The Boy Who Died

Mistake

Marcie

No. No, no, no. I didn’t spend a whole night talking to Ben. I didn’t spend all week texting Ben! My breath races. My heart hammers. He can’t be Ryan because…because….

Ben catches my eye and smiles. He’s wearing a pair of jeans so crisp I have to assume he ironed them before leaving the house and a short-sleeved button-down with a tiny print I can’t make out from here. Oh, f**k, he’s walking over. I shove one of my hands beneath the table and squeeze it into a fist so tight, bright crescents of pain spark through my system as my nails dig in.

“My dear Lancival.” He half-bows as he approaches. “I should’ve known you’d beat me here. Do you mind waiting while I get my drink?”

I shake my head. He can’t be Ryan. He just can’t be. I watched Ryan die, even if I didn’t know that until his mom told me the next day. I went to his funeral. But oh, God, he looks so much like Ryan.

He turns away and joins the still-short line. I stare at his back. He holds his shoulders like Ryan did. I think. At this point, I could be making all of this up.

I could be making this up! But I finally have a live sample of Ben to compare to the pictures of Ryan on my phone. I can finally prove that my mind is playing tricks on me. Below the lip of the table, I unlock the screen and click on the gallery.

The folder of Ryan photos doesn’t pop up. That happens sometimes. My phone likes to hide my hidden folders. But when I click on the button that should reveal all my folders to me, it isn’t there either.

My heartbeat in my ears starts to sound like a war drum, like a call to action. I search my whole phone. Not even a single instance of his name, but I guess that’s not weird. Did I move them to my laptop? I was definitely on my laptop last time I stalked Ben.

And you lost your phone after the party, an awful voice in my head reminds me.

I inhale. I didn’t really lose my phone.

I exhale. I found it under the couch.

I inhale. If someone deleted the pictures off my phone, it couldn’t have been Ben. It would’ve had to be someone I came home with. Which would be much more comforting if I remembered getting home.

My ribs threaten to cave in, collapsing my lungs forever. I choke on the exhale.

Ben returns to the table with a wide-mouthed latte mug in his hands. “Don’t make fun of me, but I think I’ve had enough of these caramel lattes that they may have replaced my blood by now.”

It’s like a break in the clouds. Ryan hated sweet coffee. He took his black, or when he’d just pulled an all-nighter, with a shot of espresso. I don’t need the pictures. I can prove they’re different in a million ways.

“I don’t mind.” I force a smile. “One of my friends used to make fun of me for putting one sugar in my americano.”

“Oof.” Ben grimaces playfully. “Sounds like a real hardass. Let me guess, she always suggested French films when you watched movies?”

Ryan was the one who made fun of me. Another strike against Ben. And maybe a third for the dig at French films. They weren’t Ryan’s favorite by any means, but he believed directors should watch movies from across the globe if they really wanted to call themselves masters of their craft.

“Sometimes.” I sip my coffee. “So, I don’t know if you noticed, but I was a little out of it last Saturday.”

Ben smiles. “A little? I was surprised you woke up to text me back.”

“I’m kind of a lightweight,” I say carefully. “But I figured it was time to admit that if we did any of the getting-to-know-you questions, I don’t remember.”

“Not unless you count deep Manticore Quest discussions as getting to know you.” He leans back in his chair and runs a hand through the flop of sandy hair that nearly falls into his eyes. “I don’t think we even exchanged names. I’m Ben, if you don’t remember from class.”

“I remember.” My tongue is made of lead. I couldn’t forget him if I wanted to. “Um, Marcie.”

“I remember too.” He smiles conspiratorially. “It’s a unique name. Where does it come from?”

It was the first thing that popped up on a random name generator when I was filling out my name-change paperwork. “It was my dad’s mom’s name. She passed a few months before I was born.”

“That’s sweet,” he says. “I have no idea who I’m named after, but I used to tell people it was Benjamin Franklin.”

Ryan would know I was lying. So I allow myself the luxury of actually raising my eyebrow in surprise at Ben’s admission.

“Why him?”

He laughs. “I really keep hitting my lamest stories. Okay, so imagine you’re Ben A., you’re about seven, and you want something to distinguish you from Ben C., Ben H., and Ben S.”

I nod.

“And then imagine you learn about Benjamin Franklin and all his great work in Philadelphia, and you know your parents moved from New Philadelphia right before you started school.” He laughs self-consciously. “Drop the ‘new,’ and you’re ready to start telling people you’re one of his direct descendants.”

I smile. It’s easy to picture him young—easy because I knew Ryan at that age—and the story is so unique. Ryan never had anything like that.

“You can laugh.” He gestures broadly. “It’s my mom’s favorite Ben-as-a-kid anecdote. I must’ve heard it a thousand times.”

“I understand that.” I nod like I’ve spoken to my mom in the five years since my institutionalization. “Are you close then?”

His smile grows a little tight. “We spent a lot of time together. I went to college close enough to home to live there. This is my first real jump out of the nest.”

“I can barely tell.” I offer him a smile in turn. Ryan’s mom was protective, but that was at least partially because it was just the two of them. “Where is home, then?”

“Galesburg, Illinois. Proper flyover stuff, far from this bustling eastern seaport.” He grins. A college town sprouted up around Ardent, and we’re not far from D.C., but it’s far from bustling. “What about you?”

“Aurora, Indiana, so I get you.” I sip my coffee and watch his expression. Aurora has been my go-to fake hometown for years now, just a fifteen-minute drive from Dillsboro, where I actually grew up. Where Ryan and I grew up together.

Ben nods. “I think I might’ve actually heard of that. Isn’t it really picturesque?”

There’s not a flicker of disbelief or hesitation. “Uh, yeah.”

“Sorry, I know not everything’s a photograph waiting to happen.” He ducks his head. “I’ll step out from behind the lens, promise. Tell me what it’s actually like.”

He leans forward like he’s genuinely curious. There’s a sparkle in his blue eyes that Ryan only had when he was completely invested in a project, his forget-to-sleep-for-three-days look. But Ben seems much more at ease. I swallow.

“Picture what people in bustling East Coast cities think looks quaintly Midwestern, and you’ve pretty much got it.”

He closes his eyes and nods seriously. “Mm-hmm. Picturing.”

I stare at him for a second. Heather said he was nervous. The man in front of me is a little awkward, sure, but nervous?

A smile creeps across his lips, and he opens one eye. “Am I still picturing?”

I laugh, and a little of the tension slips out of my shoulders.