Their Freefall At Last by Julie Olivia

51

Ruby

I spend too much time watching Bennett the night before his wedding. Even after he punches Michael—seriously, he punched Michael—I can’t help but gaze at my best friend because I wonder if it’s the last time I’ll ever see him.

Tomorrow, when he’s in a tux, that won’t be my Bennett anymore. My Bennett wears band shirts and messy sneakers and has long hair that makes him look like Thor. Sure, his new haircut is handsome, but it’s no god of thunder. It also makes him look like he’s about to get a hard-on from picking out business cards or hosting meetings on a golf course.

Even when our group bursts into The Bee-fast Stop like a bunch of delinquent college kids, jumping over booths, cranking up the volume on the restaurant’s jukebox, I still feel the pain of us ending, like we’re peeling off the Band-Aid of our friendship.

Slowly. The way everyone tells you not to peel off Band-Aids as a kid.

We fall into our comfortable friendship roles like it’s just another day—Quinn and Theo leading the conversation, Lorelei and Orson politely laughing, Landon chiming in one-liners from the kitchen, and Emory giving small half-smiles that he tries to hide.

But then there’s us. Bennett and me, sitting next to each other, playing off each other’s words, joke after joke. References that maybe the others get, and maybe they don’t. But we do, and that’s all that’s ever mattered as we descend into our own little spiral of humor.

I miss this. I miss hearing Bennett’s amusement when my joke lands perfectly. I miss Bennett’s little whisper of, “Nice,” and the covert high five he offers like high fives were invented for us.

If I could close my eyes and capture this moment, I would. Regardless that it’s his bachelor party and that my heart aches. Regardless that tomorrow will change everything. I want to keep this.

And I know—I just know—I’ll never find anyone like Bennett again.

Michael swings his arm around my shoulders, trying to wink with his black eye that makes him wince, and I laugh because Michael is funny. But he’s not funny like Bennett. It’s a different, more obvious humor. He’s nothing like my best friend.

I take greedy peeks at Bennett, but I’m not as sneaky as I’d like. Or maybe he’s not either. Nine times out of ten, he’s already staring at me with that tilt of a smile on the edge of his lips—the gorgeous smile that is inescapable. And my chest hurts from the weight of it all, from the knowledge that this is all ending.

This is our swan song. And it is sad, but, God, it is also so, so good.

I can feel my eyes start to sting, and there’s no need for me to ruin his beautiful night, so I rise from the table.

“I’m gonna get some fresh air.”

“Need company?” Michael offers.

“Nah, I’m fine. Keep playing. I think you might win this time.”

“Funny,” he deadpans, slapping his cards on the edge of the table.

Michael has ended every game of Uno with the greatest number of cards. Poor guy doesn’t know when to play his Wild cards.

I leave The Bee-fast Stop, closing my eyes and breathing in the Honeywood night air. I revel in the sound my sneakers make, echoing through the park as I take a seat on a bench nearby. I wonder how often it’s quiet enough for someone to hear their own footsteps in Honeywood Fun Park.

“Hey.”

I jump at the sound of Bennett’s voice. He hovers near me, hands in his pockets and shoulders hiked to his ears. For such a big guy, he looks so small.

“Hi,” I respond.

His heavy boots thud over the midway’s blacktop as he walks over.

“Weird. I can hear my own footsteps,” he says. “Normally, it’s too loud.”

The smile on my face grows so wide, so fast that I wish I could stop it.

“I was actually thinking the same thing,” I confess. “Couldn’t decide if that was a lonely or happy realization.”

He lets out a breathy laugh, but doesn’t answer. He sits down on the opposite side of the bench—just enough room between us for Jesus. Or Jolene, I suppose.

Lonely, I conclude. The park feels lonely.

“So, you punched Michael, huh?”

Bennett barks out a laugh before raising his arm around the back of the bench. “I did. And to be honest, I feel bad.”

“Do you?”

“I actually do.”

“What a weird world.”

We both let out little laughs that disappear into the night, then exhale at the same time, which only makes us laugh again at the synchronized timing. Bennett kicks a rock nearby with the toe of his boot, sucks on his teeth, and clears his throat. I mimic him in that exact order. He gives me a side-eye. I give him a playful one back.

“I kinda like this,” I finally say.

“What?”

“This whole awkwardness between us. It’s a new, exciting dynamic. I could totally get used to it.”

“Oh, yeah?” he responds, following the joke. “Well, I can’t wait to avoid you in a grocery store.”

