Chapter Text
Ben had never been close to his mother. She had flitted through his life as a specter, her presence like white smoke through glass.
A senator. A martyr. A hero. To him, not quite a mother.
Her air of authority, that ever-present aloof barrier, locked her away from him. He couldn’t blame her for that. He was not a pleasant child. He was a petulant creature. Too much fire stoked on the blade of his tongue. An unruly fire could not bring warmth; it would only burn. A man unworthy of a parent’s pride.
Yet through it all, his chest had sunk with the news of her declining health. How long had it been since he had seen her? Seven years now. Nearly a decade since he had seen his mother or father.
His grip on the steering wheel tightened with the barren hills of the countryside reeling past him. The purple dusk began to settle. It was getting late.
Ben tapped on the screen of his phone to awaken its dim light. Not much longer now.
The dry wasteland began to roll into rows of short buildings made of aged bricks, some wood, others coated in chipped paint. One building, a church painted in a snowy white, caught his eye through the dark that fell over the dull town. Atop its singular steeple was a large cross; a beacon of sorts to a circling swarm of gray clouds above.
Rain would come. And if there was rain, perhaps he could at last cry.
Ben rubbed his eye. Dry and irritated from the long hours of driving. No tears would be falling from these hollowed eyes.
The bed and breakfast he had booked looked considerably better than he had been expecting. It was a country style home more wide than tall with a quaint wraparound porch. It was pleasant to see something so clearly used, a marker of history and memories, a far cry different from the constant industrial construction that sprung up every few months back home.
Ben slowed his truck to park in an unmarked patch of dirt in front of the dimly lit porch lights. Inside, he was greeted by the sight of an unseemly teenage boy hunched on a chair behind the front desk. His shaggy head of hair never left the screen of his phone as his palm thrust forth a dull key.
“Upstairs and down the hall,” he droned.
The wooden staircase creaked with each step of his heavy legs. A bear of a man, his father would often comment behind a glass of whiskey. Instinctively, Ben hunched his shoulders to make himself smaller.
A pamphlet was tucked into the slit of his door. A cross and bible scripture were visible along the edge of the paper. It was a calling card, he suspected, from the church he had passed by earlier. Ben sighed, letting the paper fall as he pushed the door. The pamphlet fluttered to land on the carpeted floor, and he bent down with the intent to throw it away, but stopped when he read the text. The back, now facing up, read:
Searching for hope or reprieve? Our church is a haven of light and healing. Come and rest your weary heart within our doors.
He thought about his mother with her half-lidded gaze, mindless on medications as she withered away under fluorescent lights. Her frail, pale skin marred with purple bruises formed by piercing needles. And he remembered how thin she had looked over their last video call, how the green and purple of her veins seemed to lift and protrude from paper thin wrists.
He wondered how long she would have until she was out of cold, sterile hospital rooms; how long it would be until she could hear the melody of a songbird on the bird feeder outside of her tea room instead of the static drone of the hospital television.
Forget about a discharge date, he thought. The hope of a recovery appeared bleak.
His chest twinged. He never was a good son.
Ben clutched the pamphlet in his hand, wrinkling the paper. Then, he gently laid it on the nightstand beside the bed. He kicked off his shoes and leaned back against the headboard, humorlessly laughing to himself as he settled into the thin sheets. If he, of all people, were reaching out to God, then he was beyond desperate and hope was certainly gone.
He flicked off the ceiling light and turned over to stare into the dark.
✞
The sun didn't rise with the coming of morning. Well, technically it did. The sun rose with the new day, then it would fall with night. That was the way it was. His father would often remark that he watched the sky too much, that Ben seemed to live in his daydreams far more than he did in reality. And he did. For good reason. Besides, what was the sky for if not for yearning?
Ben blindly reached about through bleary eyes to check the time on his phone. It was already 10 in the morning. The dim room, however, could have fooled him into believing otherwise.
He stumbled to the window to peek through its curtain. All he saw was his truck and its slanted parking beneath the gray sky. He swept the curtain aside some more to permit the barest hint of natural light the day had to offer. No sunshine for a degenerate like himself.
A blur of movement from down below caught his eye: a head of brown hair that swept along a pair of narrow shoulders. A girl. She turned her head, the slope of her nose upturned when she noticed him from the window. Her eyes widened when he met her gaze, then she scurried away and out of sight, quick as a mouse.
Ben scratched his back, surprised to feel bare skin instead of fabric. He must have tossed his shirt off in the night again, barely conscious but bothered enough with his frequent overheating. Leave it to him to accidentally flash his nipples at a stranger.
