Misadventures of a Curvy Girl (Misadventures #18)(33)

I can’t reply because I do like her. I do understand. I also want more with her, lots and lots and lots more, but my head is still crowded with flashes of her trapped under the wreckage and old memories from the war, and my heart is still squeezing with panic and the desperate need to get her to someplace safe, someplace away.

“Goddammit, Ben, answer me,” Caleb grates out. “Just fucking answer me. You don’t get to be a shell, not right fucking now. You don’t get to go cold and empty after what you just did.”

A shell. Cold and empty.

I hear the words like a faraway train, knowing what they are, yet they’re so distant I can’t reach them.

“She had to go someplace away from here,” is all I can manage, and Caleb’s jaw sets. He’s so fucking handsome like this, streaked with dust, his beard setting off the perfect planes of his face. He’s so handsome…but he’s looking at me now with an expression of pure disgust.

“We’ve always done things together, Ben, and I won’t stop now. But I also don’t know if she’ll ever forgive you for this, and I don’t know if I ever will either.”

And with that, my best friend, lover, and essential part of any relationship I’ve ever had, walks out the door.





It takes me almost an hour.

I’m behind the bar, sitting with my head between my knees the way I used to sit after getting roughed up by bullies in school, and I’m trying to do all the breathing exercises they teach you in therapy. I’m trying to put all the bad memories back where they belong and pull myself back to the present.

It’s hard.

It’s harder than it’s been in years. It takes all the things I’ve learned plus the sedate presence of Greta-dog curled up next to me to claw my way up and out.

At some point, I slowly surface again. I can think Real-Ben thoughts and not Shell-Ben thoughts. I realize with dawning horror what I’ve done. I’ve hurt Ireland. In my mindless need to stop the terror, I’ve hurt her, and it gouges a fresh hole in my scarred heart.

I stumble out of the bar, my heart hammering against my ribs and anxiety crawling up the back of my neck, and there’s no sign of Ireland or Caleb anywhere. Even Caleb’s truck is gone.

He took her back to the farmhouse. Maybe they’re still there?

God, let them still be there.

I bolt down the sidewalk, Greta at my heels, both of us dodging debris and the haggard townspeople milling around the ruined Main Street. It’s a testament to how awful the day is that no one seems to notice or care that the town barkeep and his dog are sprinting back home, not that I’d care if anyone did notice.

My mind is full of Ireland and her blue eyes brimming with wounded hurt. Of Caleb and his disappointment.

I have to get to the farm. Now. Because I can’t bear to lose Ireland, and if I do lose Ireland, I may also lose Caleb, and I also can’t bear that. I won’t survive losing either of them.

I’d rather go back to war.

The two miles home are hot and punishing, but if there’s one thing I carried over from the army, it’s the habit of going on hot and punishing runs, so I make decent time, even though I arrive a sweaty mess and Greta arrives soaked after taking her detours through farm ponds and stock tanks along the way.

It doesn’t matter what time I make, though. No one’s here.

I walk through the house in a numb kind of daze, set out cool water for Greta, and then wander upstairs. I don’t bother calling any names—the emptiness in the house is palpable, almost like a living thing itself.

I go to the guestroom where Ireland would have stayed and stand at the foot of the bed, my hands dangling uselessly at my sides. I just stare in a kind of blank hurt at it. I know I don’t deserve this moment of pain, so close to self-pity, because every part of this is my fault, but I’m also not strong enough to push the hurt away. I indulge in it and let it take me because I deserve to hurt. I deserve this shame and loneliness.

Sweat from my run here burns my eyes, and I wipe roughly at my face with an equally sweaty arm, which only makes it worse. With a sharp growl of frustration, I yank the unused guest towel that Ireland left folded neatly on the still-neatly made bed—neatly made because she slept with us last night—to dry my face.

That’s when it catches my eye. Her camera, sleek and expensive, still nestled atop the faded quilt.

She wouldn’t have left that on purpose.

Maybe she’ll come back for it.

My heart lifts at the thought and then crashes back down, because even if she comes back for it, even if I get to see her pretty heart-shaped face and luscious body again, it doesn’t mean I have a right to ask for more.

Like asking her to listen. Asking her to stay.

Making up for my earlier cruelty with as much pleasure as I can possibly visit on her body.

But still I find myself taking the camera in my hand, thinking about how her hands must have cradled it in exactly the same way.

It makes me feel closer to her.

I stopped questioning myself and my feelings when it comes to sex and love a long time ago—the way Caleb and I love each other necessitates a certain amount of adaptability and spontaneity—but I still can’t help wondering about my feelings. To be so gone for someone after only a night? It’s never happened to me before—not with Mackenna and not even with Caleb. Both of those relationships gradually evolved over time. But falling for Ireland was like an explosion—jagged and fiery and quick as hell.