Bound by Blood

Chapter 3

"Hello?" I held the phone to my ear, heart beating in my throat, memories from two years ago flooding my mind.

"Ari?" Ben's voice, familiar and yet strange.

"Yeah?" I waited as the silence stretched one..two...three seconds too long.

"Um... It's Ben. Ben Shafer."

"Yeah," I said, "I know."

Time slid back into place. It had been two years since I'd last heard his voice, last seen his name pop up on my phone. For a moment, it had seemed like I'd been transported back in time, back to the days when my heart had lit up at that sight, that sound. Then, like a moving vehicle coming to a sudden stop, I was jarred back into place: a crash survivor awakening in a wreck of glass and blood.

"Why are you calling me?"

"I, uh... I'm in town for a few days, and I thought maybe you'd wanna catch up." He sounded tentative, almost painfully unsure.

I considered it. Seeing Ben again was bound to be awkward, but for once I wasn't keen on spending the evening alone, thinking about burglars. "Sure. What did you have in mind?"

He was silent a moment, probably surprised I'd agreed. "Dinner at La Tavola?"

His favorite Italian place. I nodded, then remembered he couldn't see me. "Sure. What time?"

"How 'bout six-thirty?"

"Okay. See you then."

I ended the call, nerves already crawling around my insides like ants on the move. Maybe this was a bad idea after all. My mind began seeking escape routes like a rat trapped on a sinking ship. I could wait a bit, then text him and say I'd forgotten I already had plans. Or not show up at all. He probably wouldn't blame me, with the way things had ended between us.

After almost a year together, Ben's patience had finally run out. He'd been frustrated; I'd been frightened. He hadn't quite assaulted me, but it'd been close. Then all of that had ignited into anger like a match dropped in a hay-barn, and our relationship went up in flames. Furious words were spoken on both sides. He said I couldn't be asexual because it wasn't a real thing: I was just hung-up, or repressed, or sick. I said maybe he should find someone who wasn't those things, and he'd agreed. We hadn't spoken again after that.

But up until that point, things had been good between us—or at least I had thought so. I enjoyed his company, enjoyed the time we spent together. I even enjoyed the physical contact, up to a point. I hadn't minded when he kissed me, held my hand, pressed against me when we sat together on the couch, or lay in bed. I just hadn't wanted more, and he had. Somewhat desperately, as it turned out.

By 6:10, I still hadn't given in to my cowardly impulses, and had dressed in dark jeans and my favorite button-down linen shirt. I'd showered, combed my curls into a semblance of style, and splashed on a mild fragrance. I told myself I wasn't making the effort for Ben's sake, but for my own. I had some pride, after all.

Il Tavola was on the next street over, about two blocks away, so I walked. It was located on the lower level of an old brick building; a long narrow space with dark wood furnishings, intimate lighting, and small tables. A place to bring a date.

Ben was waiting on the street outside, his familiar close-cut dark hair and lanky frame drawing my eye even from a distance. He looked up from his phone as I approached, and a wide grin broke across his face.

"Ari! It's good to see you, man!" He reached out to draw me into a hug. I responded, albeit a little stiffly. "I was afraid you wouldn't come."

"Ben. It's good to see you too," I said.