Stitching The Night Away

Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, highlighting the last fifty years of grime on the once-white linoleum, caked over with layers of floor wax in an effort to get it to shine. Posters for the upcoming Student Council elections littered the blue-hued brick walls, each one with a different set of false promises in an effort to garner a single vote. A sea of parents walked the hallways, clutching their children’s schedules, dazed and lost, as they attempted to navigate the maze that was Back to School night. 

It was the typical chaos every year. One that Ben had grown to appreciate, allowing the chance to speak with parents about his expectations both as a group and in brief one-on-one conversations. What he had not expected, however, was a familiar set of eyes staring back at him. Eyes that had haunted him for the last 15 years. 

Ben abruptly stopped speaking, pausing his rehearsed speech on late work for his third period geometry class. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears, the pounding making it extremely difficult to continue his train of thought. 

He was transported back to the tiny studio apartment with the peeling wallpaper and creaky shower that you shared with him just after grad school. The apartment where he gave eight years of his life to you. The apartment where you got up and walked out of his life, leaving him feeling anxious and desolate as he replayed the countless arguments you had about the future of your relationship. His dreams of bedtime stories and crayon drawings on the fridge never outweighing your fear of being swallowed whole by motherhood. “I can’t. I can’t give you that, Ben,”  you said to him somberly.

Ben shakes his head, forcing down every painful memory that’s bubbling at the surface. He’s able to continue, mindlessly covering his syllabus like he did for the last three groups of parents that visited his classroom, while his thoughts wander. 

You’re here. In his classroom – and if you’re in his classroom, that means you have a kid. 

You have a kid. 

A freshman. Meaning, if he was doing his math right – and he always did his math right – that you got pregnant within a year of leaving him. 

Ben’s heart cracked violently in his chest, shattering what was already fragile. You were the one who got away. His first love. The one who had broken his heart and left him feeling hollow and inadequate and less than. And now the proof was in the theoretical pudding, because he was right all along. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to have kids, it was that you didn’t want to have kids with him.

“I just want to talk about it,” he pleaded, his voice cracking. "Why can’t we talk about having kids without you shutting down?” You sigh, frustrated by the thought of having this conversation again. Your fingers curl where they grip the edge of the kitchen counter, your face turned away from the man you’ve been with for the past eight years.  “Because you’re not listening to me, Ben. I don’t want that life.”

Ben’s eyes sting with unshed tears, biting his lip to keep from trembling. He tries to keep the anxiety-driven thoughts away but fails. Miserably. “But you want me…” he starts, voice tentative and laced with fear. “Right?” 

You answered him with silence. Seconds go by which turn into minutes which feel like hours. Ben can feel his thoughts start to spiral. She doesn’t want me. It’s over. You pushed her too far. You weren’t good enough.

“I can’t be someone’s mother, Ben,” you whispered, your voice breaking through his turmoil but not providing the answer he wanted. “We’re living on your student teacher salary and are just barely scraping by.” 

Ben swallowed hard, “But–”

“But nothing, Ben,” you interrupted. “I don’t want kids.” 

This wasn’t new information but the way you said it felt like you had physically struck him. He fought back the nausea climbing his throat, threatening to come back up as he shakily asked,  “So, where does that leave us?”

“I don’t know.”

Ben didn’t know what to do except to excuse himself. His breathing had picked up and he felt like he was on the edge of a panic attack. He went into the bedroom, shut the door, and laid flat on the bed while thoughts of life without you taunted him. He stared up at the ceiling, feeling as if the weight of your conversation was crushing his chest. 

Slowly, the door opened and you looked at Ben – his eyes red-rimmed and fists clenching and unclenching in the duvet. You moved quietly to join him, sitting at the corner of the unmade bed and he moved to sit up. “You deserve someone who wants the same things, Ben.” 

“I love you,” he begged, his chest aching as if already knowing that wasn’t enough. That he was never going to be enough. 

The bell rings, a signal to parents that they are to move to their student’s fourth period classrooms. Ben gives his closing remarks, stating that he hopes this will be an exciting year and thanks everyone for their time. 

As people start to exit, Ben makes a silent prayer for mercy. He prays that you won’t approach him. Whatever deity there is in the universe hates him, because luck was not on his side. He watches as your son – your son – scrambles from his seat and grabs your hand, excitedly pulling you forward. He notices the reluctance on your face as your eyebrows knit together in apology.

Ben braces himself, flattening his palms against the edge of the desk as you stumble in front of him. He immediately is hit with the familiar smell of your perfume, the same notes of jasmine and vanilla that you always favored. “Mr. Ben,” your son calls out with enthusiasm. “I just want you to meet my mom.” In any other circumstances, this would have been normal – endearing even – but Ben’s heart strings felt like they were being plucked out of tune. “Mom, Mr. Ben is the best. He’s everyone’s favorite teacher.”

“Hi Ben,” you say, your voice soft enough that Ben almost doubts it happened.

Oblivious to the absurdity of the situation, your son spots one of his classmates and makes his way over to them, leaving you both to flounder for cordial conversation.

Ben doesn’t trust his own voice as he shifts nervously on his feet. “Hi,” he states simply. 

“It’s…been a long time,” you recall. “Fifteen years,” Ben replies almost instantaneously, unable to stop himself. He quickly realizes how embarrassing his comment was. As if he had been counting. 

A pang of guilt flickers behind your eyes and you glance over your shoulder towards your son, deep in conversation with a cluster of other freshmen. 

