Take Your Time (Fate and Circumstance #2) Read online

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, my grin so large my cheeks ached.

  “I figured you’d probably be hungry, so I brought you some food and hoped you’d share with me.” His sheepish smile made him seem young, like a teenager on a first date. I loved the many different sides of Bentley that he’d shown me. He could hold so much confidence, speak with such purpose and determination. Then there were the moments when it seemed as though he had to physically push himself to speak, like now, becoming shy and uncertain. It was such a stark contrast to how he’d been in the parking lot a couple nights before. But it made him real, more real than any other guy I’d ever met. It’d always been one dimensional with them, our Saturdays together more like a performance. I never got to know the real person underneath. That’s why it worked for me, because I could pretend to be whoever I needed to be in that moment. But Bentley had forced himself in and I’d shared things with him, bared parts of my soul that no one else had seen. In exchange, I’d seen Bentley’s multi-faceted personality, and the way he didn’t seem to have a problem showing me all his sides. It had been an example to follow.

  He took me out to his truck where we sat on the tailgate and ate the lunch he’d made for us. I didn’t want to admit it out loud, but his food preferences weren’t bad, even though they were drastically different than what I’d been used to. I teased him about his food, and then dropped it when he went into a rant about the health benefits. I enjoyed listening to him talk, as long as it wasn’t a lecture about health. He sounded more like a nutritionist than a horse trainer.

  Before he left, he reached into his truck and handed me a gift bag. I hesitantly took it, wary of what he’d gotten me after he made me promise not to open it in front of him. The smirk on his face left me curious, even though my insides were twisted in knots over his gesture. I couldn’t remember the last time someone had given me a present for no reason, and it made me instantly suspicious of his intentions.

  I waited until I got back to my station before opening it, finding a dark-blue box wrapped in cellophane beneath tissue paper. Pulling it out, I read the label: Dreamer by Versace. I had no idea what it was until I opened it up, noticing the familiar bottle of cologne. The sight of it forced an excited laugh to erupt from my chest. I immediately sprayed it in the air and took a whiff, euphoria taking over my brain. My heart grew heavy in my chest, not because of the grief I’d become accustomed to, but due to the compassion he’d shown me by giving me this incredibly thoughtful gift.

  “Why did you buy me cologne?” I sniffled, suddenly tearing up when he answered my call. My grin was so large it had taken over my tone, leaving my words happy and excited—and slightly shocked. “And Versace? How in the world did you find a place in this Podunk town that sells this?”

  His chuckle came through the line, broadening the cheesy smile on my face. “It’s for you when I’m not around. You said it calms you. And I didn’t find it here. I had to go to Lunsford Outlets to find it.”

  I fell into my chair, stunned by his efforts. “Lunsford? That’s over an hour away! Why would you do that? When did you do that?”

  “I did it because you said it helps you. Smelling my cologne is a hell of a lot better than going to bars and picking up guys. So the drive was worth it. I told you I’d be here for you, but you have to do the work. It’s not a big deal. And if a measly bottle of cologne makes moving on easier, then I’d do it a hundred times over.”

  I released the air I’d held in, silently warring with things I couldn’t comprehend. Why did a simple bottle cause me to feel things I’d never experienced before, least of all toward a guy? “It is a big deal…to me, and thank you. I just can’t remember the last time someone bought me something.”

  My mood changed after that phone call. I wouldn’t say I’d become unhappy, but the contagious smile I’d worn on my face that entire morning had vanished. It wasn’t replaced with a frown or anything, just…confusion. That’s what it was—he baffled me, his actions, what it all meant. I truly believed him when he said he wanted to help me…but why? That’s the answer I couldn’t seem to figure out, and I doubted he’d tell me the truth. He evaded that question each time I asked, distracting me by his own pushiness or general good looks and sexual appeal.

