Nothing made me more agitated than talking about Sisyphus with Ben.
Not hunger.
Not poverty.
Not Virginia.
Not Dad.
Not even Nash Prescott.
Ben saw Sisyphus as having been punished, but I knew Sisyphus was smart.
Cunning.
A planner.
Here’s my take: Sisyphus created an empire. He was a human, yet he ruled the winds. He tricked gods and goddesses. Even Death feared him.
Sisyphus wanted his punishment; otherwise, he would have escaped it, too. Sisyphus chose not to, and each day, he got to reach heights no other mortal man could.
Through his punishment, he was the never-ending battle of the sea, the constant rise and fall of the tides, the cycle of the moon and the sun. His punishment immortalized him. Placed him in the company of gods and goddesses. Gave him the power of a god, too.
Ben didn’t see it that way, and no matter how much I wanted to shake him and demand he wake up, I couldn’t. I scrolled through our messages, resisting the urge to run out into the rain and let it drown my screams.
Benkinersophobia: What do you think about regret?
Durga: Regret is endless. That’s why it’s life’s longest punishment. There’s no way to fight it. You just learn to live with it.
Benkinersophobia: Like Sisyphus, destined to carry the boulder for eternity.
Durga: He could stop it if he wanted.
Benkinersophobia: It wouldn’t be a punishment if you can choose when it ends.
Durga: It’s not a punishment. It’s a test. Sisyphus has to prove he is worthy of the gods. By continuing to roll the boulder uphill, he is immortalized, a never-ending cycle, experiencing heights no other mortal has, in a place built by gods for gods. If he beats the test and levels the mountain by chipping a piece off each trip, he tricks Zeus once again. Either way, he has won.
Benkinersophobia: So, why would he choose to roll the boulder instead of leveling the mountain?
Durga: Sometimes, the struggle is important. Struggle changes people more than success.
I’d spent the past two days trying to explain this to Ben, but it was useless. He’d set his mind on condemning himself. I didn’t understand why, and I felt powerless to help him.
I rolled my bottom lip into my mouth, scraping my teeth against it just to feel the bite, wishing I could distract him from his demons. I hoped Ben considered me his escape as much as I considered him to be mine.
Durga: Tell me what you would do if we met in person.
Benkinersophobia: You’re changing the subject.
Durga: Am I that obvious?
Benkinersophobia: Nothing about you is obvious. But I read you well, Durga, and often.
I would take that any day. Two giant wings expanded in my belly, flapping their way to my chest. They weren’t butterflies. They were powerful tsunami waves, consuming me each time I spoke with Ben.
He’s a fantasy, Emery. You will wake up one day, and he’ll be gone. Keep your distance. Save your heart. Nothing good lasts.
Like always, my warnings didn’t deter me. I typed out a reply, hoping I was Ben’s fantasy, too—a warrior princess who fought his demons beside him.
Durga: I love you.
I’d said it before.
After he’d talked me down a ledge caused by a failed finals exam.
Or when I got evicted from my apartment sophomore year, and he offered to break the rules and help me in person.
And that time I nearly caved and answered Dad’s postcard, where he told me he loved me, missed me, and would always be here to balter with me.
Probably a dozen times after, too.
Each time felt different.
This time, the declaration came from comfort. I needed him to know someone cared about him, was there for him, and would always be there for him. Because at the end of the day, that’s all any of us really need. Someone who shares their sunshine no matter the weather.
Benkinersophobia: I don’t deserve it.
Durga: Just tell me what you would do if we ever met.
Benkinersophobia: I’d say, “Hi. I like your ass. Would you like to fuck?”
Durga: Romantic.
Benkinersophobia: I thought so.
Durga: You don’t know what I look like. You may not like my ass.
Benkinersophobia: I like you, therefore I like your ass.
I never stopped smiling when I talked to Ben. I hoped, wherever he was, I made him smile, too.
Durga: Have you heard of the Maasai?
Benkinersophobia: From Africa?
Durga: Yes. About four hundred years ago, a Maasai leader had a daughter named Naserian. She dated a village elder’s son, who eventually broke her heart. Naserian’s father banished him. When he left, he took his elder father, mother, sister, uncles, aunts, and cousins.
Durga: A month later, Naserian dated another man who broke her heart. When he was banished, he took with him his father, mother, sister, uncles, aunts, and cousins. The Maasai numbers began to dwindle, which left them vulnerable.
Durga: See where I’m going here?
Benkinersophobia: The Maasai have a shit ton of family members?
Durga: Ben.
Benkinersophobia: Naserian needs to chill with the assholes?
Durga: Ben.
Benkinersophobia: The Maasai need separation of state and daughter like ninety-year-olds in Congress need retirement?