He turned away from the glass. His sallow reflection startled him in the cheval mirror beside him. He ran his fingers through his disheveled head of hair. Did he always look so tired? His right eye began to twitch, the skin of his eye bag pulsing in a frenetic burst. His reflection bore a tight grimace. Ben swiveled away from the mirror to rummage through his knapsack. These nipples needed to be covered now. He had a church to infiltrate.
He arrived mere moments before the doors shut. He followed the tail end of the procession, intent on avoiding unwanted conversations from prying Christians. Or is it Catholics? Ben wondered. What's the difference anyway? Fuck if I know.
He sat in the corner of the back pew beside a window and dragged a finger through the condensation that clung to the glass. It was a quaint place. A worn, red rug ran through the main aisle of the wooden pews to a podium. Behind it, a small confessional between two mirrored windows of stained glass.
Ben twiddled his thumbs in his lap as the priest began his sermon. He was an older man with a head of graying hair that fluffed out like a halo. His rich voice rang throughout the building. A man that exuded an air of homeliness through the callused hands of one who could have been a gardener; the squinted eyes behind spectacles of an avid reader who consumed literature like a dying man’s last breath. But even the priest's commanding voice could not keep Ben's interest from wavering.
What am I doing here? He gnawed the inside of his cheek, arms crossed over his chest as the sermon dragged on, a flickering film reel in back of his mind. It was nothing revolutionary nor life changing that he hadn't been forced to hear before. Something about sin, eternal damnation, and oxymorons of love thy neighbor. A religion full of contradictions and insufferable judgment under the guise of a savior's love.
Maybe he was being too harsh. Amidst his bitter reprimands, Ben could sense a tight-knit community within these walls. There was a sort of warmth, a unity amongst these people that formed with their commonalities and faith. Ben could only wish to have a semblance of that with anyone, let alone his parents, even if it was a farce.
Before coming here, Ben knew that no church or sermon could ever make him believe in an omniscient deity above the earth. He wasn’t sure why he bothered stepping foot in such a space. A way to absolve himself of guilt? To prove to whatever forces existed in the universe that he felt remorse for ruining his mother’s life from birth. Was it hope? By stepping through these doors and listening—somewhat—to the word of a potential God, maybe a secret part of him was holding out for a bestowment of divine intervention.
Ben’s knee began bouncing rhythmically, yet another behavior that was often reprimanded, as it was too much of a distraction at the dinner table.
It would be rude to leave. He twisted his silver ring, a family heirloom, around his finger, then flipped it between his fingertips. Back and forth across his five fingers. A low curse left his lips when it tumbled from out his hands and rolled across the middle aisle to the row of pews adjacent to him. The ring stopped against the low heel of a pair of black Mary Janes two pews ahead. The shoes belonged to a brunette woman.
She leaned over to grab the ring, looking over her shoulder as she did. Ben recognized the elegant slope of her nose, those wide doe-eyes that had caught him groggy and shirtless behind the glass window of gray morning. That same recognition Ben had was reflected on her face: a slight scrunch of her nose, a furrow of recollection in her brow, the barest crease on the corner of her lips.
Ben slowly raised a hand, palm forward, stopping it mid-air where his jaw met his ear.
With a fidget in her seat, she glanced back at him with a squinted eye and pitched the ring back to him, across the way with a quick yet concentrated force. And unfortunately, it barreled into the corner of his left eye. It tumbled into his lap as he pressed a palm to his now stinging eye. She didn’t seem to notice as she was sitting forward with a straight back, seemingly transfixed by the priest’s parting words.
He left shortly after. He didn't want to be swarmed by strangers, religious ones at that, from a small town that received little excitement. There were bound to be questions of his presence. Questions that would lead to sentiments for a dying mother. Sentiments that would turn to prayers and that would turn his stomach.
Now, he leaned against the back of his truck as the church doors opened. He was parked across the street in the parking lot of a small diner. A slow trickle of bodies departed from the holy building in a staggering procession.
Where is that girl?
His eyes tracked across the road, searching for her brown hair and lithe figure. I'm just curious, he reasoned. I want to see her clearly. Then he would be on his way. He'd find something to eat and head back to his hovel to lie in the dark under bed sheets he couldn't be sure had been washed. It was something he did often these days.
But Ben did not end up retreating to his room before nightfall. Not when she held his attention, akin to how a flower bent towards sunlight, seeking its warmth and basking in its life.
“Hello, sir.” He had been watching a beetle crawl into a crevice in the sidewalk when her arrival caught him off guard.
“Hi?”
“I'm sorry about—” she pointed to his left eye. “That.”
“It's fine. I'm fine,” he said in an off-handed way.