  Bentley clearly had money. He wasn’t rushing back to a job, and I knew from what he’d told me that he hadn’t worked since coming here—and I still didn’t know how long ago that’d been. I had no idea how he supported himself, where his money came from, or even how much of it he had. And considering he paid for haircuts and shampoos at my salon, wore Versace cologne, and then bought me a bottle to waste spraying into the air just to make myself feel better, I could only assume he had enough to live more than a comfortable life.

  The rest of the week went by with this cloud of uncertainty hovering above. Bentley had continued to call me every night at bedtime, and I’d allowed him to talk to me until I fell asleep. It wasn’t that the thought of hearing his voice didn’t excite me, because it did, yet with all the paranoid thoughts of him stacking up in my mind, it forced me to keep him at arm’s length, just within reach for when I needed him. And at night was when I needed him the most. His mindless chatter kept the images away and allowed me to sleep in peace.

  He’d met me up at the salon for lunch every day except Wednesday. After I told him I got off early that day, he’d asked me to spend the afternoon with him. However, I declined, making up a lame excuse about needing to get things done at home. I’m sure he saw right through it, though he didn’t call me out on it, which was completely out of character for him and made me wonder what his agenda was. At least it didn’t stop him from calling that night, or coming to see me the next day for lunch. I didn’t want to push him away entirely, but I needed some distance to sort through my thoughts and concerns. I knew I needed to have a serious discussion with him about it, but my lunch break and his nightly phone calls weren’t the time or place.

  So on Friday—when he came to have lunch with me—he’d asked if I’d be interested in seeing him the next day, and I accepted. I really did want to see him again, although the biggest reason why I’d agreed was because I desperately needed to obtain answers. Without them, I knew I’d never be able to fully let go like he’d asked. He told me he had something planned, but he wouldn’t go into detail about what it was. All he said was to dress normal and be ready by five.

  When I pulled up to Bentley’s cousin’s house on Saturday night, Bentley already stood outside the front door waiting. He quickly came to my side of the car and opened the door, helping me out like the true gentleman he is. Then he wasted no time walking me to his truck, helping me in the passenger side. I second-guessed my decision to wear a skirt after his hand touched the back of my thigh as I climbed in. I knew if he did that once more, I wouldn’t get the answers I sought. Instead, I’d beg him to touch other places on my body.

  He took me to dinner, mumbling something about needing to eat first. I’d questioned him, yet only received a smirk in response. It wasn’t a fancy dinner by any means. We went to a quick burger joint, which had surprised me since the menu didn’t seem to fit his dietary preferences. I’d teased him about it, but all he said was once in a while wouldn’t hurt. He didn’t say anything when I ordered a side of fries, and I didn’t comment when he stole one. The conversation between us was light and easy, and the longer I waited to question him, the harder it became. Being around him seemed so natural, so right, and it did nothing but complicate things for me. In his absence, doubt consumed me, made me analyze and question everything. But when I looked into his eyes, heard his laugh, or felt him near me, everything else faded away.

  After dinner, I wanted to kick myself for not saying anything. I’d had many opportunities, yet passed them up each and every time. I had no idea what he had planned next, and I knew wherever it was, it more than likely wouldn’t be a place where we’d have the freedom to talk about things. I’d become torn between needing to get everything off my
chest, and wanting to just enjoy my time with him and live in denial.

  But then he pulled into the parking lot of a small strip mall, which left me even more confused about his plans. I glanced around, wondering what he had up his sleeve as he made his way around the truck to help me out. I gave him a questioning glance, but only got an excited smile back in return. With my hand in his, he led me to one of the shops, opening the door that read “Drunken Picasso.”

  “What is this?”

  He placed his hand on my lower back and led me to a table in the back. “I thought it’d be fun. They give you wine while you paint.”

  I wanted to turn on my heel and run. I wanted to cry. I wanted to do anything but be there.

  He must’ve seen the hesitation on my face, because he turned me to face him and held me still by my shoulders, forcing my attention to his intense gaze. “Talk to me, Sarah. What’s going on?”

