All the Dangerous Things(10)

“How does it look?” I interrupt, anger building in my chest. “Please, tell me.”

“It looks wrong,” he says, wringing his hands. “You, standing up and doing that in front of some sick audience the day before the anniversary. It doesn’t look normal.”

“And what exactly would look better, Ben? What would look normal? Doing nothing?”

I stare at him, my nails digging into my palms.

“They have nothing,” I continue. “They have no one, Ben. Whoever did this is still out there. Whoever took him…” I stop, biting my lip before I start to cry. I exhale, try again. “I don’t understand why you don’t care. Why you don’t want to find him.”

Ben shoots up from the couch, his face suddenly flushed with blood, and I know I’ve gone too far.

“Don’t you ever say that!” he yells, pointing his finger at me. There’s a bead of spit on his lip, quivering. “Don’t you ever accuse me of not caring. You have no idea what this has been like for me. He was my son, too.”

“Is,” I correct, my voice a whisper. “He is your son, too.”

We’re both silent, staring at each other from across the living room.

“He could still be alive,” I say, feeling the tears well in my eyes again. “We could still find him—”

“Isabelle, he’s not alive. He’s not.”

“He could be—”

“He’s not.”

I watch as Ben sighs, pushing his hands through his hair and tugging at the ends. Then he walks over to me and wraps his arms around me. I can’t bring myself to hug him back, so instead I just stand there. Dead weight.

“Isabelle,” he whispers, his fingers running their way through my hair. “I hate being the one to keep telling you this, I really do. It rips me apart. But the sooner you accept what happened, the sooner you can move on. You have to move on.”

“It’s been a year,” I respond. “How can you move on in a year?”

“I haven’t,” he says. “But I’m trying.”

I’m quiet, feeling his hands on the back of my head; his breath on my ear, warm and damp, and the gentle thump of his heart against my chest. I open my mouth, ready to apologize, when suddenly, he pulls back.

“Speaking of which, there’s something else, too,” he says, dropping his arms. “Something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.”

I cock my head, unsure of how to answer.

“My therapist talks a lot about how part of moving on is being open to new possibilities,” he says. “You know, getting excited for the future again. Whatever, or whoever, that entails.”

“Okay,” I say, crossing my arms tight, trying to ignore the hopeful twinge in my chest. I can’t deny that I’ve thought about this: The possibility of Ben crawling back. Of apologizing for leaving me when I needed him the most.

But I can’t say that I blame him, either. Losing a child makes you lose a lot of things. Your rationality, your mind.

“I wanted you to know that I’m seeing someone.”

His words hit me like a stomach punch, swift and hard. I try to hide my shock, but I’m sure my expression shows it because he doesn’t wait for me to respond.

“It isn’t serious or anything. It’s new, just a few dates, but Savannah’s a small town, you know. People talk. I wanted you to hear it from me first.”

“Oh,” I finally manage, my nails squeezing into my sides, making it hurt. I imagine them leaving little crescent-shaped slits in my stomach like bite marks, sinking deep into my skin.

“I debated whether or not I should tell you today, but in the end … I don’t know,” he says, his hands punched into his pockets. “I didn’t want you to find out some other way.”

“It’s okay,” I say, still searching for words and unable to find them. “That’s … that’s okay. I mean, that’s good—for you, I guess. I’m glad you told me.”

“It is good,” he says. I can see his shoulders relax a bit, a long exhale, like the tension he had been holding there suddenly melted like wax. “Even if it doesn’t go anywhere, it’s been good for me. It’s been giving me hope, Izzy. And I want that for you, too.”

My ears burn at the familiar sound, Izzy, my old nickname on his lips suddenly rancid and wrong. What used to be so tender, full of longing and love, now feels like a punishment: something swathed in pity, like a lukewarm smile tossed across the room when someone you used to love catches you hanging out without them.

“I’ll see you tonight?” he asks, pulling a hand from his pocket and resting it on my shoulder.

I nod, smile, and watch as he pets Roscoe and makes his way toward the door, the whole time trying to ignore the tingling on my skin in the exact place where he touched me. When he closes the door behind him, I feel a slow stretch in my insides: the hollowness, growing, like a gaping black hole.

Then I dip my hand beneath my shirt, finding my necklace, and clutch the ring—Ben’s ring—that dangles from a chain fastened tightly around my throat.





CHAPTER SIX




My house reeks of Ben even after he’s left. His spiced aftershave and soapy hair gel; the sriracha turkey sandwich I know he ate in his car on the way over. I saw a dab of it on his shirt collar, a little red smear. A few years ago, I would have rolled my eyes at his clumsiness, licked my thumb and rubbed it against the stain. Maybe popped my finger into my mouth afterward, savoring the heat. A little tease before he left for work, ensuring that he would spend the day thinking of me.