What I Should’ve Said
Chapter 42

Sunday, September 19th

Norah

I check the time on my phone—2:03 a.m.

On a huff, I drop it back down on the nightstand and turn over, pulling the comforter over my head and forcing my eyes to close.

But when I replace myself turning over to check the time again—2:06 a.m.—I crawl out of bed and tiptoe down the hallway and into the kitchen to make a cup of tea.

Tonight was rough. Truthfully, the last few nights have been rough. Like clockwork, Clay calls at a little after midnight, and Josie and I go get a drunk Bennett from the bar and bring him home.

His grief over Summer’s death has him in a choke hold, and I want so badly to be the salve for his pain, want so badly to be there for him, but he won’t let me. I call and text him every day, but he never responds. And now that Breezy has gone back to New York, he’s alone in that big farmhouse. Alone with his thoughts. Alone with his sadness.

Tears prick my eyes, and I pinch the bridge of my nose to keep them at bay. Desperate for a distraction, I unlock the screen of my phone with the intention of browsing social media, but a missed text notification from Lillian pulls my attention.

It must’ve come in when Josie and I were getting Bennett home.

Lillian: Have you talked to Bennett’s lawyer? Something big is going on with Thomas and Eleanor…

Below the message sits two links. I click on the first, and an online gossip magazine reveals that my stepdad Carlton Prescott Has Filed for Divorce from Eleanor Ellis-Prescott. And when I click on the second link, an article from a major national newspaper pops onto the screen.

Thomas King Spends Day in Questioning

NEW YORK, September 18 – King Financial wonderboy Thomas King and Eleanor Ellis-Prescott, wife of wealthy businessman Carlton Prescott, were escorted into the New York City police station to answer questions under oath on Friday. The District Attorney’s office is not giving any details regarding what they are being questioned about at this time, but they state information will be released to the public at a later date.

It’s a shock to see my mother’s name in the paper and have it not be about some event she’s attended or charity function she’s hosted. Both she and Thomas are being questioned by the police, and it makes me wonder how much they’ve found on them—and just how bad it really is.

After they left Red Bridge, I gave Bennett and Breezy’s lawyer everything I had—Alexis’s letter, along with the proof inside. Last I heard, they had turned everything over to the New York DA, and it was being investigated.

I can only assume my suspicions of there being more girls are correct, and it doesn’t make me feel good, that’s for damn sure. It only makes me feel really sad. Sad that I was so naïve about them. But mostly, sad that it’s possible they ruined other people’s lives. Sad that there could be another girl like Alexis who was forced into an impossible situation and fear made her follow through with something she didn’t want to do.

Without even thinking, I tap out of the article and head to my contacts to call Bennett. But just as my finger hovers over his name, I realize it’s after two in the morning, and while he’s the one person I want to talk to about this, he’s the last person who wants to talk to me.

God, I miss him.

Thoughts of him and Summer swirl inside my head like a tornado. A hundred different memories flash behind my eyes. Bennett’s smile. Bennett’s laugh. Giggling with Summer in his studio about Kim and Kourtney and Khloe while he painted. Turning Summer’s nails sparkly pink before the fake Josie and Clay wedding. Eating sandwiches surrounded by grass and butterflies while Bennett fielded business calls with his sister. Looking for shooting stars with them in the yard.

Before I know it, tears are dripping down my cheeks and I’m peeking inside Josie’s bedroom to see if she’s still asleep.

When I confirm I’m the only one awake, I head back into my bedroom and slide on a pair of sandals, grab my phone and the keys to Josie’s Civic, and walk out the front door in only my pajamas as quietly as I can manage.

I get in the car, start the engine, and silently pray the sounds of the Civic roaring to life don’t wake up my sister. I don’t know why I don’t want Josie to know what I’m doing. Maybe I’m afraid she’ll judge me. Maybe I fear she’ll derail my plans.

Or maybe I’m unable to really face what I’m about to do.

The sky is dark, and the road is only illuminated by my headlights as I drive over the gravel driveway and take a left onto the main road.

I don’t even bother turning on the radio, my pounding heart the only thing vibrating in my ears.

And that heart of mine keeps pounding away as I drive, growing louder and more persistent as I close in on my destination.

A big white farmhouse comes into view, as well as the barn that I know still showcases the wall I painted. The wall that Summer begged him to keep forever.

Summer.

God, how I miss her.

The brakes squeak as I pull the Civic to a stop and shut off the engine. The house is dark, besides the porch light, and I sit there for I don’t know how long warring with myself on whether this is a good idea.

A light flicks on from the side of the house, illuminating the walkspace to the studio. And the tall, muscular frame of a man I can’t stop thinking about, can’t stop worrying about, can’t stop missing—can’t stop craving, needing, wanting—comes into view as he walks from the big house to his favorite place to paint.

He doesn’t notice the Civic in his driveway or me in the driver’s seat. And when he walks into the studio and shuts the door behind him, I hop out of the car and follow.

Not even a minute later, I replace him inside, roughly tossing one of his finished paintings onto a stack of another three. He still hasn’t noticed my presence, but the bourbon he consumed tonight is probably still flowing through his veins.

When two more canvases are carelessly added to the pile, I replace my voice.

“Bennett?”

He stops on a dime but pointedly doesn’t turn around to face me. “Go home, Norah.”

