Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
“Other than the gas station robberies?” I tease. I can’t imagine what his life has been like, given that my mom and dad are poster children for How to Be Great Parents. That’s not to say his mom isn’t great either. Ben said she worked, not that she sucked. Maybe she was doing what she had to do to keep a roof over their heads and food on the table? I mean, she probably should’ve noticed the appearance of a guitar, but I can’t blame her based on one little snippet, especially since Ben speaks of her affectionately.
“It was shoplifting at best,” he corrects with a grin that makes me glad I asked about the music. As if the words come easier now, he continues, “Sean got bored of watching me practice my fingering—‘and not the good kind,’ he’d say. He started banging on shit to annoy me, usually a five-gallon bucket, just with his hands because we didn’t have drumsticks or anything like that. But he stole some from school one day, nicked them out of the music room and showed me like they were magic. Maybe they were, because from then on, everything changed for us. We weren’t getting into fights at school or hanging out at the gas station in the afternoons. We had something better to do. We’d fuck around, teaching ourselves how to play classics at first. But eventually, we tried writing our own music. It sucked so bad.”
He shivers as he chuckles to himself, but glances up at me, letting me know he hasn’t forgotten that I’m hanging on every word. “God, it was so fucking bad. But it was therapy. We’d use it to let out the anger we had about our fucked-up lives, the jealousy about what we didn’t have as kids of single moms who were struggling, and posturing about how we’d grow up different than the other guys in our neighborhood. It became an outlet for me.”
“That makes sense. And then what?”
He doesn’t answer for a long time, just returns to playing a bit of the song he’s been working on over and over. “We grew up,” he finally says.
“Adulting is not for the faint of heart,” I agree sagely. “Had my own arguments with Father Time here lately. But your voice really is special.” I remember how I felt when he began singing on the boat. I swear I thought I was getting Punk’d or something because I wasn’t expecting that to come out of Ben’s mouth. His voice had been like spiked honey—sticky, pure, piercing, and glowing. It gave me literal goose bumps.
He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Maybe.”
There’s a sudden knock on the door of the trailer, and it scares the hell out of both of us.
My first thought is, Shit, Roy found me. My second thought is, So what? I’m not doing anything wrong. Ben’s all action, though, instantly jumping up, standing with his back against the door, and gruffly barking out, “What?”
He’s acting like the FBI’s outside and has us surrounded, but I’m pretty sure the statute of limitations is out on shoplifting sodas from the gas station. And even if it’s not, he was a juvenile.
“Oh, hellooo. My name’s Kaitlyn. I’m the social director for the resort,” a voice on the other side says.
My fear dissipates instantly. Ben still seems on edge and doesn’t make a move to answer the door. In fact, when I look at him questioningly, he shakes his head and mouths, Probably lying.
But I know Kaitlyn, and I know that voice. She went to school with Shepherd, comes in twice a year for teeth cleanings, and is, in fact, in charge of activities here. I step up to the door, confused by Ben’s reaction, and while he still looks doubtful, he trusts me enough to move back, allowing me to open the door while he stays out of sight.
I thought I was the one hiding out.
“Hey, Kaitlyn,” I greet her. “What’s up?”
She doesn’t seem surprised I’m here, or if she is, she hides it well. Professional to a T—but I guess she has to be, in the hospitality industry. I’m sure she’s seen some weird stuff at a tourist resort. A runaway bride probably isn’t even in her Top Ten list.
“Hi! I’m making sure all our guests know about our free, special Strawberry Moon event tonight. We’ll have telescopes set up, a fireside sing-along, and complimentary snacks. We’re doing traditional s’mores but also strawberry-themed beverages—iced tea, milk, and daiquiris. Plus, actual strawberries, of course. It’s at nine o’clock, by the fire circle.” She smiles warmly, seeming glad to get her speech out in one go.
“Oh, uh . . . okay,” I say.
“Hope to see you there!” she adds with a wave as she walks off to the next trailer’s porch.