Page 1 of Every Good Thing
Prologue
Summer 2020
BEN
“ Please, talk to her, Ben,” my sister’s voice echoes as I twist the steering wheel. “Let her see you.”
The idea sounds horrifying. It’s like undergoing a full bedroom inspection without cleaning it first, except the bedroom is my head. And I can’t clean it; I can only move things into corners or under beds where I hope she never looks. Or never wants for the full tour.
Love is too damn complicated.
I huff at my sister. “She sees me enough without a history lesson. It’s too much.”
Becca chuckles. “Too much for Lena? The woman gracefully handling an anxiety disorder, unemployment, a house falling apart around her, and the loss of her mother during a pandemic? She’s Wonder Woman, Ben. Nothing is too much for her.”
“We’ve only been… together a few months,” I remind her, unsure how to classify us. “I don’t want to ruin a good thing.”
“You love her, right?”
“Yes.” My quick answer surprises me and turns my twin into a giddy idiot, clapping and hooting like she’s won a prize by securing my admission. It is a significant milestone, one I never expected—at thirty-seven years old, I’ve only been in love once before, and that felt nothing like this.
“Then, you won’t ruin anything. You’ve said it yourself—she’s different.” She groans at my hesitation. “Falling is the fun part. Grounding the relationship with a true soul connection is harder, especially for you. If she’s the one, you have to let her in. Otherwise, you’re half-assing it, and it’s bound to blow up just like—”
“Don’t.” My stern voice strikes my twin silent. “That’s off the table.”
After an annoyed sigh, she regroups. “Remember what you told me when I asked what you love about Lena? I mean, after her hot bod and gorgeous bits?”
“Not after. Alongside. And I didn’t use those terms. But, yes,” I relent, knowing where this is going. “Her openness.”
“Then, give her what she’s so freely given you, Ben. Give her a chance to really know you.”
Though not keen to give my sister the satisfaction, I know she’s right.
I end the call with a definite, “I’ll think about it.”
Pulling into Lena’s driveway for probably the hundredth time since we met, I’m atypically apprehensive.
In law enforcement, there’s an expression we use when a suspect evades capture and drops from our radar—he gets small. He shrinks his existence until he’s nearly invisible and can hide in plain sight, surviving only by one careful decision to the next.
That’s what I’ve been doing for the last seven years. I’ve gotten small.
In my conversations.
In my personal life.
In everything.
With Lena, I don’t want to be small anymore. I can’t be. Not with the warm, full, generous person she is or the enormous life she’s determined to get when she eventually turns her family home into a working farm and bakery café—a dream she’s only shared with me so far.
The Jeep bounces easily over the rough terrain of her driveway, slightly muddy from recent summer storms. The blackened scar of a strange roof patch catches my eye—I can only guess she’s applied some epoxy to seal a leak, but I don’t want to offend her by asking. She thinks I don’t notice the concerning state of her family home, but of course, I do. I notice everything, especially when it comes to her. Her home is one power outage or plumbing situation away from being uninhabitable. When I’m not here, I’m stressed that she’ll fall through the floorboards or get shocked by a bad breaker. Voicing my concerns would embarrass her, though, and I want her to feel comfortable and trust me enough to ask for help when she’s ready.
Partnering with her to renovate her family home and turn it into a business could be my dream, too, if she’s willing to share it.
The driveway is lined with narrow, leafy trees, stretching upright like guards in full salute. The trees end when the path curves and the cedar and brick house comes into view. It’s worn down from neglect, but its former beauty remains evident in its grand arched roofs on either side, double fireplaces, partial wraparound porch, and large, gabled windows. Wood-boring bees have made a feast of the cedar, the roof has reached its limit, and the porch is too unstable to walk on. Still, it’s large and lovely, despite its defects.
The entire property is like this—broken down but beautiful. Maybe that’s why I like it so much.
And why I like her even more. She not only wants to save it, but she hopes to make it a place for everyone.
