I call this one ... Never assume it's safe to drop by
Mom's house looking like Swamp Girl.
Oh no. No, no, no, no. Goosebumps ran the length of
my body and back again. Ben Landry. As I stared into that
face, I felt the old hurt I thought I'd forgotten seep
through my bones right down through my feet, rooting me to
the floor.
"You're back," I said, hearing the words and how my
voice suddenly went all croaky and hating how stupid that
was.
But I was painfully aware that I had only thrown on a
pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, and otherwise still looked
like I'd just crawled out of bed. Additionally, after
twenty–one years, I was looking at probably the only
person on the planet that ever really knew me. And could
turn my life upside down.
"Yes I am," he said, his voice quiet.
"Mr. Landry," my mother said from behind me as she moved
me over from where I'd dropped anchor in the
doorway. "Come on in."
"Just Ben, ma'am," he said, shaking her hand and then
gesturing toward where I stood with my heart slamming
against my ribs. His dark eyes warmed with memory. My
stomach threatened to send me back my four cups of coffee
as I recalled the last time I'd seen him.
"Emily and I are old friends."
Old friends.
Ben was the boy that put snakes in the teacher's lounge
and snuck into the girls' bathroom. That popped all the
girls' training bras and spent at least two days each week
in detention. That wore an old black jacket with chains on
it when he rode his bike, so he'd look like a bad ass. He
was the boy that lured me under my house when we were seven
for my first kiss, and into a closet in the eighth grade
for another one. He was the mysterious, dangerous looking
dark–eyed guy in high school who could part a room
like The Red Sea when he entered it, who always sat with
his back to the wall and never let his guard down. Except
with me.
"I don't remember seeing you around here," Mom said.
Ben grinned, an endearing expression that transformed
him back into the twenty–one year old I'd last seen
him as. Time may have dulled some of the edges, but it
worked for him, God help me.
"Well, I'm sure we met at some point," he said, smoothly
moving the conversation on as his eyes slowly took in the
walls and beams and ceiling. It was as if he were already
seeing the possibilities. "So, tell me what your ideas are
for this place."
He followed her as she talked about the paneling that
needed to go, the ceiling that needed sheetrock, the
insulation that was probably rotten, and the gaping cracks
around the windows. Just for starters.
Fortunately for me, it gave me the opportunity I needed
to release the breath I'd been holding and suck in a few
more.
"Jesus Christ, Ben Landry," I muttered under my breath
on a sprint to the bathroom. What I saw when I got there
made me want to hurl. My hair was still straight on one
side, kinked up and tangled on the other, and a zit waved
from one pale cheek. "Shit."
I dug in Mom's drawers for a brush and a ponytail band,
and managed to find an old cover–up stick for the
zit. I couldn't find any powder or mascara or blush, but
at least I'd moved up a notch from scary to just
unappealing. I couldn't remember if I'd put on deodorant,
but I saw a bottle of cologne and spritzed my neck.
"Oh God!" I groaned.
It smelled like old woman. Not old woman like my mom,
because she was fairly young at heart and active. Old like
the women with the beehive hairdos and the stripe of blue
eye shadow reaching to their eyebrows.
I found a box of wet wipes under the sink, and attacked
my neck with one, but I was pretty sure the smell was still
there along with the aroma of aloe.
"Damn it, just shoot me now," I said to my reflection.