“So,” he forces out, attempting to keep his tone neutral. “Your son’s in my third period.”

You nod. “Yeah. You have him weirdly excited about geometry.” Your expression softens with relief, the kind only a parent would experience or understand. 

Ben allows the ghost of a proud smile, but underneath the sharp, twisting, gut-wrenching pain is making him bleed. “He’s a good kid. Smart.” He starts calculating in his head, silently debating asking the question that he had already discounted earlier. “He’s…fourteen?”

You tense visibly, wincing as if he had taken a jab at you. “He’ll be fifteen in December.”

Ben nods, slow and mechanical as he does the math, even though the answer is obvious. You left him in February. He remembered because winter had never felt longer. “So, he’s not mine.” You flinch and god, he wants to take the words back out the second he sees your face crumble. 

“Ben,” you laughed, tugging playfully at his hair. “Focus.”

You were on your back on that lumpy mattress he always swore he’d replace someday, your legs hooked loosely around his waist. His glasses were abandoned on the nightstand, because you kept bumping your nose into them when you kissed.

“I am focused,” he insisted, attempting to hide his laugh in your neck, his breath warm against your skin. He leaned up to kiss you again, his knee slipping on the sheets, making him tumble – half-falling, half-collapsing onto you with a dramatic oof.

You burst into giggles, cupping his cheek and tilting his face up to meet his gaze. “Very smooth,” you mumbled. Ben smiled, leaning in to kiss you as if he had all the time in the world. His warm, brown eyes shining, glinting in the morning sun, relishing in this special moment with you. 

“You’re distracting me,” he murmured. “In a good way. The very best way.” He kissed you slowly, his movements soft yet eager. Your tongues tangled in the warm, wet heat between your mouths, making your heart flip in your chest. 

Ben brushed your hair back from your forehead, tucking a stray piece behind your ear like you were the most precious thing he’d ever touched. You tugged him back down, your legs tightening around his middle as your lips searched for his in a rush of want. 

Everything inside him melted.  

Ben’s hips shifted, gently rolling up into you, pressing you right against him in the most delicious way. You inhaled sharply, fingers curving around the back of his neck as you guided him closer, gasping in his ear. “Ben–”

Ben pulled back just far enough to look at you, breathing hard and so earnest it made your chest ache. “You okay?” he asked.

You nodded, smiling softly. “More than okay. C’mon.”

You reached between your bodies, finding his cock, already hard and throbbing with anticipation, guiding him slowly into you.

Ben’s breath caught in a quiet gasp at the feeling of you opening around him, not unfamiliar but still overwhelming. He re-positioned himself, hooking his arm around your leg to allow himself to sink into you even deeper, encouraging your body to take him in. The stretch made your mouth fall open, a small moan escaping before you could swallow it down. 

“Hi,” he whispered when he had finally bottomed out, like it was the only word he could manage without making a total and complete fool of himself.

You smiled against his lips. “Hi.”

Ben started moving, shallow thrusts that built up to something steady and sweet. His forehead rested against yours, noses brushing, both of you breathing the same breath. You dragged your hands down his back, feeling each flex of muscle as his hips rocked into you. 

He gave an embarrassed yet delighted groan and kissed you again, hips speeding up as he lost himself in you. His hand slid down your thigh, lifting it a little higher around his waist, and the new angle made both of you gasp in sync.

“Yeah?” he asked, eyes bright, hopeful. “That good?”

“Ben,” you whimpered, fingers curling into his hair, “don’t stop.”

The tension built so fast it stole your breath, heat coiling low, his name tumbling from your lips without thought. “Come with me,” he said, voice cracking adorably.

You nodded and after one more perfectly placed thrust, you did. Your body clenched around him, mouth falling open as you cried out his name. Ben followed in a heartbeat, a warm, gasping rush inside you as he held you tightly, chest pressed to chest, like you were the air he needed most.

He stayed inside you, breath fluttering against your shoulder while his fingers drew nonsense shapes on your thigh. The fan rattled overhead, the city hummed outside, but all he heard was the sound of your quiet laugh as he tried to catch his breath.

You don’t answer and Ben can’t tell if it’s purposeful or if you’re just plain hurt. Either way, the quiet that follows is like a twist to a knife that he hadn’t realized was still very much planted in his body. 

Ben laughs, a single, humorless exhale. “Right. Well. Good. I mean… I didn’t think—” He shakes his head because the sentence tastes like bile. He can’t imagine that you could ever be so cruel to have not told him about a child. Of course your son isn’t his. “Doesn’t matter.”

There’s a brief moment where Ben thinks you’re about to speak, but it is quickly broken by the sound of the warning bell, indicating five minutes left before the next session starts. 

“You look happy,” he says, hating how small and unconvincing his voice sounds. Your eyes flash with something far more complicated than sadness. Regret, maybe. Or love that’s been buried alive and clawing for air. 

“I’m trying,” you answer, your voice shaking. He nods once, the way he does when a student gives an excuse that isn’t quite bullshit – a half-truth.

Parents shuffle past, breaking the bubble around you. Your son calls your name,  impatient and unaware of the history standing between his mother and his teacher. “It was good to see you, Ben,” you say.

“Yeah.” Ben forces a smile. “You too.” 

You turn, joining your son, ruffling his hair as he groans in embarrassment. He leans into your side and Ben watches you slip down the hallway with the life you’ve built — the one you swore you didn’t want. 

He tells himself to breathe. He tells himself that fifteen years is enough time to get over someone. He tells himself that this shouldn’t feel like the day you left all over again.