Page 93 of The Ring
“Anthony,” I lie. “He thought they would make me feel better.”
If he notices, he doesn’t let on. “Are they?”
“For that to happen, they’d have to be magical flowers.”
He chuckles softly. “Let me get changed so I can join you in bed,” Benedict says, heading towards my walk-in closet. He keeps a few of his things there.
As he disappears into the closet, a wave of guilt crashes over me—a familiar one I’ve been carrying since Monaco. I hate lying. I hate lying to him. Benedict is so wonderful, so kind, and yet I haven’t told him about what happened between TJ and me.
I was even happy I got sick so I could avoid seeing him and feeling guilty. How awful of a person does that make me? He came to see me regardless of whether it could affect a big career break for him.
I should tell him. It feels wrong not to, but I don’t even know how to bring it up or what to say. I wish I’d been drunk so I could blame the alcohol, but I barely drank, and seeing TJ high sobered me up almost immediately.
Ever since I got back, I’ve been trying to convince myself that it was just a goodbye kiss, nothing more. Not trying, because it wasn’t anything other than a goodbye kiss. But I don’t know. The kiss felt different from what you’d expect of a goodbye kiss. It stirred up emotions I’d have liked to be over by now. Yet I feel something for Benedict. I don’t know. I’m confused, overwhelmed, and my mind is a mess.
The only thing I know for sure is that I feel horrible about it all.
I think I got physically ill because of it.
Benedict emerges dressed in black joggers and nothing more, then bounds onto the bed with a cheeky grin. I chuckle. He leans in and kisses me again, persistent and teasing, until I’m interrupted by a coughing fit.
I quickly turn away, covering my mouth with myarm.
“I think kissing should be crossed off the list of today’s activities,” I tell him as my coughing finally subsides.
He lets out an exaggerated sigh. “Fine,” he says, before switching to a more playful tone. “So, what were you doing before I got here?”
“Coughing a lung out and…” I reluctantly point to my laptop sitting in the corner of my bed—the same laptop I hastily shut the moment I saw him.
He picks it up, looking intrigued. He places the laptop on his lap, types in my password—Cornelia1—and unlocks it. Everyone who knows me knows I’m terrible at creating passwords. I used to try harder, but I always forgot them, so I resigned myself that my passwords are rubbish and practically public knowledge.
Benedict bursts out laughing when he sees I was watching his show on Netflix. He probably thought it was something more interesting or scandalous, like porn or something.
“We should watch it together,” I say cheerily.
I’ve been watching it so much lately that if Netflix did a year-end wrap like Spotify, I have no doubt it’d be my most-watched series. I loved it even before I knew him. But these past few days, I’ve had it on an endless loop. Every time I think about TJ—which happens more than a normal person should think about their ex—I turn it on and remind myself of the amazing, gorgeous boyfriend I have. The one whodidn’tcheat on me with my mother.
He makes a distracted face at my request.
I’ve learned he doesn’t enjoy watching himself act as much as I do. He gets self-conscious about it, which I find ridiculously cute.
I pout. “Enable me, please. I’m sick.”
He sighs, shaking his head, but presses the play button. Ismile and shuffle closer to him as he places the laptop between us.
A big cough fit wakes me up. I turn around, grab the glass of water on my bedside table, and drink it down to soothe the cough. Then I reach for the tissue box, take a few, and blow my nose.
Ugh, I hate being sick. It is so disgusting.
“Are you alright?” Benedict asks, sounding concerned, probably woken up by all the noise I made.
“Yes,” I answer, searching for my phone in the bed.
Before you say anything about phones having germs, I know. I disinfected mine before putting it on my bed. And at this point, I’m more tolerant of germs because I’m probablysurroundedby them. But that will change once I’m no longer sick.
I find my phone and check the time—it’s 6:12 a.m. We must’ve fallen asleep at some point. We’d been watching the show for a while before one of the maids brought up the chicken soup Benedict had brought. We took a break to eat, then went right back to watching. It was fun—well, except when the steamy scene came on, and Benedict started sliding his hand up my thigh. I smacked it away every time. I knew what he was after, and normally, I’d have been all for it. We’d had sex previously while watching his show. It was one of my fantasies. But between not wanting to get him sick and not exactly being keen on doingthatwhile ill, it was a no-go. I suppose at some point we must’ve drifted off.
“Are you sure? I can bring you something else if you want,” he offers.
