Chapter 9: The Ultimate Test
The silence in the living room was a physical thing, a third presence choking the air. Ben’s hand fell from her face. He took a step back, then another, his movements jerky like a man navigating a minefield he’d just laid himself.
“You’re a ghost,” he whispered, not to her, but to the room. “You’re a fucking ghost wearing a skin suit.”
Mia watched him retreat. The victory felt hollow, a metallic taste in her mouth. She’d wanted a reaction, and she’d gotten one: pure, undiluted horror. She followed him, not too close, as he turned and walked down the hall to his bedroom. He didn’t close the door. It was an invitation, or a surrender.
She stood in the doorway. Ben’s room was a time capsule of a simpler life. Faded posters of rugby legends and vintage muscle cars were tacked to the walls. A mini-fridge hummed in the corner, stocked with protein shakes and cheap lager. A full-length mirror, the kind he’d flexed in front of with the guys after a win, was propped against the wall. Now it reflected a stranger: his own broad, tense back, and behind him, the outline of a woman with dark, curling hair in a lethally simple black dress.
Ben went to his dresser, yanked open the bottom drawer. He didn’t rifle. He knew exactly where it was. He pulled out a faded, purple sequined scrunchie. He held it in his big hand, the cheap sparkles catching the dim light from his desk lamp.
“You think this is a game,” he said, still facing the dresser. “You think this is about winning a point. About being right.”
“It’s about being seen,” Mia said, her voice quiet from the hallway.
Ben laughed, a single, choked sound. He turned around, leaning back against the dresser. He tossed the scrunbie onto the rumpled bed. “I see you. I see a guy who got so freaked out by his own life that he let scientists turn him into a magazine centerfold. Twice. Because he couldn’t handle the idea that things are complicated.”
“Things aren’t complicated,” Mia shot back, stepping into the room. The space felt smaller with her in it. “You wanted me. You hated that you wanted me. Now you don’t have to hate the package. Problem solved.”
“The package is the problem!” Ben shoved off the dresser, his voice rising. “The package is a walking, talking ethical nightmare! What are you, Mark? Huh? What’s the endgame here? You gonna live like this? You gonna play rugby like this?” He gestured wildly at her body.
“The trial money covered next semester’s rent,” Mia said, defensive. “That was the endgame.