Durga: BEN.
Durga: Stop.
Durga: OMG. You’re impossible.
Durga: Moral of the story—when you act in vengeance, everyone around you suffers.
Benkinersophobia: I’m not talking about revenge. I’m talking about regret.
Durga: Revenge and regret are cut from the same cloth. Both are infectious. Both are cured by forgiveness and forgetting. The last thing I want is for you to suffer.
Benkinersophobia: You worry too much about me.
Durga: Because I care.
My grin splintered as I waited for a response. Not because I didn’t think Ben loved me. I knew he did—just like I knew I made him smile and the real reason we refused to break the barrier and meet each other had nothing to do with the rules.
We were geode crystals.
Beautiful.
Tough.
Shiny.
Resilient.
Destined for a life sheltered inside an ugly rock.
My worry for Ben egged at me to press harder, to beg him to see himself the way I saw him, but I wouldn’t, because even geodes shattered. If we shattered to pieces, I would lose my compass, my refuge, my sanctuary.
Selfish, selfish, Emery. Tell me all about how you’re a good person.
I whispered magic words into the empty office air, even though I knew magic words wouldn’t save me from this.
Benkinersophobia: How do the Maasai still exist if they banished everyone?
Durga: Well, the story ain’t true, but it proves my point.
Benkinersophobia: You made up a story about the Maasai for me?
Durga: I know you’re laughing. Stop judging.
Benkinersophobia: Durga?
Durga: Ben?
Benkinersophobia: I love you, too.
My cheeks still stung red when Nash walked into the office ten minutes later. He held out a to-go bag of overpriced food from a local steakhouse. Everyone else had gone out for Taco Tuesday lunch, so nothing but silence filled the room.
He gave me a solid thirty seconds to grab it before he plopped it on the coffee table in front of me and studied my flushed cheeks. “It’s lemon herb salmon with the little green things Ma makes that you’re obsessed with.”
“They’re capers, Nash, and people don’t make them. They cook them.” I tapped my naked nails on my phone screen, breathing from my mouth so I couldn’t smell the food. My stomach continued its relentless growls. “How do you know I like capers?”
“Is that a serious question? You and Dad would fight over them whenever Ma made Chicken Piccata.” Nash sat next to me on the couch, making it feel a hundred times smaller. He dragged the bag closer to the edge of the table and pulled out a black plastic container with a transparent lid. “You spilled the entire serving plate one year while trying to steal the capers from Dad and Reed’s plates.” It looked like the memory made him happy, which did uncomfortable things to my chest, even as I did my best to ignore him and the food. “Ma ended up doubling the capers in the recipe. Every time she makes Chicken Piccata, it’s like eating green shit with a side of chicken and pasta.”
My eyes dipped to the dish as he pulled off the lid.
Fuck.
Was I drooling?
“Betty still makes Chicken Piccata?”
“Yeah. Once a month.”
His words pulled me out of his orbit.
Out of the tussled hair that made me think words like cafune.
Out of the full lips that parted every time he spoke.
Out of the scent of him I loved to steal.
“You see her once a month?” I stumbled over the words, not quite believing them. It fought the villainous archetype of Nash I’d built in my head.
The one that kept me safe from pesky attachments and reminded me this was not the same guy that packed me lunches and steadied me after the Able incident.
Nash pierced the salmon with a fork at the same time my stomach let loose an obnoxious growl. “I see her nearly every weekend.” He waved the salmon in my face, showing off its flawless medium cook. “I’m eating this if you don’t, and your stomach sounds fucking pissed at you.”
I ignored the food, latching onto a piece of my past that didn’t feel tainted. “How does Betty look?”
He shoveled the fork into his mouth. “Strong.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means she’s keeping herself fed and smiles when I’m looking.”
“And when you’re not looking?”
“She stares wherever Dad should be, eyes leaking like a broken faucet. If we’re at the dinner table, she eyes the empty chair. If we’re in the living room, she eyes the La-Z-Boy. If we’re in the car, she stares down the steering wheel at every stoplight like it should be him driving instead of me.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you asked, and maybe you care.”
“Maybe? Of course, I care about Betty. I love her.”
“Are you eating or what?”
Why do you keep trying to feed me, you confusing, fucked-up villain?
The words sat at the tip of my tongue, begging to be unleashed. I had no energy for a fight, so I swallowed them. They tasted like poor decisions and a forlorn appetite.
My eyes tracked each bite of his. I allowed myself two and half seconds of misery before I turned away from the food and clutched my phone like it was my only connection to Ben. (It was.)
“No,” I forced myself to answer. “I’m not your charity case.”
Ben loved me.
Nash confused me.
And at the end of the day, lust was just a consolation prize for love.
