Ben's Gallery: Rose

Flash. I take another picture of Ben's backyard with my Nikon D5600. We're sitting on a stone bench inside of a wooden gazebo in the middle of his mother's garden. The covering shades us from the hot sun, but we can't escape the humidity.

This is my first time at his house. I'd been getting curious, but figured that he would introduce me to his parents when the time was right. I understand that we all have our own family problems. His other relatives love when he brings me by his grandmother's house, so I never felt like he was hiding me.

Meeting his parents was like being introduced to a friend's acquaintance, if that makes any sense. They smiled to be polite, asked a few common questions to make conversation, and then excused themselves back to their work.

They saw no point in talking for long. They were as cold and neat as their house, which is pristine and smells like a dental office. The chandelier above the grand marble staircase was lifeless, and I'm certain no one sits on the furniture.

Ben was relieved once we stepped outside, like he could finally breathe. I can see why he likes going to his grandma's so much. They know how to laugh and have a good time, and they're not afraid to get their hands dirty. I can't believe that his mother was like that once.

I tell him everything about Dan, like how he's so back and forth with his emotions. How one day he'd try everything to get under my skin, and the next he'd be friendly.

He can't understand why I didn't bother telling him any of this sooner. His jaw hardens when I mention the popcorn. When I hear myself say it, I feel stupid. How was I nice to him after that? Why did I feel bad about giving him the cold shoulder when he deserved it?

"Don't beat yourself up." He rubs circles onto my back. "You're a kind person. You couldn't help but be yourself. Forgiving isn't a bad thing either, but you can't mistake a person for who they are just because you see the good in them."

"Thanks." I feel the air clearing around us. I would've told him sooner if I knew that he'd react this way. "I wonder what he did to make Angie upset. He probably fanned the flames when the rumors spread instead of defending her."

"I'll find out."

Him talking to Dan alone doesn't sound like a friendly discussion.

"Should I be worried?"

He shakes his head, taking the camera out of my hand. "No. He can't hurt me." He brings it to his face, closing an eye.

"That's not what I meant."

He snaps a picture of me, ignoring the serious look on my face. I cross my arms and wait.

He sighs. "I'm not going to fight him, Rose. As much as I'd love to crack his jaw, I know that it wouldn't do any good. It'll just be his lawyers against mine." He seems to have a clear head about this. "But, he and I do need to talk. As long as he stays away from you, there won't be any problems."

His serious tone sends a tingle up my spine.

"What do you think?" he asks, showing me the picture he took.

I'm surprised by how good it looks. He captured the perfect angle with the right amount of lighting. The scenery of the stunning garden poses as a backdrop behind me.

"I think that you're a natural! This was the first take?"

He nods, admiring his work.

"How are you so good at every type of art?"

He juts his chin toward the house. "Practice. When you're an only child and your parents don't talk to you, you keep yourself busy."

"I'm sorry." I can't find the right words. "That sounds awful."

"Don't be. They taught me to appreciate those who choose to be in my life. Plus, my mom's family never let me get too lonely. They raised me in ways that my parents couldn't."

"I guess my grandma did the same for me and Ang." My stomach churns at the thought of yesterday. It hurt to see her cry, but felt like a punch in the gut to be brushed off. "My dad doesn't talk much to me either, but I still have them."

I feel empty after saying it, because it tastes a lie. I don't have them, I have her. My grandma. My immediate family feels shrunken down to a singular person.

Ben knows about my dad, but lets me vent again. He's a good listener, quietly letting me explain how hurt and alone I feel.

"You're not alone. Most people only have a few friends, anyway. At least the one's that you have are loyal to you. Quality over quantity, and all that." He plants a kiss on my head.

We take turns snapping pictures until I ask to see some of his artwork. His bedroom is the warmest place in his house. Dark grey sheets, and black pillowcases are messily tossed about on his bed. I'm surprised when I find carpet instead of marble, and I'm almost certain that this is the only room with it.

His closet is packed with paintings, photos, and sculptures. Each one is different: he's experimented with oils, watercolor, and sketches even. He proudly shows me a comic book that he wrote when he was nine, smiling when I read aloud. Though a childish story, his drawings held potential even at this age.

"Where do you keep your clothes?" I ask out of curiosity.

"In the guest closet." He laughs. "I needed more space."

We sit, going through every piece of his work. Some scenery shots and portraits I recognize from his grandma's house. I come across one that looks a little dark for his taste, and he tells me that he painted it after his mom had one of her breakdowns.

Through and through, we examine his work and pick out our favorite pieces. Each holds a story, and by the time night falls I've heard hundreds.