  There was a small part of me that wanted to shrug and tell him everything was fine, and another part that wanted to break down and cry while burying my face into his chest. However, the concern in his eyes wouldn’t let me do either. Instead, I swallowed my fear and apprehension, and admitted, “My mom painted.”

  “I know she did. You told me that already. That’s why I thought you might like this.”

  “I thought you said you wouldn’t force me to deal with things.”

  His grip on my shoulders loosened as his hands slipped down to mine. “I’m not forcing anything, Sarah. I don’t understand why you’re freaking out about this. Please tell me so I can help.”

  I shook my head and looked heavenward, needing to get my thoughts in order before I spoke. “My mom used to paint us pictures on canvases every year for Christmas. I’ll never get another one. Seeing this—canvases and paints—it reminds me of the things I’ll never have again.” I glanced around the room, looking at all the supplies that were so common to see around the house growing up. The thought that I’d never see my mom covered in paint, wearing a look of pride as we admired her latest masterpiece, destroyed me.

  “You don’t think it’ll be fun to experience something she loved? Maybe you’ll feel more connected to her somehow. Maybe even make some new memories to draw back upon.” He touched my face, drawing my attention back to him. “You can’t turn away from everything that reminds you of her. If you shove down the good times, ignoring the things that made her happy, all you’re left with are the sad moments, those debilitating memories that haunt you in your sleep. Can you do me a favor? Can you just try this with me? It could be fun.”

  I nodded, trusting him blindly, thoughtlessly.

  The first glass of wine didn’t last very long, but it did serve its purpose in loosening me up. Bentley gave me his glass, which I decided to sip since we were only allotted one glass each. Although, the longer we were there, and the more wine I had, I realized it wasn’t as bad as I feared it would be.

  We were all given the same picture to paint. The instructor chose a manatee, and stood at the front of the room with her own canvas, demonstrating how to do it step by step as we all followed along. Eventually, I stopped thinking, and allowed myself to get lost in the strokes, the colors, and the fond memories I had with my mom as she’d try to teach me how to paint.

  Once our time was up, I finally pulled my gaze from my painting, tilting my head both ways as I studied it. I felt proud of myself…until I turned to look at Bentley’s. His manatee was almost better than the instructor’s, and he had to go all fancy and add grass in its mouth.

  “Seriously? You brought me here to feel better, to feel closer to my mom, and all you achieved was making me feel like my painting is complete and utter shit.” I couldn’t take my eyes off his canvas, off the detail he’d put into it.

  “Why do you feel that way?” Concern echoed in his tone.

  My gaze snapped to his and I threw my arm out to the side, dramatically pointing to his art. “I was damn proud of my manatee, feeling really good about myself. Then I see yours and it makes mine look like a freaking grey blob floating around a bunch of blue shit that doesn’t even depict water. You didn’t tell me you were this good. Had I known that, I wouldn’t have even tried.”

  His lips finally gave way to a smile once he knew I’d meant it as a joke—well, kind of. I hadn’t been joking about his manatee making mine look like a deformed whale that’d been mutated into its own form of ugly. But I wasn’t mad or upset. I actually found it rather comical, and couldn’t stop the giggles once they started.

  “This is the first time I’ve ever painted anything,” he admitted, and my laughter immediately died on my lips.

  “Are you kidding me right now? Is there anything you aren’t good at? I practically grew up sitting next to my mom’s easel. She’d let me help her paint, teaching me how to do it. She’d even taken me to summer art classes when I was younger, for Christ’s sake! And you waltz in here, pick up a brush, and paint a fucking manatee like you’ve been doing it since you could walk.”

  He bit his lip, holding back the grin that tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I take it you’re feeling better, having fun?”

  “Nah, not really. It’s the wine talking,” I said, ending it with a subdued sigh.

