It was all a lot, all at once.
The party was supposed to be fun. Hal had begged Ben to come, to have a good time, that they could do it, despite the shit they had gotten themselves in to. They were both so battle hardened, so ready to fight. Hal didn’t think Ben understood that he didn’t have any fight left in him. There was nothing he could do about what had happened between himself and Bea. If only he could make Ben understand—
But how could he? When he didn’t understand this thing with Bea himself? One day Bea is—well—Bea. The next day she’s sucking on his neck and he’s losing himself in her in a way he hadn’t thought was possible. He hates himself so acutely for that mistake, though he’s always loved her. He’s always known, too. How could they fit together in the grand cosmic scheme of the universe? His soul was fractured and he was hardened by war (the war) and the things he had seen as a doctor. All of the softness had been sucked out of him.
This stupid party was disgustingly extravagant. He’s standing on the sidelines, nursing a vodka cran, scanning the crowd for a glimpse of her. He knows he shouldn’t be, but Ben brought a date, the stupid asshole, and he knew that Bea would be upset. How could she not? Her whole life she’d been told that she should fall in love with Ben. How could he blame her for that? Or hold it against her.
When he finally sees her, his heart squeezes. She looks beautiful, head to toe radiant. He makes his excuses to the current rich bitch he’s chatting up and winds his way through the crowd. It takes him a minute of ‘excuse me, love’ and ‘pardon, ta’ to get to her. “Beatrice,” he breathes, “you made it.”