“You're not from around here, are you?” She was taller than he had expected. She was, of course, still short compared to him. Her eyes were indeed doe-like with the roundness tapering at the outer corners.
A chill wind swept past and her cream cardigan billowed against her stiff, tweed skirt. It was a bit too short for church, which was expected for her height. He imagined it to be a talk of displeasure amongst the Catholics.
Ben shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “I'm just passing through.”
“You stopped here, of all places?” She met his eye, waiting for a response that he couldn't bring himself to procure. “Are you very devout? Couldn't stand to miss a single day of church?”
Ben wasn't accustomed to speaking to people much. Rather, he'd avoided it as best he could unless necessary, like for work related things. And a young woman? He had never been deft with speaking to pretty girls. His relationships were all short-lived, lacking in substance from his own emotional shortcomings.
Ben remembered how his father would often remark how off standish and stony he appeared to others. Like a predator: eyes locked in a perpetual glare, shoulders tensed and ready to pounce. He hoped he didn't appear that way now. Consciously, he released a breath to make his shoulders relax.
“I'm not religious,” he said.
“Me either. It's a load of shit.” She glanced at the church over her shoulder. Unsurprising to hear nowadays, Ben thought. Thank “God” for that. Hah. A wry smile tugged at the corner of his lips. And as he did not smile often, the effort to do so felt strained.
“Then why are you here?”
“My parents. My adoptive parents. They've forced me to attend ever since they brought me home.”
“Not old enough to make your own decisions yet?”
“Oh, I'm plenty old enough.” She bent over to adjust the strap of her shoes. And Ben could have been imagining it, but there was a lilt in her voice as she said it, an almost suggestiveness. “I'm 22.” The swell of her breasts peaked through the now hanging collar of her blouse. He averted his gaze, instead letting it trail downwards along sheer stockings, her thighs, past the slight bend of her knees, and to her fingers.
Ben exhaled a slow breath. He was pathetic. Just a man. The flash of a sly grin caught his eye as she rose to stand. Was it sly? Was he reading into cues that didn't exist just to justify his leering?
“What—” his voice came out in a thin creak forced through a dry throat. He released a cough to try again. “What hold do they have over you then?”
“Shelter. They said if I stopped going they'd kick me out. I can't afford to pay for a place of my own.”
“Doesn't sound loving or charitable of them.”
“That's probably why they got me. I'm an accessory and evidence of their goodwill and kindness.” She shook her head. “I thought Christians were supposed to be good.”
“Hm. They sound like Christians to me.” It elicited a bark of laughter from her and like a teenager, his heart skipped. “What did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t.” She held out a hand. Her fingernails were covered in chipped, blue nail polish. “Rey.”
“Ben.”
“Are you staying long?”
“I’m resting here tonight before I head off tomorrow. It’s a long drive.”
“I see.”
“Yeah.” Her eyes never left his. Ben was not one who shied from eye contact, but her intense stare made his mouth dry. It was Rey who pulled away first. His stare remained undefeated.
Ben pursed his lips when a drop of rain landed on the bridge of his nose. Rain began to pelt down in rapid succession.
“We should get inside,” she smiled. It was a bright thing, wide and dimpled and kind. The kind of smile that could not be executed without the rest of her face coming alight. It startled him.
She gestured to the diner behind them as he was still leaning against his truck.
What would it be? Dark motel room or lunch with a stranger? Normally he would steer clear of small talk with strangers. With her, though?
“I could use something to eat,” Ben said.
With the sweep of an arm, Rey led him into a booth nestled in the corner of the diner. She slid into the seat across from him and immediately reached for the laminated menus on the table. Her eyes scanned the options, flitting up to sneak him glances before darting away and down each time she saw that his focus was still trained on her.
Ben understood that feeling well. Sitting across from a person at an establishment always elicited an uncomfortable intimacy, an unavoidable one at that. To spare her the awkward eye contact, he swiveled his head about the diner and looked far too perceptively at the lights and wallpaper. It was an old place as shown by the paint chipping off the walls, dents in the napkin canisters, and flickering, yellow lights overhead. Age was often a sure sign of appreciation. Or lack thereof. He was proof of that.
“I recommend the classic breakfast plate,” Rey said. It was a stack of pancakes with a side of hashbrowns and two eggs.
Ben grunted, rubbing the hairs of his incoming goatee as if in deep contemplation while he read the menu. Truthfully, he had no interest in reading the whole thing, he just didn't know what to say.
“And a black coffee,” she said. Rey reached across the table to pull his menu down with two fingers. “You look like you'd drink that.”
“Poor judgment on your part. I never go without a creamer.”
“Oh? And I assume you iron your clothes and wash your laundry by color and cotton percentages.”
