Chapter Forty-Five: Somber Thoughts
1232 Words
Anna's POV
The porch swing creaks softly beneath me, a slow, uneven rhythm that matches the quiet ache in my chest.
Night has settled in gently, the air cool enough to raise goosebumps on my arms. The house behind me glows with warm light, but I can’t bring myself to go inside yet. Everything in there feels too full—too many questions, too much concern hovering just beneath polite silence.
Out here, at least, I can breathe.
I stare out at the street, at the familiar row of houses and the amber glow of the streetlamps. My hands rest limp in my lap, paint-stained cuticles scrubbed raw but still stubbornly marked with color. No matter how hard I tried, the pigment wouldn’t come off completely.
Maybe that’s fitting.
Footsteps approach from the sidewalk—unhurried, deliberate. I don’t turn my head at first. I already know who it is. Ben has a way of moving that feels thoughtful, like he’s always considering the ground before stepping on it.
“Mind if I sit?” he asks softly.
I nod, shifting just enough to make room.
He settles beside me on the swing, careful not to jostle it. The chain rattles faintly, then stills. For a few minutes, neither of us spoke. The silence isn’t awkward. It’s the kind that wraps around you when words feel inadequate anyway.
Ben leans back slightly, gazing up at the night sky. “You know,” he says eventually, “if this were Europe, this would be the moment when a tragic violin score starts playing and someone monologues about the fleeting nature of beauty.”
I snort despite myself. “Of course it would.”
He grins. “Italian cinema, specifically. Very dramatic. Lots of longing stares.”
“That checks out,” I say, my lips tugging into a small smile. “Do I at least get good lighting?”
“Always,” he replies easily. “Golden hour forever.”
I glance at him, really look at him, and feel a rush of gratitude so strong it makes my chest ache. “Thank you,” I say quietly. “For trying to cheer me up.”
“Hey,” Ben shrugs, suddenly serious. “It’s what friends do.”
Friends.
The word lands gently, without weight or expectation, and I appreciate him for that more than he probably knows.
“I’m okay,” I add after a moment. “Really. I’m… over the drama. Jessica, her followers—it’s exhausting, but I refuse to let them take anything else from me.”
Ben studies me carefully, like he’s assessing a fragile sculpture for cracks. “You don’t have to be invincible all the time, you know.”
“I know,” I say. “But tonight, I want to be.”
He nods, accepting that answer without pushing. The swing creaks again as he shifts, then he clears his throat. “There’s something else I wanted to tell you.”
I turn toward him fully now. “Okay.”
“Leith is still very much an option,” he says gently. “The draft submissions I sent on your behalf? They were impressed. Even without the exhibit photos.”
My breath catches. “Ben… are you serious?”
He smiles, warm and earnest. “Completely. They asked for a follow-up statement. More process-oriented. Less polish. Honestly, they might like that even more.”
For the first time since the theater room, hope flares bright and sharp in my chest.
“Oh my God,” I whisper. “I don’t even know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything,” he replies. “Just… don’t give up.”
I turn toward him, emotion rushing up so fast it nearly knocks the air from my lungs. “Thank you,” I say, voice thick. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I wanted to,” he says simply.
Before I could stop myself, I lean in, arms lifting instinctively to hug him. My phone rings. The sound cuts through the moment like a dropped glass. I froze, half-leaning toward Ben, and glanced down at the screen.
Marcus.
My heart stutters.
Ben sees the name and lets out a low laugh. “Wow,” he says. “Talk about impeccable timing.”
I giggle softly. “I swear, he has some kind of sixth sense.”
“Of course he does,” Ben replies. “Boyfriends always do. Especially when they’re about to lose to a perfectly good hug.”
I smile apologetically and tap answer. “Hey.”
“Hey,” Marcus’s voice comes through, low and familiar, and just like that, the tightness in my chest loosens. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“No,” I say. “I was outside.”
There’s a pause. “Are you okay?”
I glance at Ben, who’s now leaning back on the swing with exaggerated patience, hands clasped behind his head like a martyr.
“I am,” I say honestly. “I had… company.”
Marcus hums softly. “Do I want to ask?”
Ben stage-whispers, “Tell him it’s your mysterious European benefactor.”
I bite my lip to keep from laughing. “It’s Ben.”
Another pause. Shorter this time. “Ah,” Marcus says. “Of course it is.”
Ben leans toward the phone. “Hi, Marcus,” he says cheerfully. “You’ve got great timing. She was just about to hug me.”
“Ben,” I hiss.
Marcus exhales with a laugh. “I figured.”
I roll my eyes, warmth blooming in my cheeks. “Ignore him. What’s up?”
“I just wanted to hear your voice,” Marcus says. “And to tell you that whatever happens next, you’re not facing it alone. Jessica and Bella will be dealt with accordingly.”
My throat tightens. “Marcus, what did you do?”
“I did what needed to be done. And Damian and Peter chipped in because they wanted to, not because I asked them to,” he jokes as I hear his brothers snickering in the background.
"Marcus, what are you..." I begin asking but he cuts me off.
"Go to the mall with me tomorrow," he says and then goes silent while waiting for me to respond.
“Umm, ok, sure,” I say.
Ben rises from the swing, stretching. “I’ll give you two some space,” he says, mock-somber. “Before I get accused of international interference.”
“Thank you,” I say softly.
He pauses, then leans down and squeezes my shoulder. “You’re going to be amazing,” he murmurs. “No matter where you end up.”
Then he steps off the porch and heads down the street, hands in his pockets, whistling quietly to himself. I watch him go, gratitude settling deep in my bones.
“Still there?” Marcus asks.
“Yeah,” I reply. “Just… thinking.”
“Good thoughts or bad ones?” he asks.
“Hopeful ones,” I say.
I hear the smile in his voice when he answers. “That’s my favorite kind.”
I lean back against the porch railing, the swing rocking gently beneath me, and for the first time since everything fell apart—
I believe him.
- Writer
