Five Ways to Fall (Ten Tiny Breaths #4)(84)

“He liked to go out on Friday nights. When I was about sixteen, he started going out and not coming home until the next morning. He never said where he was, and when I asked him, he’d just tell me to mind my own damn business. It drove me nuts, because I knew what it was doing to Mama. She’d come down from her room, her eyes all puffy and with dark circles from lack of sleep. Sometimes I’d walk past her door and hear her crying.

“Turns out Mama knew where he was, what he was doing—or who he was doing—all along.”

“So your dad had an affair?”

“Well, I wouldn’t call it an affair. More like he’d get drunk and f**k anyone who gave him an opening. Pretty much anything he could pick up at the bar. He’d been doing it for years. He was a good-looking man. He got a lot of attention.”

Poor Wilma. “Does he still do it?”

Ben snorts. “Doubt the guy can even get it up anymore. He’s got more whiskey than blood running through his veins nowadays. But he went into a deep depression after the accident and hasn’t had much interest in . . . anything, really. I don’t know that he’s even left the property in the last few years. He can’t drive himself anywhere with only the one arm. Orders his booze by the case, delivered right to the barn.”

“Wow.” I turn my head to rest against Ben’s chest once again, listening to his heart hammer against its confines. “I can’t believe she stayed with him.”

“Yeah, well, marriage makes people do stupid things, I guess.” There’s a pause. “Like wasting time on guys who cheat and then marry their mistresses.”

I roll my eyes. I knew that was coming. “Well, have no fear. I don’t think I’ll be hearing from him again, thanks to you.” Ben handed me my phone back this morning and there was no follow-up text.

I never responded to Jared, either. I don’t know what to say, and I’m taking my new lawyer’s advice and not putting anything incriminating in writing.

“I hope not.” Suddenly my body is turning and I find myself on my back with Ben’s face hovering above me and his big arms on either side of my head. Clear blue skies stretch out beyond.

This. Right here. Right now. I think I could be an orange farmer if it meant relaxed days, peace and quiet, Ben.

Shit.

“You look like you’re about to scream,” Ben muses, his knuckles finding their way to my cheek to softly graze it.

I think I am. At myself.

Did last night just mess everything up between Ben and me?

Do I want more now?

I peer up to find an odd expression on his face as he studies me. “What is that look for?”

“Not sure yet,” he answers cryptically, dipping down to lay a quick peck on my neck. “Come on—dinner’s going to be ready soon.” As if on cue, Ben’s phone chirps.

Chapter 26

BEN

“She seems like a very nice young lady,” my mom offers as I trade an armload of dirty dishes for slices of pie.

“She has her moments,” I mutter with a smirk. I’ll have to tell Reese that later. I imagine it’ll earn a black heart rebuttal or two and a scoff at the “nice young lady” descriptor.

“Oh Ben,” my mother scolds, but I hear the smile behind her voice. “You are incorrigible sometimes.” There’s a pause and then she says, “I’ve made Elsie’s old room up for tonight as it has a queen-sized bed. Do I need to make up a second one?”

My look of surprise has her chuckling. My mother, the church-abiding citizen, is basically condoning premarital sex under her roof. Because there’s no way I’ll spend a night in bed with Reese without some good ol’ premarital sex. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m just so darn happy you finally have a girlfriend.”

I open my mouth to correct her when a howl of laughter escapes the dining room. “You used to play the clarinet?” Reese calls out.

“You realize you’re giving her an arsenal against me with that damn photo album, don’t you?” I chastise my mother with a grin on my face.

“Language, Ben. And I’m sure you’ve given her plenty of material already.” She reaches up to squeeze my chin. “I’m proud of you, clarinet and all.”

“Is this you in the pink dress, Ben?” comes the next question, followed by, “It is! You’ve got to be at least ten here!” and then that deep, infectious laugh of hers.

“Don’t let that picture fool you, Reese,” my mama calls out, her dimples—the ones I inherited—piercing her cheeks. “Ben figured out playing dress-up with the neighborhood girls meant he’d get to watch them change.” Shaking her head at me, she adds, “Boy, was Reverend Perkins ever upset when he figured out what was going on.”

“Oh, yeah.” I rub a hand over my stubble as I recall his daughter, a cute little blond who was way more curious than her daddy could have imagined at eleven years old. A swat of my mama’s dish towel against my ass has me dropping the memory quickly.

I watch her with fondness as she rinses the plates off and slides them into her dishwasher. I got away with a lot more than I probably should have growing up but when Mama put her foot down, I always listened. Hearing bits and pieces of Reese’s childhood and that sad excuse for a mother only solidifies how good I had it.