Page 43 of When Ben Loved Jace
She winces in sympathy before nodding. “I’ve asked around and heard the same thing from other people.”
I can feel my face burning as I stand up and grab the phone.
“I’m sorry, hon,” Allison says.
“It’s fine. I just wish you would have told me sooner.”
“I didn’t want to hurt you!”
I want to argue the point, but she’s right. Imagining him in such a demeaning situation is painful. I wanted Tim to find love. Even if it wasn’t with me. Now he’s selling his body. The thought makes me nauseous.
“Where are you going?” Allison asks.
“I need to be alone.”
She rises from the table. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m not mad at you!” I snap.
I’m just angry. Without even knowing why. But I figure it out later while sulking in my room. I’m angry at myself, because had I been a little more patient, I could have spared Tim this fate. We would have moved to this town together for a fresh start. I would have kept loving him. And eventually, given enough time, he might have loved me back. Now what I tried to teach him has been twisted. Perverted. And I only have myself to blame.
Chapter Ten
I call Jace once alone in my room, but I don’t tell him what happened. Maybe because I haven’t made sense of it yet. The call was short anyway since he needed to board his next flight. I craved the reassuring sound of his voice, and a reminder of how good things turned out for me, and I got it, but this only deepened my guilt for letting Tim down. I should have stayed in touch with him. Given him advice, when he needed it. Steered him away from the disturbing choices he’s made.
I have to know. Imagining what his life must be like is painful enough. I'm ready to face the truth, so I get into bed with his phone, feeling like I’m about to reunite with an old lover. That I’m only wearing a loose-fitting pair of boxers feeds into this sensation. The air conditioning in our apartment rarely ever works. My window is open to let in the night air, a fan blowing from the corner of my room to cool the sweat on my skin, which might come from my nervousness more than the warm weather.
I type in my birthday when challenged for a passcode, still floored that he chose to use that. Tim didn’t have time to change it before handing over the phone, so in a way, he’s been carrying me with him all this time.
The breath catches in my throat when I gain access. The first thing I notice is the background he’s using, which is abstract art. His own work. Like his touch, I have an intimate familiarity. My first destination is his text messages, since there had been a notification shortly after he gave the phone to me. It’s from someone named Eric, who I assume is his sugar daddy.
Would you mind picking up some milk on your way home, please?
Okay, so that’s not as sexually charged as I was expecting, sounding more domestic than anything. Although, I suppose when you sell yourself to someone, you’re at their beck and call in a variety of ways. At least his sugar daddy is polite about it. I scroll up to read their previous exchanges, which aren’t scandalous in the slightest. There’s an art exhibition at a local museum they both want to see, they discuss a friend’s upcoming birthday party, and an exchange that I struggle to understand because it probably involves an in-joke. Nothing even remotely illicit. Maybe the rumors Allison heard weren’t true.
I switch from texts to photos, the ember of hope extinguishingwith a pitifully small wisp of smoke, because the first photo I see is of an old man. He’s thin with gray swept-back hair. A subtle smile plays about his lips as he leans against a kitchen counter, a beam of natural light lending the image warmth. I hastily continue scrolling and find plenty more photos of the man, who often appears to shy away from the attention he’s receiving. Although thereisunmistakable affection in his blue eyes. Photos of him dominate the phone, his only real competition a stocky bulldog, who I assume is Eric’s pet. I do find a photo of a rotund man with a lecherous expression, which I linger on, since he’s more what I was imagining.
IsthatTim’s sugar daddy? If so, I can’t seem to find many photos of him. Although, as I delve deeper into the phone’s history, a different player is revealed. Someone our own age with a strong build and a scattering of freckles across his thick nose. Unruly hair the color of rust is always crammed beneath various ballcaps that advertise farming equipment brands. Plaid flannel shirts add to the country boy vibe. He’s handsome, and while there are quite a few photos of him, none seem particularly intimate, so I’m guessing he’s one of Tim’s new friends. His expression always seems guarded in a way that’s all too familiar. I’m zoomed in close on his face when another text message arrives. And it’s from Eric!
Hey! I know what it says, but this is Tim. I had to borrow a friend’s phone so I could text myself. I’m about to call. Please pick up.
My heart goes into overdrive. I’m not ready yet!
The phone vibrates in my hand. I know I shouldn’t, but I need answers. A trembling finger pokes a green icon. When the glass screen brushes my ear, I’m reminded of when his lips used to do the same.
“Hey.”
“Hey!” Tim responds with much more enthusiasm. “I wasn’t sure if you’d pick up.”
“Neither was I.”
“God, you have no idea how good it is to hear your voice again.”
I do actually, because I was just thinking the same thing, but of course I don’t tell him that.
“How have you been?” he prompts.
I open my mouth, but it’s a difficult question, because sinceleaving him, some part of me has continued to ache. But there were also plenty of good days. And bad dates—false starts that would always end with me thinking that he was the one after all. Until recently.
