Page 25 of Secret Nights and Northern Lights
I’d heard about the divorce before I left for college, but by thattime Ben hadn’t spoken to me in almost a year. And the truth is, I didn’t know either of his parents all that well. I can picture his mom, Charlotte: youthful round cheeks and golden hair the same shade as Ben’s. Now that I consider her from an adult perspective, I wonder how old she was when she had Ben. She couldn’t have been more than early twenties at most. “I heard. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. My father was the prime definition of an asshole.” Years later and there’s still a bitter bite in Ben’s voice. “After he left, my mom was…different.” A muscle in his jaw ticks on the word. “Long story short, she got fired from her job, and we certainly weren’t getting a dime from my father. I needed to support us, and my summer job at The Boathouse wasn’t cutting it.”
I remember Ben waiting tables at the local restaurant in our hometown, a hot spot for the tourists who came up from the city during the summer season to vacation near the lake. More than the restaurant itself, I remember Ben’s casual uniform consisting of jeans and a navy tee with the restaurant’s logo screen-printed in white across the chest, so worn the lettering had begun to peel away. I used to trace that logo so often that I feel the phantom texture of it now, rough against my fingertips.
Ben fidgets with a paper napkin, meeting my gaze for only milliseconds at a time before blinking away. “As soon as I turned eighteen, I got a job bartending in the city to help pay the bills. It was at that bar that I met Dan O’Brian. Do you know his work?”
I shake my head, the name unfamiliar.
“He’s the best photographer I’ve ever known. Light-years ahead of anything I’ll ever do.”
Having seen Ben’s work, I highly doubt that, but I don’t say anything and risk getting him off track.
“Dan used to come in and sit at the bar whenever he was back home in the city. He didn’t have a lot of friends or family since he was always traveling, so we’d talk and trade stories and he’d show me photos from his trips.” The corner of his mouth quirks at the memory. “Here I was, this eighteen-year-old kid who’d never left the state of New York, seeing these incredible photographs of places I’d never even heard of.” He pauses, green eyes finally catching with mine. “And it reminded me a lot of you, actually. The way you used to talk about all the places you wanted to go someday…”
I reach for my glass of water, my throat suddenly swollen and tight.
“Anyway, this went on for months and months. Then one day the gods smiled down on me or fate intervened or, hell, maybe it was finally my lucky day. I still don’t understand why he did it, but Dan told me he needed a new assistant and offered to pay me more than I made bartending, even though I had no experience whatsoever. I started traveling with him the very next day and never looked back. He taught me everything I know about photography.”
Never looked back…
“Still, you must have had a natural talent for it,” I manage despite the sucker punch to the ribs I just took. “I’ve seen your work.”
He lifts a shoulder noncommittally. “I had a great teacher. And I guess maybe it was easier to find inspiration when I was able to escape my real life a few weeks at a time.”
I want to ask him to elaborate, but I’m not sure I have the right. I had no idea Ben was going through a difficult time, muchless one he needed toescapefrom, while I was going through senior year and college without a clue.
“I, um, I didn’t know things were bad at home,” I say as delicately as possible.
“I didn’t want anyone to know.” A sudden gust of wind sends a few stray napkins scattering off the tables around us, but neither Ben or I flinch under the weight of this conversation. “Especially you.”
The chilly breeze whips around us in bursts, our connection broken only when the waitress sidles up to the table with a handheld device to process our payment, but as I retrieve the company credit card from my bag, I wonder what Ben meant byEspecially you? And why do I get the feeling there’s a whole lot more to this story than he shared with me?
I sign my name on the receipt, and Ben stands from the table, effectively ending any opportunity for me to continue this conversation.
We walk in the direction of the hotel in silence, me racking my brain to recall if there were certain signs I missed back then. When I picture our nights at the lake, or our days making up excuses to sneak away from my brothers, I always see Ben with a carefree smile, his deep, infectious laughter wrapping around me like the warmest hug, the devilish glint in his eyes that I always hoped was for me alone. He didn’t seem burdened or stressed out. But did I miss it? Was I so enthralled by just being close to him that I totally missed it?
Lost in memories, I’m unaware of my surroundings until I step off a curb and suddenly there’s an arm around my waist jerking me backward as a cyclist whizzes by right before my eyes. Anurgent “Mona!” vibrates across the shell of my ear, and the breeze from the close encounter blows my hair back across Ben’s face.
“Holy shit!” Breath rushes out of me at the near miss. “That was close.”
“Too close.” Ben’s raspy voice vibrates through me, his hand tucked inside my unbuttoned wool coat, long fingers splayed across my stomach, thumb absently stroking the edge of my rib cage. “Way to scare the hell out of me, Ems.”
Ems.
Perhaps Ben should’ve let the cyclist plow me over, because I might rather be lying crumpled in the street than assaulted by the stinging reminder of the old nickname he had for me. One that started all the way back in middle school, maybe even before that.
My family was going on a weekend camping trip because—thanks to my father and brothers—that’s the only kind of vacation we ever took. Ben wasn’t supposed to be there I don’t think, but he showed up at our door last minute with some clothes stuffed in a backpack and asked my mom if he could come along.
So Ben and I sat on the back row of my mom’s Honda Odyssey while Marcus and Mason sat on the row in front of us absorbed in their Nintendo Game Boys. Left with nothing to entertain ourselves but one of my notebooks and some glitter pens, Ben and I quietly came up with our own game.Let’s Trade Secrets, we called it. Not the most original name, but it got the point across.
We each wrote down one of our deepest, darkest secrets, then traded papers and decided which was worse. Ben’s secret was that he hated playing soccer, even though he played almost year-round on the same team as my brothers. My secret was mymiddle name, Mildred, after the lady who sewed all those quilts that my parents kept in that deathtrap of a trunk in their bedroom. The twins had always made fun of my so-calledold-lady’s name, but Ben only grinned and whispered,Mona Mildred Miller. That’s a whole lot ofM’s. The nickname stuck, but he never called me that in front of anyone else, only when we were alone. Another secret added to the list.
Hearing him say it now, after all these years, doesthingsto me. Things that involve butterflies and weak knees and warmth spreading to places it shouldn’t. Things that make me close my eyes for the briefest second and lean back against his strong frame. And then when my mind finally catches up to my body, things that make me spin out of his grasp as if he’s suddenly electrified. Putting space between us, I blink several times in rapid succession, willing away all thethingsand lecturing my body to pipe down.
But Ben smiles down at me, unbothered. “Could you maybe be just a little less determined to send us to the hospital on this trip?”
“I can try,” I offer, “but I am a Miller.”
