Wow, quite a response! Sorry my replies have been slow! I hope you enjoy this next chapter.
-XXX-
I don't sleep, but fall into a sort of drowsy state of half-awake. Dazed, I suppose. I lie, curled between the cool sheets, watching the rise and fall of Ben's chest. He isn't asleep, either, but lying flat, stretched out, his head against the pillow and turned towards the window. The grey sky is reflected in his eyes, which are carefully blank. We don't touch, which is perfectly fine. I'm not a great cuddler.
At some point, Ben rises and dresses. He disappears downstairs while I stay in bed, comfortable, sleepy. I don't get up, but settle in further.
I consider the circumstances. No regrets surface, but I do feel some kind of embarrassment, yet I flush with something akin to pride. I stretch, wincing. We went at it three times, so I'm a little sore. But it's a nice soreness. I massage my muscles briefly before falling back into a light slumber.
Sometime later, I wander downstairs, having dressed myself. It's almost dark outside of the warm cottage. Ben stands before the fire, silhouetted against the yellow light of the flames. His back is to the stairs and he is standing very, very, very still. Hovering at the threshold, I watch for a moment, then call to him softly.
He doesn't move, so I go to him. Once I've angled myself to face him, I can see the postcard he holds delicately between two long-fingered hands, pensive. He's not looking at the blank card, but staring into the tongues of the fire.
"Ben?"
He blinks, jerking slightly. But he still doesn't look up. I wait. I wait so long I'm forced, so I curl up on the couch, tucking my legs beneath me. Ben begins pacing abruptly. He moves around at a fevered manner. Troubled, Benjamin Holly's brow creases. Silent, I wonder what could have possibly put him into such a state – there is, after all, nothing written on that card. Perhaps it was that very emptiness, or the content of the letters that have upset him.
After nearly ten minutes of watching Ben pace, I shift, deciding to ask.
"What's the problem?"
He does not relent in his paces, though he does pause, like he's only just realized I am here. After another round of the room he stops before me.
"Viola," he begins, tone clipped. His eyes are dark in shadow. The firelight illuminates his high cheeks and pursed lips nicely. "I've received a correspondence that is quite alarming." Here he taps the blank card against his fingers. "I will be rather detained for the next several days."
I blink. He doesn't need to say anymore. A sinking feeling hits the pit of my stomach. "Oh. You'll be busy, of course. So I shouldn't…I'll leave you alone. Right. I'm…I'm sorry."
"It is of no concern," he dismisses. He nears, stopping just before me. Lowering himself to a squat, he is level with me. With no preamble, he cups my face and kisses me. There is a swiftness and edge of desperation to his touch now. He all but engulfs me, letting one of his hands slide down to fold me into him. The other hand goes to the base of my neck, pulling me closer. I shift in my seat, sighing. The sinking has evaporated. Doubt no longer reigns. Ben has put some much into this kiss. I cannot compute the message, however, so I tentatively respond with as much comfort as I can muster.
When he falters, I hook my arms around his neck. "I'm sorry, Ben. Can you tell me what happened?" In his aura of mystery I feel like perhaps this is yet another one of those things that will not receive a straight answer.
He breathes against my cheek, but says nothing. I stroke the hair at the nape of his neck. This does nothing to assuage him.
He pulls away. Standing, Ben steps back. I stand after him.
"I need to go," I say awkwardly. "I'll see you – I'll see you sometime, Ben."
I leave him by the fire after pressing a final kiss to his cold lips and forehead.
-XXX-
The following day, Friday, I escape my office work to see Ben. This time Hugo accompanies me. I cannot stay for long, but I need to see him. While he virtually asked that I not bother him, but after yesterday, and then dealing with my father this morning, I have been pushed to misery. Dad was thrashing about, disgruntled with a few late payments and finicky tenants. Combined with his fragility following his estranged wife's passing, any kind of irritating dealings makes him a positive beast about the house.
When the cottage comes into view, I feel my breathing slow. I pray that nothing will have changed. That, despite the events of yesterday, we'll still be on the terms of before. Childish expectations of housekeeping and comfortably silent afternoon teas.
Of course, but what I want and what is reality often don't reside together. I prepare myself as we trot up the hill.
The property feels mysteriously empty. As he all but asked me to leave him be, I decide knocking is probably best. Two sharp raps and a minute later I'm concerned that he's not heard. I knock again. Nothing.
Hugo sniffles the ground, making a slight sound as he trails along after me. I have to pull him to follow, chiding gently until he's at my ankles again.
Exasperated (and a little embarrassed, as I believe this could be Ben's "nice" way of saying "go away") I enter. Hugo hesitates in the threshold. I drop his leash.
Once inside, I am stuck by the quiet. And then, past the foyer, there I find –
- emptiness.
Everything is gone. The books. The laptop. A few of the cushions. All of the papers. The silver dagger letter opener. Ben's slippers that often lay askew by the fire. The kettle is missing from the stove. No dishes in the sink. Everything that had been his is gone.
Dazed, as though stricken by dreams, I move through every room of the house, my hand brushing over table tops and walls. Empty. It is entirely, pitifully, desolately empty.
Hugo whines anxiously when I drift back to the main room. His tail thuds nervously against the wood of the floor, keeping a nervous rhythm, and he nears when I sink to the couch. Nudging my hand with his skull, he succeeds in coaxing me into stroking his silky brown ears. Aside from this, all I can do is stare dead ahead, my mind churning with the speed of a tortoise. Ever so slowly, my thoughts stretch and combine into a conclusion.
"Gone."
Benjamin Holly is gone. For, it would appear, good.
Without a note or call or text or email or smoke signal or a single goddamn word, he has exited my life in a definite way.
I allow myself time to mull this over. It isn't the end of the world. But it sure feels like it. Or, at least, the end of this stage of my life.
What I am feeling isn't quite heartbreak – my affection for Ben runs deep, but love isn't a word I would use to describe those feelings – but something a little more shallow, something superficial to the makeup of my emotions. I am damaged. I am hurt. At this moment my very bones ache, my lungs weep, my limbs feel suspiciously heavy. And I shall live.
Nothing left to do, I rise, picking up Hugo's leash with me. I make for the door, pausing to look back, when I spot a scrap of white on the mantle. Crossing, I hesitate before picking up the envelope. With slightly shaky fingers, I lift the flap and remove a crisp check for the total month's rent. I squeeze the sides of the envelope, searching for something – anything – which might tell me why, direct me towards a cause.
There is nothing.
In the envelope, that is. When I turn the check over, I find a sticky note folded and stuck to the back. Written in a sloppy – yet elegant – hand are the words: "I leave with no regrets."
I want to punch him. Is he leaving with no regrets? Or does he not regret leaving? The arse.
The check is tucked into my pocket. I leave the note behind. I lock the door and tread home. I set the check on Dad's desk wordlessly. He glances up from the phone, brow furrowing in confusion as he reads it. When it hit him, he opens his mouth to speak, surprised, but I hold up a hand. Wordlessly, I turn for the start for the stairs. For a few hours I attempt to read. But the simple statement won't quit reverberating in my mind until I fall into a restless slumber.
"I leave with no regrets."
-XXX-
What can I say? I love a good twist.
Thoughts?