Earthbound
Page 63
“I can take it from here,” he says, but I fix him with a firm glare and he remains docile as I carefully peel the wet fabric away and lift the tail of his undershirt to look.
“Oh, Benson,” I whisper. His entire torso is covered with purpling bruises that look about as bad as the one on my hip. “Turn,” I say, but he grabs the bottom of his shirt and plants his feet firmly without a word.
I give up. It doesn’t matter. If his back is anything like his chest, I’m not sure I want to see it. “Are you sure none of your ribs are broken?” I say, shocked at the beating he took.
Because he wouldn’t betray me.
“I’m not sure of anything,” he says in a low, raspy voice.
Slowly, I reach for his chin and turn his face from one side to the other, examining. He closes his eyes, and I bite my lip at the split skin on his cheekbone and a scratch I didn’t see at first that goes up into his hairline, probably from the bent earpiece of his glasses. “Ben,” I murmur, and from beneath his closed lids a single tear slips out, tracing down his cheek. Stepping on my toes, I lift myself without leaning on him and kiss it away, the salt bitter on my lips, and I seethe inside at the person who would do this to my Benson.
I crouch and realize just how much this has broken Benson’s spirit when he sits on the bed without even being told and lets me untie his shoes. He protests briefly when I start to pull off his socks, but he doesn’t put up much of a fight.
His breath sucks in as I reach for his pants. “Just the button,” I say from where I’m bent close to his shoulder, “then you can shower.”
He nods, and after I carefully unfasten his pants, I take what looks like an unbruised elbow and help him up. He stifles a groan and shuffles into the bathroom.
I stare at the closed door for a long time. Guilt boils inside me, filling me with acrid shame. Benson wouldn’t be here, wouldn’t be hurting, if it weren’t for me. There’s no way to argue my way out of it; this is my fault.
I lie helplessly in the bed listening through the thin walls as Benson gets in, then out of the shower. The hotel blow-dryer turns on and runs and runs, and I wonder if he’s actually doing something with it or just trying to cover up the sound of his soft noises of pain. Almost half an hour passes before Benson opens the door, freshly showered and looking a little better.
Not quite so defeated.
“You’re still awake?” he asks, averting his gaze, hiding behind the door so only his head and shoulder are visible. His water-darkened hair is wet and freshly combed, but not styled, making him look younger than usual.
“Waiting for you,” I say from the bed, wondering where I found the courage. I twist my fingers together, not sure if I’m more drunk on fear or anticipation.
A red flush fills Benson’s face as he turns off the bathroom light and steps out from behind the door. Now I understand and have to hide a little smile. Unlike me, he doesn’t have any clean clothes—he’s clad in his undershirt and a pair of boxers, probably fresh-dried courtesy of the blow-dryer.
“I’m sorry there’s only one bed,” he mumbles, still not meeting my eyes. “I didn’t have time to check out the place. I just . . I just … I’m going to sleep on the couch.”
“You don’t have to,” I blurt. “I mean, you know, there’s plenty of room.”
“I—I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
I nod, trying to disguise my disappointment. I pull up the heavy but warm blankets that feel cloud soft after trying to sleep, cold and wet, in the car. But my eyes might as well be glued open.
Benson grabs the extra blanket out of the closet and shakes it out, then spreads it over the couch that’s more like a love seat. With his height I know his feet will hang over the edge, and I can’t decide if the mental image is more hilarious or devastating. As he leans over, his white T-shirt stretches across his shoulders and underneath I can see the shadow of something black. I force back a little smile when I realize it’s a tattoo. It’s what he didn’t want me to see when I was trying to take his shirt off. I wonder what kind of ink a guy like Benson would get.
I wonder if it’s something he regrets.
When he’s done making his “bed,” Benson looks down at the sparse couch. I wish I could make him something better. Despite my reluctance to use my powers, I wouldn’t hesitate for him. Not for a second.
But what good is a disappearing bed? I feel so helpless.
I realize Benson’s staring at my bed, over to where a second fluffy pillow sits beside the one I’m lying on.
I see his hesitation, but this tiny piece of comfort gets the better of him and he walks forward and gestures at the pillow. “May I?”
“Of course.”
I feel so proper.
His long arm reaches out for the pillow and I grab his wrist. “Stay?” I ask.
Just one word.
He gives me a tight smile. “No, really, we’ll both sleep better if …” His voice trails off and he gestures at the sofa, backing toward it even as words fail him. He turns the light off and I hear him settle on the couch with a rustle of the blanket.
I try to sleep, but the bed seems too big and I feel oddly unsafe. “Benson?” I whisper after twenty minutes of trying to calm my racing brain.
He shoots straight up at the sound. “Are you okay?” he asks, panicked.
