Page 89 of Tight Ends & Tiaras
SIENNA
Ben unwrapsmy hand and carefully examines my cut, which is much better today.
“How was your time with Dr. Patricia?” I ask.
He’s been quiet since he got home. I ask about his therapy session instead of his workout, since I figure that’s a low-drama activity.
“It was fine,” he says distractedly. “But I heard from Janelle’s father, and it was so weird.”
He explains the message and not being able to get Mr. Lopez to take his calls.
I’m stumped for a moment. After all that chaos with Janelle, after she disappears, after she leaves her freaking kid behind, Ben gets this vague response from her father.
But then I try to consider the situation from her parents’ perspective instead of Janelle’s. “Is it possible he’s too embarrassed to talk to you? He must know by now that Lily is yours and not that other guy’s. You said he’s good friends with your uncle. Maybe he’s upset about the situation too.”
“Hadn’t considered that.” Ben nods slowly. “You’re probably right. Just wish I knew what was going on.”
I wish I could give him some advice, but if my father was in Ben’s shoes, he’d lawyer up and sue everyone involved until he got what he wanted, and I don’t think that approach is particularly helpful. I haven’t heard back from Melvin, but if Janelle’s parents say she’s fine, then maybe I should call off my friend.
Grabbing his hand, I lean up and press a kiss to Ben’s cheek. “You’re a really good guy. I don’t know a lot of men who would care about their ex after what she did to you.”
“Janelle’s crazier than a three-dollar bill, but she’s Lily’s mom, and I feel obligated to make sure she’s okay, you know?” He sighs and runs his hand roughly through his hair. “But if Mr. Lopez says she’s good, then I’m gonna take that at face value and accept it before her situation gives me an ulcer.”
Aww, the poor guy is so stressed. Before I can suggest my preferred method of relaxation, he says he wants to help me clean my room.
He stalks down the hallway, his giant strides making me race behind him to keep up, but after he takes a quick glance around, he shoots me a look. “I told you I’d help.”
I swept the floor and vacuumed. Got rid of all those damn feathers. Changed the sheets and had new pillows delivered. God bless delivery!
“I know. I hated seeing everything wrecked.”
He eyes the saucer holding the burned smudge stick. “That isn’t weed, is it?”
I snicker. “No, but if it was, it’d be the biggest joint I ever saw.” I explain how I burned sage to cleanse the room of bad juju. “My grandmother is part Comanche. She took me to a sweat lodge when I was younger, and sage burning, or smudging, is an important part of the ritual.”
She wanted to get more in touch with that part of our family, which I thought was awesome.
I brace myself for him to make fun of that. When my grandmother told her friends we went on that trip, a few laughed. But Ben has a pensive expression in his eyes. “That’s cool. How does the ritual work?”
Relief spreads through me. I don’t mean to be suspicious of him, but my subpar track record with friends and boyfriends suggests I need to take this trust thing slowly.
I explain a sweat lodge is a sacred place used for prayer and purification. Traditionally, young men about to go on vision quests did sweats to mentally prepare. And although they’re mostly associated with Native American culture, they can be traced back to fifth-century Egypt. “The heat and isolation center you and help you get clarity.”
He thinks about that a moment. “Did you figure out anything about yourself?”
“I realized I wanted a job or hobby or something meaningful for myself that wasn’t connected to my family. And I decided I never wanted to work for my father.”
“Too many expectations?”
“Too many wrong expectations. I’ll never be what my father wants, so why put myself in a situation that’s only going to make both of us miserable?”
Ben stares at me so intensely, a part of me freaks out that he might ask more about my father when I’m not ready to talk about him yet. At the same time, I don’t want to lie either.
Instead, he kisses my forehead. “Don’t sell yourself short, sunshine. I can’t imagine he doesn’t adore you.”
I’m not sure ‘adore’ is the right word, but the idea that Ben thinks this is a possibility puts a smile on my face.
I run a finger down his chest and bat my eyelashes at him playfully. We’ve both had a crappy day, but I feel so much better now that he’s home, and I have just the thing to improve his mood.
