Page 60 of The Long Way Home
“No. Be honest. What was that? That nickname—‘Sunny’? What the hell is that?”
“It’s nothing,” I blurt, heat crawling up my neck. Guilt finds its way in, even though I didn’t do anything wrong. Even though I shouldn’t have to defend myself. But I always do.
A quiet, bitter laugh escapes him. “Didn’t sound like nothing.”
“He has called me that since college, okay? It’s not a big deal.”
“Not a big deal?” His voice spikes, ragged. “You smiled. You blushed. You looked like you wanted to melt into the fucking floor. I’m not an idiot, Rachel.”
He smacks the counter with his hand, causing my shoulders to curl in. I need to make myself smaller. Shame hits before I can talk it away.
“Did you date Rhett? Is that what this is?” Ben demands. “Has he seen you naked?”
“You’re twisting this into something it wasn’t.”
“Am I, Rach? Because every time he is around, you change. You go distant. You retreat into some version of yourself I don’t recognize.”
“Because you interrogate me afterward!” My voice cracks. “Every time. You pick apart my face like you’re trying to catch me. If I smile, I’m too happy. If I talk, I’m performing. If I shut down, I’m hiding something. You make me feel like I’m always doing it wrong.”
“Are you seriously trying to make this my fault? I don’t trusthim!”
“No,” I say, quieter now. “You don’t trust me.”
Silence crashes over the kitchen, and Ben freezes. Something flickers in his face, shock, maybe. His wounded pride twists into something uglier.
“That’s not fair,” he says, straining.
“Isn’t it? Because that’s what this is, Ben. It’s not about Rhett. You think I’d cheat on you. That’s what this is.”
“No, you act like he owns you.” He yells back at me.
“No one owns me. I’m not a fucking object.”
He starts pacing, ignoring my response. Three steps one way, turns, three steps back. His hand digs into his hair. His breathing’s shallow now. He stops and looks straight at me.
“The worst part is—” He cuts off.
“What?” My voice is thin.
“The worst part is that maybe he’s right.”
My chest drops.
“Excuse me?” I blink.
“I’m not blind,” he says. “You lit up when he said that stupid fucking nickname. It means something to you. He means something to you. You didn’t even try to hide it.”
I press my back harder into the counter. The cold bites under my palms while my legs begin to wobble.
“I’m—not his, Ben. I’ve never been his.” Even I hear the crack in my voice. He closes the distance, his cologne thick in the air, crowding my lungs.
“Then prove it,” he demands. “Prove to me you’re not his.”
Something locks tight behind my ribs. My fingers twitch, and I can’t decide what to do.
He leans in, voice rough at the edges. “You say you want this?” He taps his chest, then mine, then back to his. “That I’m what you want? Then prove it. Kiss me. Make me believe you.”
I blink, stunned. My heels stay planted to the floor. He can’t be serious. We’ve just spent the last twenty minutes screaming at each other, let alone the past five months completely disconnected. And now what? He thinks I need to get on my knees to prove him wrong? As if my mouth on his is some kind of absolution?
