Their Freefall At Last by Julie Olivia

13

Ruby

The glow of the lit-up neon sign makes Bennett’s inky locks shine blue as he flicks through the binder.

“You’re getting one too, right?”

I cross my arms with a grin. “Bennett, do you even know me?”

He closes the book of tattoo templates with a small fwip. His playful smirk teases its way onto his cheeks, forming a little line beside his mouth. It’s a new one, the kind I’ve only seen on people like my dad or even Michael. Bennett is becoming one of them—less of a boy, more of a man. The close fit of his tux with the loosely hanging bow tie only accentuates the look.

“I know everything about you,” he says. Even his voice carries that low cadence of confidence that comes with maturity. “And I know you’d get one if it meant something to you, you rebel.”

I shake my head and poke his chest. “Well, not today.”

“But this was your idea.”

“Yeah,” I say slowly, taking a step forward. “Because you’ve always talked about getting a tattoo and you wanted to do something daring. So, here we are. I’m making dreams come true.”

He tips his head to the side and peers over at the tattoo artist tapping on his phone, patiently waiting.

“Okay, fine, you can read my mind,” Bennett admits.

I bounce on my toes as if I won, and he chuckles.

“So, what are you getting?” I ask.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

I narrow my eyes. “So mysterious.”

“I’m a mysterious kinda guy, Rubes.”

“How mysterious?”

Then, Bennett does something he hasn’t done since we were kids. He takes my chin between his thumb and forefinger and says, “Very.”

My heart skyrockets. Eighteen-year-old chin-lifting Bennett is very different from twelve-year-old Bennett. We’ve been like this all night. Little touches. Hands ghosting over each other’s skin. I wish I could say it’s just Bennett, but I’m not innocent either. We rode his motorcycle to the tattoo parlor, and my arms were tied tight around his waist—tighter than I normally would, splaying my hand over his hard stomach with my cheek pressed to his back. The only things separating our skin were his tuxedo and the helmet he’d bought just for me with a little cursive R vinyl decal.

Bennett walks over to the tattoo artist, who lifts his eyebrows and pockets his phone.

“Found somethin’ you like?”

“I have an idea in mind, but I don’t see it in your book.”

“Tell me. I can probably draw it.”

“I’d like a parrot.”

My heart drops.

“A parrot?” I ask.

“A parrot?” the tattoo artist echoes.

We all sound ridiculous.

Bennett chuckles. “In black and white? Maybe in that classic-type style? You know what I mean?”

The artist’s lips draw into a half-smile. “I’ve got you covered, man. Give me a sec.”

He walks off to do who knows what, but I’m still staring at my best friend. Stunned.

“You’re really getting a parrot?” I breathe.

Bennett shrugs. “Of course I am.”

I can’t help the stuttering blinks. “But why?”

“Because I wouldn’t want my first tattoo to be of anyone else.”

Not anything—anyone.

For the next two hours, I watch my best friend get inked with the very animal he’s called me since we were seven years old. My best friend’s first tattoo is of me.

Well, sort of.

Bennett’s free hand reaches out to me halfway through, and I take it without question, rolling our fingers together, entwining and releasing and joining together again. Strokes and rolls of thumbs over palms and something that is wholly different from our usual touches.

He winces a couple times from the pain, but he keeps eye contact with me throughout every painful second. I can feel my blood pumping in my throat and to the back of my head. I’m about six seconds away from passing out if I’m not careful. I’ve never been much of a needle person. Though, whether my nerves are from the tattoo or Bennett’s hand, I’m not sure.

“You gettin’ one too?” the artist asks once he’s close to wrapping up Bennett’s piece.

I shake my hand. “Oh, no. Absolutely not.”

He chortles but continues on, no sign of offense on his face.

The pièce de résistance—or parrot de résistance—is finally finished hours later, and when his eyes rove over it in the mirror, he won’t stop smiling. And it’s his best smile—the one that reaches so far up his cheeks that it squints his eyes.

The tattoo honestly looks fantastic. Ink suits Bennett well. But then again, my best friend has always been the coolest.

“What are you gonna tell people it means?” I ask.