“Oh, same. And ignoring texts.”

“That’s a good one.”

“I might even butt-dial you and pull the whole oh no, wrong number bit.”

“I can just picture our high school reunion.” He points his finger toward me and puts on some fake, nasally accent. “Oh God. Amelia, is it?”

“Ben!” I exclaim, playing along with a high-pitched voice of my own. “From Geometry class!”

“Y’know, I thought that might be you.”

“Wild. What are you up to nowadays?”

“Joined a motorcycle gang.”

“No kidding! I’m over here with my five children and growing turnips.”

Bennett laughs so loud at that, the beautiful kind of laugh, where his head falls back. I take all of it in—the corded neck, the white teeth. Heck, even his new haircut is handsome. It’s impossible for Bennett Shaw to be anything but gorgeous.

In his normal voice, he asks, “Why turnips, Rubes?”

I shrug. “I dunno. I figured it would be something interesting.”

“You’re interesting already though. You design roller coasters for a living.”

I open my mouth to retort, but I’m not sure what to even say, so I close it right back. There’s a whip of wind that rolls past, the scent of autumn floating with it and then the coconut conditioner that is not Bennett one bit.

I grip the side of the bench. It irritates me more than it should right now. And when I look over at Bennett, he’s doing the same.

“So, are you really seeing him?” Bennett asks. “Michael?”

“Not really,” I answer. “He’s just my friend.”

He nods. “That’s great. I’m happy for you.”

I giggle out, “You don’t have to lie.”

“Fine. Then, you deserve better. You always deserve better.”

I take in every etching of his face, the little lines that have popped up since the last time we were allowed to sit this close. It feels wrong that I’ve missed any new scar origin stories. But the longer I look, the more I see Bennett’s face fall … fading, fading, fading.

“He’s your best friend now, isn’t he?” he murmurs.

“No,” I respond. “That’s your job, remember?”

“Nah, that was Bennett’s job. I’m Ben.”

“But I promised to always call you Bennett.”

“That you did.”

“And I always will.”

And for a split second, I think he leans closer—a habit left over from older days, where he wanted to hear every whispered word I had to say, when he longed to hear me before anyone else would. I miss the curtain of hair that would fall over us, the little canopy we’d talk under to block out the rest of the world. I wish I could relive those moments for even one day. But that pirate ship has sailed.

“Nice haircut, by the way,” I say, trying anything to keep the conversation moving because this might be the last time we’re ever alone. I need to hear his voice. His happiness. His jokes. I need to savor it all.

I wish I could reach out and run a hand over his new hair, feel what it’s like shaved close instead of long. But I won’t because that’s Jolene’s jurisdiction now. And I know better.

“Yeah, it’s not the best, is it?” Bennett admits, running a palm over it.

I wonder if it’s for me, like he can tell that my hand longs for that motion. I smile at his ability to know exactly what I’m thinking.

But that’s when I see it—or the lack of it really.

His bare wrist.

No shock of pink.

He’s not wearing our string bracelet anymore.

Sometimes, I wonder how many times my heart can shatter before I’ve lost all the pieces.

My head pivots away.

I never imagined a day when Bennett wouldn’t wear his string. I never imagined a day when we’d be sitting here with nothing more than a nostalgic bond between two warm bodies.

I play with my own bracelet I still wear, running a finger through the strands, picking and picking until a new errant fray sticks out. Another loose thread in the binding that is barely holding on as is.

I can feel it in me—the moment I snap.

The moment my brain realizes exactly what I’m about to do.

The end.

My words erupt into flames so quickly that I wonder when the pilot light even came on. Or maybe it was always lit, just waiting for my spark to set it ablaze.

“I actually really hate your haircut,” I blurt out.

Bennett laughs. I don’t.

“And you look stupid in a polo shirt.”

He laughs again, but it’s not as confident as the last one. “Wow. You’re feisty tonight.”

I’m not feisty. I’m filled with fire. I’m filled with irritation. I’m filled with the wrongness bubbling over into my chest and over my shoulders, rippling goose bumps down my spine.

“And I actually don’t like being awkward strangers,” I finally admit. “Not one bit.”

He’s frozen now. I wonder if he can sense the danger coming, just like I can.

“Ruby.” It’s a warning. I don’t heed it.

I’m tired of heeding warnings. I’m tired of not having the guts to say something. To speak up for what I want.