“Yes,” Ben said wryly, dropping the menu on the table. Just by color, actually, he mused. “Tell me more about myself.”
Rey propped her chin in her hands, blinking at the hollow of his throat instead of his eyes. “You watch history documentaries at night but end up falling asleep halfway through. You used to collect Pokémon cards growing up. And,” she raised a brow, “you listen to video game soundtracks.”
“I only fall asleep watching them when it's midday, the perfect time for napping. It was Yugioh cards, not Pokémon, and that last one is correct.”
“Your turn,” Rey said.
“Uh. You, um.” Ben racked his brain to come up with something witty and clever. He had never been great at being funny. His social capacity was limited to sarcasm and deadpanning. “You can't drive, and you eat a lot of cheese.”
A hearty laugh burst from Rey's chest. “I eat a lot of cheese?”
“Yeah, like, something obscure and stinky.”
“Such a creative assumption. But you are right.”
“How much cheese do you consume on average per day?”
“I meant about not knowing how to drive.”
“But how much cheese?” Ben asked.
“No more than the average person?” Rey said bemusedly with a wide grin. Success! She thought that was funny.
“Hello! May I take your order?” Because of Ben’s transfixion on Rey, the waitress seemed an apparition that had manifested out of thin air.
“The breakfast plate, please. And a coffee,” he said.
“For me, a breakfast burrito and a pink lemonade. Thank you!”
The waitress folded their menus, then tucked them under her arm. Now, neither Ben or Rey could hide their gaze behind the protection of its lamination.
Her hazel, doe eyes darted about before meeting his stare, to which she blinked an excessive amount at. “What else you got?”
“You heard my order.”
“No,” Rey rolled her eyes. “What else can you gauge about me?”
“Oh. Hm. You are hot-headed and bossy. And you look like you take the crust off your bread.”
“I never waste food,” she wagged a finger. “But yes, my parents have a problem with my attitude.”
“I can relate.”
“A troublesome child?” Rey asked.
“Yeah.”
“A troubled adult, too?”
“Yes.”
She nodded her head, a curled finger pressed against her bottom lip. “Me too.”
When the food arrived, Rey scarfed down her burrito faster than Ben could stir creamer into his coffee and cut his pancake. She dusted off residue from her hands with a quick brush and a clap. He spread a pat of butter across the pancake surface and looked up to find Rey staring at his plate in what could have been the prime example of gluttony. Ben chewed a piece before stabbing into a severed stack. He offered her the triangle of pancake.
“Would you like some?”
“Oh! No, no, no.”
He brought it to her lips. “I insist.”
Rey spread her mouth open wide to accept, then her rosy pink lips sealed shut, sliding along the metal of his fork. She turned away bashfully while she chewed, as if she, too, saw how absurd it all was. Here I am, feeding and sharing saliva with a stranger, Ben realized. I would rather share saliva in a different way. He gripped his fork. No, that was a bad route of thinking. Inappropriate and perverted. He knew better. Ben wordlessly transferred a cut stack to Rey's plate.
“You think that sharing is caring,” she said.
“And the opposite for you, it seems. Possessive?”
“I don't have enough of my own to give out,” Rey shrugged. “I've got to look out for myself.”
“A scarcity problem then.” Ben idly drummed his fingers against the table. “You also don't get up until past noon.”
“11:00 A.M. the latest. You wake up before the sun is out.”
“I wake up based on whatever needs to get done for the day.”
They continued like this between chewing and sips of their meal or, rather, the rest of Ben's meal. They went back and forth with their assumptions, which were followed by an explanation for every confirmation.
Nearly two hours had passed in the blink of an eye. Ben bid her goodbye, though his feet remained planted in the same spot beside his seat. Rey looked up at him, still seated with her eyes crinkled in mirth.
He raised a hand that lingered in the air a few seconds too long, dragging on the breaths between them.
He wanted to see her again.
Ben withdrew his hand quickly and shoved it into the pocket of his jacket. This was a town of nothingness in the middle of nowhere. In what circumstance would he be here again? She was a stranger; he was a lone nomad simply passing through.
“I hope you live a good life, Rey.”
A chortling laugh burst from her mouth, and Ben could feel a flushing warmth bloom on the tips of his ears.
“You too, Ben. Thank you for your company.” She stood up and thrust her hand forward, allowing him to touch her skin—it was warm—as he gently shook her hand, careful as if it was glass.
As he passed by the diner’s window outside, he could see Rey still watching him as he walked. She gave him a little wave to accompany that bright, big smile of hers. Ben's heart fluttered as he waved in reciprocation.
He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket with his head tilted down and kept walking. He wondered if she was still watching him even as he pulled off in his truck down the road.