“That I’m a pirate,” he says casually.

“Nice.”

“And that pirates keep their parrots forever. Even if in spirit.”

My chest tugs, and without hesitation, I walk into Bennett’s arms. He wraps me up in them, placing a hand behind my head and tucking me into his chest.

Forever. I’m inked on my best friend forever.

The smell of his silly little strawberry shampoo hits me hard, and I think my eyes sting a little at the thought of him, but instead of letting myself cry, I look at the tattoo artist and declare, “You know what? I’ve changed my mind.”

* * *

When we arrive back to my empty house, I immediately kick off my heels in the foyer. It’s loud and clunky, but I am feeling alive and rebellious.

Bennett chuckles beside me, tucking his hands in his slacks pockets. “Wow. Tell ’em how you really feel.”

I’m willing to bet our local bar, The Honeycomb, is packed, especially since they opened it up for underage kids on prom, serving Honeywood’s hot honey tea and other nonalcoholic libations.

But we aren’t there. We’re here. Alone in an empty house together. For probably the first time in a year.

I take the stairs two at a time to my bedroom. “Want to watch a movie?”

Bennett clears his throat, a small grunt leaving his chest as his heavy footsteps follow behind me.

“You sure we should be alone? Your dad’ll be here eventually.”

“Yeah, but he’s not now,” I tease, plopping onto my bed and clicking on the square TV. The vocals of Celine Dion greet us. It’s an infomercial for a new romance compilation CD.

“I didn’t know they still made those,” Bennett says, the bed creaking beneath the weight of him as he takes a seat next to me.

My body heats at the thought of sharing a bed with him. I mean, we’re not technically, but … we’re close enough, aren’t we?

I glance at him, at the cut of his jaw, the way the TV illuminates his messy hair falling by his shoulders, the deep browns of his eyes.

I lie in this very bed and imagine a lot of things happening with Bennett. Some nights, I twirl my pink bracelet around my wrist before succumbing to my wandering hand, slipping under my sleep shorts, closing my eyes to the thought of another kiss on my lips, to his potential exhale of, Christ, Ruby, as his head disappears between my legs.

I know it’s wrong to think of my best friend like that. Plus, what could I offer him that someone else already hasn’t? Another virgin kiss? Sure, The Canoodler was his first kiss, too, but since then, he’s had loads more practice than me. I’ve been too busy studying and getting subpar kisses from boys that never extend beyond the first.

I wouldn’t have the guts to make a move on my best friend even if I thought he wanted me to. And if I did have the gumption, would I? Would I really want to ruin the only good thing in my life? My dad is out with Miranda on my prom night, my mom is in a different city, and I’m just here—with the one person who has never left my side.

I couldn’t ruin that.

Bennett runs his large hand through his hair, looks at the bedspread, then chokes out a laugh. “Uh, y’know what? Maybe we shouldn’t hang out in here.”

“I’ve always wanted to sit on the roof,” I offer. Anything to stay with him. “And Dad’s not around so … thoughts, matey?”

He grins. “Wow. Look at you. You might be a pirate yet.”

“Yarr! Walk the plank!”

We exchange a smile as I run over and pop up my window. His hand goes to my lower back as I crawl onto the roof. He follows behind.

It’s a cool night, right on the cusp of summer. The days aren’t yet warm enough to keep the nights warm, too, so the small breeze sends a shiver over my skin. I bring my knees to my chest. Bennett takes off his tux jacket and folds it over my shoulders. His jacket engulfs me whole. I love when his clothes do that.

I rest my head on Bennett’s shoulder. Bennett’s hand slides around my waist and down to the side of my hip. He strokes the tip of his index finger right over my panty line, where the crinkle of thin plastic covers my new tattoo. I was proud of what I came up with. It’s a tiny outline of a strawberry. My rebellious ode to my best friend.

“Does your strawberry hurt?” he whispers.

“Why does that sound dirty?”

His laugh is strained as he asks, “Do you want it to be?”

I nudge him with my elbow. “Shh.”

I do want it to. But I don’t know what that would mean, so I change the subject.

“How’s your parrot?”