This conversation turned so quickly, but my hands are still on the wheel. I’m in the pilot’s seat for once in my entire life, and I refuse to be ejected.

I turn toward him, taking in all the parts of him that are still familiar. His high cheekbones. His full lips. And those little lines beside his eyes, the ones that show just how often he’s laughed and how most of those laughs have been with me.

I love my best friend. I will always love my best friend. And simply sitting back and watching him be taken away is no longer an option. I must fight. I must at least attempt to scramble up the mountain, scraping my fingernails and bruising my knees, fighting like hell to save my heart even if I fall when I reach the top.

“Don’t marry her.”

Saying it out loud feels horrible and good and awful and exciting.

I think I might vomit actually.

Bennett blinks. “What?”

“Don’t marry her.”

It feels worse the second time. But that’s okay. I’m done sitting back and watching the world pass me by. A little rudeness is just fine with me.

Bennett keeps staring at me with his mouth opening and closing.

“Ruby,” he whispers, “this is the night before my wedding.”

“And you punched my boyfriend.”

“Thought you were friends.”

“Does it matter?”

Bennett lets out an irritated growl, running a hand through hair that I know he wishes were longer. I can tell because he grumbles more when his fingers hit the short ends. Then, he scratches the whole thing, messing up the delicately gelled top.

He stares at me, rising to his feet, pacing away, and then back, blinking through an expression I can’t decipher yet. Because even though his eyebrows are pulled in, I also see the slight tug at the edge of his mouth, as if maybe he’s proud of me for saying anything at all.

“I know,” I continue. “I know this is unfair.”

“Damn right it’s unfair. This … I …”

He doesn’t finish.

“You …” I prompt.

His shoulders slouch, and that’s when I know my time is up.

“I love her, Ruby.”

My heart stammers in my chest, clanging over my ribs and stomach and shooting into my throat.

“I do.” Bennett lowers down to the bench and takes my hands in his. They’re warm and rough and everything that makes him Bennett. But they’re not mine. “And Jolene is going to be my wife.”

I can feel my hands start to shake. It’s been so long since they have.

“I know,” I answer with a small nod. “No, you’re right. I know.”

“Rubes …”

I swallow.

It hurts. More than I thought it would.

“The only thing I know is loving you,” I admit with a shrug. “And I don’t want to know anything else.”

His jaw clenches.

I’ve never said the word love before.

Not once.

But I mean it.

I love my best friend.

I should have taken the risk three years ago. But past Ruby wasn’t that type of woman. Past Ruby didn’t want marriage, nor did she believe in it. Present Ruby does though. Present Ruby has seen relationships work between friends. And present Ruby knows that marriage with Bennett would be the realest marriage of all. She’s a different, more confident woman, but she’s also very, very late.

Bennett’s shoulders drop, and he lets out a long exhalation. His thumb goes down to my wrist, toying with the strands, gently wrapping it in his large finger until something in it breaks loose. The pink string drops off my wrist to the grass below.

My weak laughter starts first, then his. Then, we’re both looking at the flimsy string on the ground.

“The universe sure has a sense of humor,” Bennett says.

“Oh, definitely. Fantastic timing.”

“Impeccable,” he finishes.

Bennett bends down to get my string before holding it out to me in the palm of his hand. It looks like a flimsy craft project. Maybe that’s all it ever was.

“No,” I say. “Keep it.”

“Ouch,” he says with a playful smile.

But I’m not joking anymore. All I want to do is hold his hand and wait for the moment when we let go one final time.

“I’m sorry I’m so late,” I mumble. “And I’m sorry for mentioning this at literally the last minute.”

“No, the last minute would have been tomorrow, I think.”

“Well, I’m sorry I didn’t do it three years ago then.”

“I forgive you.”

“Good. I don’t know if I could bear the thought of you being mad at me.”

He tilts his head to the side, running his thumb over my cheek.

“How about this? I promise to never be mad at you again, Rubes.”

I smile. “I’d like that. I promise that too.”

“Good.”

Bennett scoots closer to me on the bench, wrapping his arm around my waist and gripping my side. I curl as close as I can, burying my face into his neck. We sit like that for a bit, just like we have so many times before. When my parents got divorced, when we celebrated at prom, when he said we weren’t going to be friends anymore … so many memories we’ve had, from Honeywood day camp to high school to college to Florida. All just to come back to this.

“Want to go back inside?” I ask.

“Can we have just a couple more minutes?”

“Always.”