Page 73 of The Ex-Best Thing
“Thanks?” he asks.
“Not sure if it’s a compliment or not, if I’m being honest.” I push back from the table. “Should we leave in an hour? I’d better shower first.”
“Sounds good.” Benny stacks our plates and carries them to the sink.
“Which sister?” Colby asks.
“Both, actually. Zoey’s business acumen mixed with Olive’s bluntness. I’d be afraid of having the three of you in the same room.”
“Well, fortunately, that will never happen.” He flashes me a smile. “Thanks for breakfast, Bree.”
“You’re welcome.”
He heads out while Benny starts the dishes, but I nudge him aside. “Go home.”
“I can help clean up first.”
“I’ve got this.”
He doesn’t push it, which I appreciate. Instead, he turns off the water and dries his hands. “You like playing house, don’t you?”
“I’m not going to lie, there’s something quaint about it that’s filling my cup right now.”
His body freezes. I can immediately tell I’ve said the wrong thing. For the life of me, I have no idea what could be negatively interpreted from that. I cast my net wide, searching for something to say to reel him back in, but I can see from his shuttered expression that I’ve lost him.
What the heck?
“I’ll see you in an hour, then.” He gives me a half-baked smile and heads for the door, and I watch him leave with no earthly idea what I did. I stare at the space where he was standing momentarily before shaking my head and getting towork on the dishes. Never in all the time I’ve known Benny—both as teens and as adults—has he been melodramatic. Never has he been prone to blowing things out of proportion or being easily offended. He personifies the word chill. The man is a walking refrigerator full of chamomile tea.
Yes, I know that’s not a thing.
I let out a huff and scrub at the pan extra hard, then wipe my hair from my eyes.
Whatever happened back there, I’m going to get to the bottom of it.
Today.
I’m only slightlydisappointed when Benny picks me up in the truck. I like holding on to him on the back of his bike, but we can’t really talk with the roaring engine and the wind, so the truck is the better option. The town of Bodega—not to be confused with the town of Bodega Bay—is only ten minutes inland, and before I know it, we’re slowing, the road curving drastically. Each side of the street is dotted with antique stores, art galleries, and restaurants painted light blue and red and white.
Benny pulls to the right and drives up an incline, then points. “There it is.”
I lean to see through my window, clocking the schoolhouse and church directly to our right. They’re both old, and they look like they’ve been here longer than any other building in this town—except maybe the Victorian house across the street. The white clapboard church rises into a steeple high above a wide double door and a set of stairs. It’s beautiful and set on a rise overlooking the verdant hills dotted with cows. The breeze comes in from the ocean, though we can’t see the water, but the salty smell is fresh. The schoolhouse looks much like it did inthe movie even though it’s been restored, painted cream with hunter green trim.
Benny gets out of the truck and comes around to meet me. “What do you think?”
“I love it. It’s such a vibe. What kind of church is this?”
“Catholic. Actually, Ansel Adams photographed it, so that’s its other claim to fame.”
I shoot him a smile before heading toward it. “Look at you, all full of facts.”
“I figured you’d want to know some of the history.”
“You’re not wrong. When was it built?”
“I don’t remember that, but it was sometime in the 1800s.”
“And the school?”