“She’s fine. I’ll miss her next year.”

I snort. “All right, let’s not get mushy.”

He chuckles. “No, let’s. I’m in a mushy mood.” His fingers poke into my side, and it tickles. I grin at him. “Are you nervous?” he continues. “About college?”

“Yeah,” I admit. “I think I am nervous.”

“You shouldn’t be.”

“I’ll be somewhere new, where I’ll know nobody.” And you won’t be there.

“You’ll always have me.”

“Two hours away.”

“Nope. Only one call away,” he corrects.

“You’re so optimistic.”

He chuckles. That sweet chuckle of his that’s low and rumbling. I can feel it in my chest, running down my spine, goose bumps exploding over my skin.

I find myself swiveling my head, rubbing my cold nose against his warm neck, exhaling against his skin. Bennett turns, too, placing his lips against the top of my head, holding it there for a moment. I wonder if he’s closed his eyes, like I have, cherishing this time we have.

And then we’re both shifting. I feel his large hand moving, slowly snaking up the jacket and over my shoulder, splaying over my spine. I pull in a breath, roaming my own hand up to his broad shoulders, over his biceps, moving over each crest and dipping down to his forearms.

He traces a finger over my bony wrist, turning the pink bracelet over my skin. I run a thumb over the veins that twist up his forearm until I reach the thin plastic that covers his new tattoo. A tattoo that is, undeniably, of me. And then I trail back down and give a small tug to the pink string on his wrist as well.

With a low groan, Bennett presses his palm into my lower back, scooting me closer. I inhale sharply, arching myself into him, my chest hitting against his. We’re so close. My breathing is drastically turning erratic. I can feel his breath against my cheek, then on my neck, where I feel him purse his lips against my skin.

One single kiss.

Then another.

And another.

Kiss after kiss down to my shoulder.

My breath catches in my throat as he wraps his palm over my ribs, trailing the tip of his thumb just below my breast. His hand is close—dangerously close—to the one line we’ve never crossed. And I’m shaking under the possibilities. Literally shaking like a leaf at the thought of Bennett’s hand running over me, at even the idea of his lips kissing down the center of my dress, leaving heat in his wake.

And I want it. I want it. I want it.

I want him.

I shouldn’t. I can’t. But I do.

I shift closer, and Bennett’s palm leaves my ribs in an exhaling groan as he grabs the back of my thigh, hooking my leg over his. In a second, I’m in his lap, grinding down on him right as he slowly thrusts his hips up. I feel the hard length of him—of my best friend—rubbing against me. Nothing but two layers of clothes between us.

“This okay?” he murmurs.

I nod with a very small, “Mmhmm.”

We move against each other, little shifting motions that rub clothes against clothes—his hardness against my center. He grunts beneath me, and every long, languid stroke sends waves of energy coursing through me.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers.

I let out a small something—maybe a moan? A whine? A desperate, unspoken plea for him not to stop. His hands land on my waist, pulling me down as he grinds against me harder.

A small grunt leaves him, and I find my voice enough to sigh out a, “Yes,” which has his throat grumbling again in approval.

Our bodies shift up and down, rubbing over and over until my heart is pounding and my once-cold body no longer needs to keep his tux jacket on my shoulders. I feel like I’m burning from the inside out.

But right as the nerves shoot up my arms and I feel like I can’t handle the sensation between my legs anymore, there’s the sound of tires coming down the road and then car lights shining onto the driveway.

Bennett clutches my hips, holding me in place as we lean over, peering over the edge of the roof. Miranda exits the car first, her heels loudly clacking over the concrete with deliberate footfalls. She walks toward the house without waiting for my dad to turn off the car.

“Shit,” I whisper.

Bennett chuckles in response, patting my butt, ushering me back in the window. I crawl in first, and he shuts the window behind us.

The front door slams open from downstairs, hitting the opposite wall. It’s then calmly shut back.

“Who is she?” Miranda sneers.

“Miranda.” My dad’s voice is exhausted.

“Who is she, Dick?”

Dick?

I’m getting a weird sense of déjà vu. Maybe Bennett is, too, because he reaches out for my hand and holds it tight.

