One Spring Night

Chapter Three

One spring, a year before Ben's mom had taken off, he'd finished baseball practice and grabbed his gear, readying for the walk home. He was used to walking to get where he needed to go. No big deal. Some day, when he was old enough, he'd have a car of his own. He didn't need a fast car or a flashy car like a lot of his buddies wanted. He just wanted one that ran.

Even at thirteen, he'd had a level head, lanky limbs, and thoughtful eyes. Several parents of other players looked at him, his deep golden eyes, and took pity. Some even offered rides. So he'd learned to avoid the parking lot after practice. Instead, he trekked across the football field then through the dense collection of trees, and came out on Blueberry Lane. He wouldn't have minded the rides, but the pity that accompanied the offers made him feel worse than walking alone.

On that particular day, he decided to hang a left at the Stonebridge Country Club, and wander through the neighborhood that made him walk a little taller. Though he was filthy from head to toe—he'd slid into both second and home base—he still liked the feel of the clean rows of homes that had lots of gleaming windows, tended gardens, and trimmed green lawns.

Ben always wondered what the dads in those homes did. They probably owned businesses, were in charge of things, he decided.

When he passed by the white colonial home on the corner, he heard a voice and glanced across the street. A man with blond hair stood in front of the navy blue door and was calling out in greeting to a woman. The woman approached, and when she was close enough, the man picked her up off the ground, holding her.

Ben slowed, watching the interaction, unable to look away.

The man smiled wide and the woman laughed, the sight and sound seeping into Ben. And when the couple kissed, Ben knew he should give them privacy, but he couldn't. He'd never seen anything like it in real life.

He kept watch as the man set the woman down, opened the door to the home, and led her inside.

When the door shut, Ben continued on, carrying the elation of the moment with him. Would he ever have a woman who came to him, who looked at him like that woman had looked at the man? Would he have a place in the world that he was proud of, one where he would want other people to see the inside of? Would he ever feel that sense of warm, buoyant pride in anything?

***

As Ben and Kara approached the front door to the Plumber's Pub, he paused, faced her.

"Are we going in?" she asked, her fingers still intertwined with his.

"I want to do something first," he told her.

She looked up at him in question.

"I want to kiss you, Kara. I've been wanting to kiss you since the day you walked into the pub."

He watched as her luminous gray eyes let in the light of surprise, then brighten as her lips curved, almost expectantly.

Without hesitation, he wrapped his arms around her and lifted her off the ground.

She let out a laugh—a sound he could drown in, he thought.

And as their faces were a whisper away from one another, he brushed a kiss on her lips, testing. Then another, because he'd waited so long for this. And even though his brain buzzed with the desire to devour, he reminded himself to take care, to take the slow sips.

Though her mouth was no longer smiling, her eyes were, and that was all he needed to see in that moment.

He set her down, slowly, then rejoined his hand with hers. "Come into my pub, Kara Keaton."