  “Well, how do you feel? You were panicked when we walked in here, and now you seem loosened up. You seem better, not as freaked out. A little bitter, but other than that, you seem okay. Is it really just the wine?”

  “I don’t know anymore, Bentley. I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel.” My arms fell to my sides and my shoulders dropped as he once again made me face my reality. I’d been good in my bubble of wine and laughter, until he had to start questioning me and my feelings, analyzing everything like he seemed to always do. “What do you want me to say? That painting a stupid manatee makes everything all better? That now I feel like mom is with me and not six feet under like I did before I pushed around some grey paint with a brush?”

  He glanced at our canvases, his lips tight and brow furrowed as if in deep concentration. Guilt—or some other heavy emotion—covered his face before he turned to meet my eyes once more. “I have an idea. Do you trust me?” His gaze pleaded with me. His confidence was still there, although it appeared to be softened by desperation.

  “What else do I have to lose?” Defeat consumed me, completely killing the buzz I’d gotten from the wine and the laughter we’d shared. But at least the alcohol kept me from completely losing it. Instead of grief, I felt anesthetized, as if I no longer cared about anything. Tears were nowhere to be found, nor did I have any desire to hide away inside my house and be alone. Instead of those emotions, the ones I’d become so used to, only emptiness registered inside me.

  I’d officially given up.

  Bentley sent me out to his truck, telling me to take our canvases and wait for him there, which I did. Yet it only served to eat at me more. I hated the moods that snuck up and hit me like a tornado, sweeping me up, spinning me around, and then spitting me out more damaged than before. I wanted them to stop. I needed them to go away, desiring nothing more than to have one whole day where I didn’t have to fight against the demons of my pain. I’d been having a good time with Bentley, laughing and letting go, feeling semi normal again. And then, out of nowhere, the current of grief would pull me under, leaving me drowning and unable to surface.

  Then Bentley climbed into the truck, giving me a tiny hiccup of oxygen. Over the course of a week, he’d somehow become my breath of fresh air, my oxygen mask, resuscitating me with his presence. The weight of sorrow hadn’t vanished, but it’d let up slightly, offering me a chance to survive.

  “What are we doing?” I asked skeptically.

  “You’ll see. We’re going back to my cousin’s place. You don’t have to stay the night again if you don’t want to. However, I want you to try something first.”

  I couldn’t argue, because I didn’t have the strength. I only wanted this suffocating cloud to go away. And if he had an idea to make that happen
, then I’d give it a shot. I was willing to do anything if it meant I’d have a chance at a normal life again—a life I’d convinced myself I didn’t deserve until Bentley.

  Step two—fall.

  I didn’t have anything to lose.

  Bentley was quiet, focused, and it surprised me. After making it back to his cousin’s house, he took me straight to the floating dock in the back yard. It was dark other than the soft light from the lamppost next to us, and the moon above. I stared off into the lake, mesmerized by the glass-like surface that reflected lights from other docks along the water’s edge and the stars overhead. It was beautiful, serene. Calming. It reminded me that one tiny stone, one movement beneath the surface, could create a ripple and ruin the perfect image in front of me. That was how my life felt. Standing still, not moving, waiting for something to come in and disrupt everything.

  Bentley was my disruption. Quietly creeping up on me, causing a ripple that I could feel deep inside. He came out of nowhere, like a breeze on a warm summer’s day. Catching me off guard, making me stop and feel it, filling me with the peace I desperately sought. That was Bentley. My ripple.

  “You ready?” I heard from behind me, reminding me of his presence.

  I turned around, finding a large piece of white paper, like the kind ripped off a roll. He had it laid out on top of the dock, held in place by his boots on two corners, and rocks on the others. I glanced at him, questioning with my eyes what he wanted me to do.

  “No limits, no directions, no outside influence…I want you to show me how you feel.”

  I didn’t understand what he’d meant until I found tubes of paint next to the paper. “What am I supposed to do with that? Do you have brushes? A palette? Anything to paint on or with?”