Guilt shoots through me; he had probably just gotten to sleep. “I’m cold.”
“Oh, Benson,” I whisper. His entire torso is covered with purpling bruises that look about as bad as the one on my hip. “Turn,” I say, but he grabs the bottom of his shirt and plants his feet firmly without a word.
I give up. It doesn’t matter. If his back is anything like his chest, I’m not sure I want to see it. “Are you sure none of your ribs are broken?” I say, shocked at the beating he took.
Because he wouldn’t betray me.
“I’m not sure of anything,” he says in a low, raspy voice.
Slowly, I reach for his chin and turn his face from one side to the other, examining. He closes his eyes, and I bite my lip at the split skin on his cheekbone and a scratch I didn’t see at first that goes up into his hairline, probably from the bent earpiece of his glasses. “Ben,” I murmur, and from beneath his closed lids a single tear slips out, tracing down his cheek. Stepping on my toes, I lift myself without leaning on him and kiss it away, the salt bitter on my lips, and I seethe inside at the person who would do this to my Benson.
I crouch and realize just how much this has broken Benson’s spirit when he sits on the bed without even being told and lets me untie his shoes. He protests briefly when I start to pull off his socks, but he doesn’t put up much of a fight.
His breath sucks in as I reach for his pants. “Just the button,” I say from where I’m bent close to his shoulder, “then you can shower.”
He nods, and after I carefully unfasten his pants, I take what looks like an unbruised elbow and help him up. He stifles a groan and shuffles into the bathroom.
I stare at the closed door for a long time. Guilt boils inside me, filling me with acrid shame. Benson wouldn’t be here, wouldn’t be hurting, if it weren’t for me. There’s no way to argue my way out of it; this is my fault.
I lie helplessly in the bed listening through the thin walls as Benson gets in, then out of the shower. The hotel blow-dryer turns on and runs and runs, and I wonder if he’s actually doing something with it or just trying to cover up the sound of his soft noises of pain. Almost half an hour passes before Benson opens the door, freshly showered and looking a little better.
Not quite so defeated.
“You’re still awake?” he asks, averting his gaze, hiding behind the door so only his head and shoulder are visible. His water-darkened hair is wet and freshly combed, but not styled, making him look younger than usual.
“Waiting for you,” I say from the bed, wondering where I found the courage. I twist my fingers together, not sure if I’m more drunk on fear or anticipation.
A red flush fills Benson’s face as he turns off the bathroom light and steps out from behind the door. Now I understand and have to hide a little smile. Unlike me, he doesn’t have any clean clothes—he’s clad in his undershirt and a pair of boxers, probably fresh-dried courtesy of the blow-dryer.
“I’m sorry there’s only one bed,” he mumbles, still not meeting my eyes. “I didn’t have time to check out the place. I just . . I just … I’m going to sleep on the couch.”
“You don’t have to,” I blurt. “I mean, you know, there’s plenty of room.”
“I—I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
I nod, trying to disguise my disappointment. I pull up the heavy but warm blankets that feel cloud soft after trying to sleep, cold and wet, in the car. But my eyes might as well be glued open.
Benson grabs the extra blanket out of the closet and shakes it out, then spreads it over the couch that’s more like a love seat. With his height I know his feet will hang over the edge, and I can’t decide if the mental image is more hilarious or devastating. As he leans over, his white T-shirt stretches across his shoulders and underneath I can see the shadow of something black. I force back a little smile when I realize it’s a tattoo. It’s what he didn’t want me to see when I was trying to take his shirt off. I wonder what kind of ink a guy like Benson would get.
I wonder if it’s something he regrets.
When he’s done making his “bed,” Benson looks down at the sparse couch. I wish I could make him something better. Despite my reluctance to use my powers, I wouldn’t hesitate for him. Not for a second.
But what good is a disappearing bed? I feel so helpless.
I realize Benson’s staring at my bed, over to where a second fluffy pillow sits beside the one I’m lying on.
I see his hesitation, but this tiny piece of comfort gets the better of him and he walks forward and gestures at the pillow. “May I?”
“Of course.”
I feel so proper.
His long arm reaches out for the pillow and I grab his wrist. “Stay?” I ask.
Just one word.
He gives me a tight smile. “No, really, we’ll both sleep better if …” His voice trails off and he gestures at the sofa, backing toward it even as words fail him. He turns the light off and I hear him settle on the couch with a rustle of the blanket.
I try to sleep, but the bed seems too big and I feel oddly unsafe. “Benson?” I whisper after twenty minutes of trying to calm my racing brain.
He shoots straight up at the sound. “Are you okay?” he asks, panicked.
Guilt shoots through me; he had probably just gotten to sleep. “I’m cold.”
