41
Ben
Ben was pretty sure his body had been temporarily taken over by someone else. That was the only way he could explain the fact that he had willingly walked over to Sam and engaged him in conversation. It would have been so easy to ignore him—Sam seemed pretty intent on doing just that. That in itself had been a mystery. Why would Sam attend an exhibit opening when he knew the exhibit was Ben’s? Then Sam had mentioned wanting to talk, and everything made sense.
It rankled a bit. This was his opening, and Sam had just come barging in on that. Even if he had no intention of initiating conversation, clearly he had hoped for it.
Grabbing one of the larger clear cups, he poured it three quarters of the way full of rosé, then thought better of it and picked up the entire bottle. It wasn’t amazing, but in a pinch, it would do. Then he walked toward the back of the gallery, where a kitchenette was hidden behind closed doors. Sam was already there, waiting.
“Hope you brought enough for the both of us,” he said, holding up his cup.
“I did, but I don’t know if you deserve the comfort.” Ben wrapped an arm around himself, as though to provide a visual cue that he wasn’t willing to be touched. They stood there silently for a few seconds, Ben taking a few sips of wine, before he raised an eyebrow. “Are you going to say anything or not? You’re the one who wanted to talk.”
“Only if you wanted to listen.” Sam’s voice was pained. “I didn’t want to ruin your night. But I had to…I had to talk with you. I screwed up. And I can’t make excuses for that. I did something that hurt you without knowing how badly it was going to hurt you, and it came back to hurt me, too.”
“Oh, so this is about you now.”
“No!” Letting out a slow, shaky breath, Sam ran a hand through his hair. “I caused you pain. I didn’t mean to, but my intentions don’t matter. What matters is I made you feel inferior. Like you weren’t enough for me, and that I wanted this version of you that I had presented to my parents. But that isn’t it at all.”
Maybe it was the wine he was drinking far too quickly, or maybe it was that his anger had burned out, but Ben wanted to believe him. He wanted to believe that Sam really did care about him as a person. That it didn’t matter how much money he had. But then he couldn’t help but wonder why Sam had felt the need to lie in the first place.
He pursed his lips, eyeing Sam as he would a piece of art he was critiquing. Seeing his flaws and imperfections, but also the things he liked about him. Sam had been stupid, yes. He had done something that hurt. But he was caring, and kind. He went out of his way to make his brother-in-law feel welcome, and he visited with his grandma every chance he got. He loved the outdoors, and he was willing to sleep on the floor so Ben wouldn’t be put out. But he had lied.
“Why did you do it?” he asked eventually.
Sam sighed and grabbed the wine from Ben’s hand, filling his glass. “My parents…they have expectations.”
“Ones that you’ve always tried to flout.”
Irritation flashed in Sam’s eyes. “Are you going to interrupt every sentence I say?”
Ben realized he wasn’t being fair to Sam. He wasn’t even giving him a chance to defend himself. If he wanted things to get better between them, he had to be willing to listen.
“Sorry. Continue.” He took another sip of wine.
“Yes, I tried to flout my parents’ expectations. But for once, I wanted them to get off my back about everything. The job, the money, the boyfriend. And so I thought ‘I know, I’ll create one so that they won’t ask anymore.’ I used you as an inspiration, yes, but only because I was half in love with you, and it was a win-win. I got to pretend that you were my boyfriend, and they got to stop worrying that I was going to end up on the street.”
Ben waited until he was sure Sam was finished before saying, “So you still used me.”
“Are you listening to anything I’m saying? Yes. I did and it was wrong and I’m sorry, but I…I wanted to have everything. If I made you rich, my parents would stop hounding me at Christmas and over Labor Day. You were never supposed to find out, because you were never supposed to come with me. It was all supposed to stay fake.” His voice broke on the last word.
Ben’s shell was starting to crack. Sure, Sam had messed up, and there was no forgetting that. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t forgive him and move forward, as long as they were able to settle one matter.
“When you told your parents I was rich, was that you wishing I was rich?” He hated how small his voice sounded. “All the things that you told them—that I was famous, that I’d sold a piece to the governor, did you wish any of that were real?”
Sam shook his head. “No,” he said emphatically. “I just said all that shit so I wouldn’t have to hear from my parents that I should be dating any one of their friends’ sons, who were much richer and could give me a much better life.”
He sounded so genuine, and goddammit, if Ben didn’t believe him. He had wanted to believe him, so maybe that helped, but Sam just looked far too honest. Not at all like Spencer normally looked when he was apologizing for what he had done. Ben took a step forward.
“If you ever, ever keep something like this from me again, I will walk out of your life so fast you’ll get whiplash. Do you understand?”
Hope flickered across Sam’s face. “Do you mean—”
“I mean I forgive you, you idiot.” He wrapped his arms around Sam, who remained stiff only for a moment before returning it. “Besides, I don’t think I could have stayed away from the Press Room much longer. Claritea’s shit.”
Sam laughed, the vibrations reverberating through Ben’s body, and he buried his nose in Sam’s neck. God, he had missed him. As long as Sam was telling the truth now—and Ben knew in his heart he was—then in time, they were going to be okay.