Go home. The words are the nails, and the stern intonation of his voice is the hammer, driving a piercing pain straight into my heart.

“What are you doing?”

“Go home,” he repeats and yanks an abstract painting he painted before Summer passed away off an easel. With a sickeningly rough toss, it gets added to the pile.

When he pulls out a box of matches and stands over the discarded canvases that sit in the center of the room, concern clutches my chest.

“Bennett,” I say, trying my own hand at stern.

He ignores me and pulls a match out of the box, his eyes solely focused on the paintings, and his intent is unmistakable. The concern in my chest blooms into fear.

I jump into action then, running over to him and swatting the box of matches out of his hands. They hit the floor with a slap just as Bennett’s gaze finally meets mine. His blue eyes are sad and red-rimmed, and dark circles mar the skin beneath them. It breaks my heart into a million tiny pieces.

“Why, Norah?” His voice is harsh as he grabs my arms, but his touch is tender. “Why?” he repeats.

His question has nothing to do with the paintings. All I can do is look up at him, locking his devastation-ridden gaze with mine.

“I miss her too, Ben,” I whisper. “I miss her too.” And I miss you. So, so much.

His breathing is ragged, and emotion shines within his eyes. And when one lone tear drips down his cheek, I reach up to wipe it off with my thumb.

He leans into my touch, his strong jaw nuzzling into my small hand.

“I don’t deserve you. I never did.” His words are so quiet, my frantic, overactive mind questions if they even exist.

He starts to pull away, starts to put distance between us, and real words or not, I can’t handle it.

The last thing I want right now is space from this man. In a short time, he’s become everything to me. And all I want more than anything on this earth is to be there for him. To be here with him.

I push my body against his, wrapping my arms around his neck and lifting myself up until I can wrap my legs around his waist. He is stone, still as a statue, but his chest moves up and down against mine in heaving waves.

I touch my forehead to his, trying to bring his eyes to mine again, but they stay fixated on my shirt.

“Bennett,” I say, urging him to look at me. My bottom lip quivers with the emotion that’s now clogging my throat. “Bennett.”

His blue eyes fight to avoid mine, but they lose the battle. Tear-stained blue to tear-stained brown, we stare at one another.

“I love you,” I whisper, my voice one decibel over silent. I love you.

He crashes his lips into mine, his movements erratic and unsteady as he thrusts his tongue into my mouth. His fingers slide into my hair, and I tighten my grip around his shoulders and waist as I kiss him right back.

We’re a messy, desperate mix of mouths and breaths, and when the taste of salt reaches my tongue, I don’t know if it’s from my tears or his.

His hands move down my back until he grips my ass with his big hands. “Norah.” My name is a grave rasp on his tongue. “My Norah. I need you so fucking bad.”

“Bennett, I—” A sob strangles my voice, vibrating my chest against his, as he slams his mouth down on mine again.

I don’t care that he still has alcohol in his system. I don’t care if this is a bad idea. I don’t even care what happens after this moment. All I know is that I need him just as bad. I kiss him back with everything I have.

I don’t even realize he’s moved us until my back is hitting the sofa in the corner of his studio.

I respond by reaching my hands out to rip his T-shirt off his body. He follows suit by removing my sleep shorts and panties and freeing his cock from his jeans.

He pushes himself inside me on a grunt, and my eyes fall closed when he fills me completely.

My breathing is ragged and tears stream down my cheeks and my hands claw at the bare skin of his back, silently begging him for more.

Our mouths taste and lick and breathe each other in, while our hands don’t stop touching skin. It’s as if we’re trying to crawl inside each other, unable to get close enough without morphing into one. All the while, he keeps thrusting himself inside me with heavy, rough strokes of his cock.

When he presses his forehead against mine and our gazes lock, his tears drip from his face and mix with my own on my skin once again.

“You deserve me,” I whisper into his ear, but he shakes his head and thrusts himself deeper inside me.

“No, Norah. Don’t fucking say it.”

I grip his chin and try to force his eyes to mine, but he refuses and buries his face into my neck. A guttural sob vibrates from his lungs, and the heavy strokes of his cock inside me become harder and deeper and faster.

This moment is nothing like the first time we made love. It’s raw and animalistic, and despair hovers over us like a dark cloud.

This is fucking, pure and simple.

I should probably hate myself for being the catalyst for getting us to this point. I should be pissed at myself for coming here tonight when I knew what kind of state he was in. But I can’t bring myself to do anything but savor every second of this moment I shouldn’t have stolen.

And the reality of what I’d do for him is clear—anything.

I’d do anything for this man.

I love you, my heart cries.

I want to take away his pain.

I want to tell him that he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

I want to tell him that I’d never ask him to choose his daughter over me and that I’m not mad he asked me to bring that letter to the police station that day.

I want to tell him a million things, but I know he’s not ready for that. I can see it in his eyes and feel it in the desperate way he moves.

I don’t stop kissing him when he pushes us both over the edge and comes deep inside me. And I don’t stop kissing him when he lies down on the couch and pulls my body over his.

I only stop kissing him when his eyes fall closed and his breaths grow slower with sleep, then I dress myself and steal away into the night just as I came.

Without invitation, without answers, without any sense of closure.

I love Bennett Bishop. But he’s still not ready to love me.