“There’s nobody,” Dad says. “I adore you.”

“Then, who has been calling you?”

“A new client. Come on, baby—”

“Don’t baby me.”

“I’m not cheating on you, Miranda.”

I almost laugh at the thought. It’s ridiculous. Dad loves Miranda. He worships the ground she walks on more than he ever did my mother. He would never cheat.

“Please,” Miranda says, dragging out the sarcastic word. “I know the saying. The way they get with you is the way they leave you, right?”

The way they—

The way—

I blink. I think I might have tunnel vision. The edges are blurred, and nothing is here, but so is everything, and suddenly, all the noises are loud.

“Ruby?” Bennett whispers, but it’s muffled.

“He cheated on Mom,” I whisper.

“Ruby.”

“He cheated on Mom with Miranda.”

And I feel so ridiculous as I say it out loud because of course he did. I just didn’t want to believe it. It’s like my brain blocked out the possibility of him doing something so horrible. But he did.

“Hey, it’s all right,” Bennett says. “Everything is okay.”

But it doesn’t feel okay because I trusted him. In their divorce, I always sided with Dad. Mom was the negligent one who traveled too much and wasn’t there. I defended him.

Bennett rushes over to close my bedroom door, and the moment he does, the voices quiet down to nothing. They know I’m home now, and they probably know I’m with Bennett, but I don’t care. Neither does he because he locks the door.

“He cheated on her,” I whisper again.

Bennett gathers me in his arms, holding me tightly. I can see his jaw grinding.

“He’s a piece of shit, Rubes.” The words hiss out of him.

“I can’t believe … and he’s …”

There’s a knock on the door.

“Honey?” My dad’s tired voice sounds close, like he’s leaning on the door.

“Go away,” I say, and it’s loud and venomous and so unlike me.

“We should talk.”

I throw a pillow at the door. It feels good when it thumps against the wood. There’s a sigh on the other side, and footsteps walk away. He’s too tired to even deal with me. But Dad’s just that kind of coward, I guess.

“Want to throw another?” Bennett asks, holding out my spare pillow.

I want to laugh, but I collapse back into his arms instead.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“For what?”

“For tonight. I think I ruined prom.”

Bennett grabs my face in his palms, tilting my head up and staring me in the eyes. Those deep browns bore right to the heart of me—a tether to something real. To my best friend.

“Hey, look at me. I’m right here, okay? And I’m not going anywhere.”

And those simple words—the words I would die to hear every day for the rest of my life—are the ones that have me hugging him. But only hugging. Nothing more.

I could see myself going further with Bennett tonight. I could see us exploring each other in ways we never have. Him kissing my new tattoo. Me kissing his, along with other parts of him I’ve only imagined. I picture all the fun things that we could try, the things that make my heart race in the mystery of nighttime dreams. And I want to do it all with Bennett. I trust him, and I could.

But I won’t.

Maybe if I were a different person in a different life. But I’m not. I’m the person who doesn’t want to lose my Bennett. Not when everyone else in my life has let me down up to this point.

Michael’s words of, “You know he’s not gonna keep in touch with you,” echo through my mind again.

“I’m sorry,” I whimper out.

He shakes his head and lets out a breathy laugh. “Stop saying that.”

“I’m sorry that we almost … I don’t want to do this, Bennett.”

“Rubes.” And he’s smiling, and I don’t know how because that’s the last thing I want to do right now, but he is.

His hand is on my lower back, but it’s our usual level of comfort. The hand he places to hear me, to truly listen. The only person who ever has.

“It’s okay if we don’t do that,” he whispers. “Maybe that’s not us, y’know?”

But I want it to be us. Touching. Breathing. Sighing.

I want to be that person so bad—the person who takes risks and falls in love with their best friend and lives happily ever after. But the words can’t leave my mouth, no matter how hard I try. I can’t push them to the surface without feeling like my head is swimming.

So, instead, I lean on his shoulder, just like my mom used to do with my dad when they were happy, regardless of how fake that might have actually been. But I know one thing for sure: This, right here? Me and Bennett? This is far from fake.