, my voice barely above a whisper.

"I know." He nods, his expression softening. "I'm still working on it too."

I shift my weight, uncrossing my arms as curiosity gets the better of me. "Who do you need to forgive?" Matt's lived in this town over five years. When he got here he was quieter, withdrawn. But we never talked about why, and he never offered.

Which honestly suits me just fine. But I'm realizing that maybe not checking in all this time kind of makes me a shit boss.

Hell, a shit friend.

His voice is low, rough. "Me." He looks up at the clock, then nods a goodnight to me, and he's gone. I listen for the sound of his boots on the staircase, but don't hear them. He's been renting the apartment since Dad died, and it works for both of us. I have someone watching the shop, and he has an easy commute.

Stopping in the opening of my middle bay door, I watch him walk off, hands tucked in his jeans pocket, shoulders hunched against the cold.

He carries a weight, but I never asked why. Maybe he and Dad talked; I don't know. I figured if he wanted to share, he would. Otherwise, I minded my own fucking business.

Too bad he doesn't seem to feel the same.

Now you're just being an ass. Also, that's totally not true.

"Forgive," I mutter, glaring out toward the benches in the town square.

I sigh, leaning against the doorframe. Forgiveness is such a simple concept, but it's just not that easy.

For years, I've carried this anger, this hurt. It's become a part of me, shaping my decisions and my relationships. What would it be like to just... let it go? To release the grip of resentment that's been squeezing my heart for so long?

I close my eyes, trying to imagine a world where I'm not constantly carrying this weight. A world where Ransom's name doesn't make my stomach churn. It's hard to picture, but there's a glimmer of something there. Relief? Peace? I could use a little peace. And honestly, I don't want to spend any more time angry. Focusing on Maggie and appreciating the time I have left with her has to be my priority.

Opening my eyes, I scan the town square again, breath catching as I recognize a figure facing me. He's not shapedanything like the kid I knew, but I still know it's him. Ransom. He's standing near our old bench—no, not ours anymore. Just a bench now.

My feet are rooted to the spot as I debate with myself. Part of me wants to retreat back into the garage to the safety of my anger. But another part, the quieter voice I've been ignoring for years, urges me forward.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I'm moving. Each step down the driveway feels like I'm wading through molasses. I've faced plenty of hard things in my life, so why am I being such a fucking baby about this?

As I cross, my heart pounds in my chest.What am I doing? What am I going to say?But it's too late to turn back now. He's seen me, and no damn way will I turn and run from him. I won't allow myself to be that weak.

I approach slowly, my hands shoved deep in my pockets to hide their trembling. He’s changed into a different shirt. Grey plaid. It looks good on him.

Ransom's gaze is unreadable, but there's something in his eyes that keeps me from turning around and bolting back to the shop. Something that looks a little like hope.

"Blair," he says softly, my name a question on his lips.

"Ransom." Fuck. What do I say? "It hurts to look at you."

He flinches and exhales, long and slow. "Fuck, you don't ease into it, do you? Just go straight for the jugular."

Am I happy I hurt him? No, not really. Mostly, I'm sad. "I didn't say it to hurt you. It's just…the truth."

His lips press together as he stares over my head. "I know. I've always known, even back then, that I was going to hurt you. I'm still sorry."

"So you've said." I stare at the bench, debating with myself, then cross and sit. "I haven't sat here since that night. It became'the bench' in my head." I rub my hand over the wood slats. "Do you think places absorb the bad stuff that happens there?"

Ransom rubs the back of his neck, then sits on the other side of the bench, angled toward me. We're both bigger than we were all those years ago, so there's only space for a small child between us. He's too close, and instinctively I want to move away, but I force myself to sit in the discomfort.

I'm an expert at this. Sitting next to Maggie, listening to her plan her fucking funeral has forced me to get friendly with uncomfortable, painful things.

"I don't know," he finally says, eyeing me. "Sitting here, I remember that night, but I also remember all the good times, too. I remember sitting here, eating chips with you, talking about what we were going to do when we grew up. Maybe this bench absorbed enough happy to counteract the bad?"

"That's a nice idea."

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