Page 24 of More With You

“Is she your ex-wife?” I prompt, when he doesn’t say anything after several minutes have ticked by. I hear each one, clicking from the vintage clock on the wall. All I’m hoping is that she’s not a current wife, considering he and I are naked in bed together.

He laughs tightly. “She’s my daughter, Summer.” His eyes meet mine: his eyebrows knitted together in consternation. “Six years old. Light of my life. She’s in Italy with my parents—they insisted, though it meant taking her away from me for half the summer.”

I reel back in complete shock. “Your… daughter?”

Of all the things I’d assumed, I hadn’t gone for one of the most obvious explanations. Probably, because I didn’t want to. An ex-wife or a troubled sister, I can manage. A kid? I don’t know.

“Don’t think I kept it from you because I’m ashamed or because I was trying to hide it,” Ben continues. “You’ve got to understand. She’s my daughter. I’m her dad. I have to protect her, and… I’m crazy about you, Summer, but I have to be sure of someone before I introduce them to that side of me. To her.”

Hurt stings me in the chest and my arms wrap around myself, as if to hide my bare skin from him. “You’re not sure of me?”

“I am, Summer. After today, I’m 100% sure of you.” He shuffles nearer on the bed. “I was going to tell you, but between our perfect date, then me running out on you to deal with a bunch of spoiled frat boys, followed by the best night of my life, today didn’t seem like the day.”

It might’ve been easier if he said he wasn’t sure of me. What does this mean? If things progress between us, does that mean I’m going to become a stepmom? I don’t know the first thing about helping to raise a kid. Sure, I partially raised myself, until my grandma took over and did the job my mom couldn’t. All I know of childhood is neglect and hard choices. I don’t know how to be affectionate toward kids, because I never learned it. My grandma loved me, and I loved her, but it wasn’t warm hugs, bedtime stories, milk and cookies. We still had it tough, and I made a decision, a long time ago, that I never wanted kids of my own, so I wouldn’t have to watch them struggle like I did. Especially with my grandma’s care to consider.

I get out of bed, grab my robe, and fasten it tightly around myself. “I think I’m going to need you to leave.”

“Summer…” Ben jumps up, coming around the bed to try and close the gap between us, his hands coming up to hold my face. “I should’ve said sooner. I should’ve let you decide if it was something you could deal with. That was stupid of me.”

I can’t look him in the eyes. If I do, I’ll buckle. “Yeah, you should have. You definitely should have mentioned it before we slept together.” I see the sudden pain in his expression and exhale deeply, covering his hands and bringing them down to his sides. “Please, Ben. I’m tired. This isn’t the time for this.”

“I don’t want to leave you like this, Summer.” He sounds panicked. “Ask me anything you want to know. Anything at all.”

I bite the inside of my cheek. “I can’t think, Ben. I’m exhausted and… I’m confused.” Gently, I push him away. “Please, just go. I’ll text you when I’m ready to talk.”

“Summer.” He says my name like a prayer.

I dare to look at him, and it’s heartbreaking. “Please, Ben. Give me a minute.”

“A minute?”

“Okay, more than a minute. Just… some time.” I walk past him, out of the bedroom, and through to the front door. He follows, a minute later, pausing by the sofa to pull on his shorts and throw his t-shirt over his shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Summer. I got carried away. You’re right, I should’ve said something before we slept together, but I—”

“Not now,” I cut him off, opening the front door wide and gesturing for him to step out. “I need to think. I need to sleep.”

He sighs a frustrated acceptance, though his hand catches mine on his way out of the door. “I’m not giving up, Summer. Like I said, I’m sure of you. Surer than I’ve been about anyone. Ever. I’m not just saying that to sway you or persuade you or smooth over the surprise of it, either.” He brings my hand to his lips and kisses it. “I mean it.”

Slowly, he lets go of my hand and leans down to kiss my lips instead. I close my eyes, knowing I should turn my head, so I don’t give him false hope. But I can’t. His lips touch mine in a soft graze, yet it packs a harder blow than the frenzied kisses from before.

I guess it’s because it feels like a goodbye, punctuated by the sound of his footsteps retreating, and the ensuing roar of his motorcycle as he drives away. Leaving me alone, once more.

BEN

The black paint spilled on the canvas of us got wider. I was too busy looking at the beautiful view of you to realize that the perfect image I was trying to create had already spoiled. I didn’t even get to see all 360° of you, to discover the details I missed or the parts of you that I haven’t already painted in my mind: an indelible image of you that can’t be swept over with white acrylic. No matter how many layers of it I put upon the canvas of us, it won’t erase a single brushstroke.

I meant what I said, Summer. I won’t give up. I’ll take hope in the fact that you haven’t asked me to, and if time is what you need, then time is what I’ll give. After all, if fate brought us together again, it’s not going to let my mistake keep us separated. At least, I pray it won’t. If you were to ask my parents, Summer, they’d say I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life. If you were to ask me, I’d probably agree. But, the thing is, they said it was a mistake when I didn’t chase after my ex, so I could exist in a relationship that had already expired. A sketch that never came to fruition, a potential masterpiece left to gather dust in the studio. They can’t accept that she didn’t want to be with me anymore, and I didn’t see a future with her.

Mistakes happen for a reason, for the most part. Sometimes, a mistake can lead to inspiration, transforming into the best part of a painting. Once upon a time, my parents considered Grace a mistake, if I wasn’t going to marry Lyndsey and make it “right” in their eyes. But Grace is the best thing to happen to me, before you came along, Summer. Yes, I made a mistake by not being honest from the start about my sweet little girl, but the greater mistake was not trusting that you were everything I’ve ever wanted, everything I’ve been looking for. Let me remedy it, Summer. Please.

I’m a man with many titles: son, artist, gallery owner, heir, jack-of-all-trades, motorhead, sailor, dreamer. But there are two titles that mean more to me than anything – the first is “Dad” and the second, if you’ll let me, is “Yours.”

9

SUMMER

“Are you okay?” Sandra drifts by my table, probably on her way to pick up some shiny VIPs. She pauses for a moment, pretending to fix her buttons for the sake of the ever-watching cameras.

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