Page 10 of Every Good Thing
Damn it, Lena.
I promised myself I wouldn’t let the past infect the present, but it’s infiltrated without my consent. A lone sniper lying in wait. A devious mole, sneaking around and assessing weaknesses. A damn toxin, slipping into the bloodstream. Anyone who believes the past can’t hurt them anymore is living in a fucking fairytale.
The past hurts me every day. It’s a desperate perp rummaging through my life and taking whatever it can get, an addict, feeding off me, eating away at my peace of mind, leaving destruction behind.
Lauren’s the perfect example.
I wish she’d never come back in my life. I’m dealing with enough shit already. There should be a statute of limitations on former relationships—any long gap in communication should forfeit future contact. Lauren fucking Riley. Before her call, it’d been twelve years. Was it guilt that made me finally take her call? Anger? Or just stupid curiosity?
Regardless, that was my fault.
I want to blame Lena for the rest, but I shouldn’t. I went to her with my sensitivities already primed, forcing me to overreact and then fuck up. Dropping her name instead of Lena’s feels criminal. I needed her this morning. Not sex, exactly. I wanted her comfort, her kiss, and all those small, beautiful things she does that build, shield, and better me. Closeness with Lena comes with a full-bodied, emotional recharge—I need her.
Especially today.
But I sabotaged us.
I turn off the water and swipe the moisture over the cracked tile. It’s not broken enough to replace, but a layer of caulk will reseal it properly.
A task for later.
I dry off, straining to listen for any signs of Lena lingering or Ruthie waking. It doesn’t matter—I can’t hear a thing. Without my hearing aids, I’m more likely to feel their movements—the door vibrating at Lena’s exit or the soft reverberations of Ruthie’s feet plodding down the hall. I’ve even told her to use heavy feet so that I’ll “hear” her better. It’s a game for her now.
I exit the bathroom in a steam cloud, retrieve my hearing aids from the bedside table, and slip them into place. Faint morning sounds fill my ears—Hugo and Penelope barking as they accompany Lena to the café, chickens cluttering from the pen, and a delicate ensemble of birds serenading the rising sun. My shoulders drop. I’ll miss those sounds.
Most of all, I’ll miss Lena’s voice. And Ruthie’s. She sounds a little older every day. I hate that I’ll never hear her as an adult. Hell, even our game of heavy feet won’t work forever.
My head droops. The temporary relief of the hot water is gone. My hands claw and fist, imagining a silent future when my career is no longer an option and dependency shifts from my capable shoulders to theirs. Their words will be replaced with touches and gestures drenched in sympathy, and I’ll be no more useful than one of Ruthie’s bunnies.
I take a breath, centering myself.
Bullshit circumstances corner me and impact those I love. I can’t even get a quickie right.
I stare at the unmade bed, where half-asleep, I imagined Lena with me, curling close and kissing my chin. That’s what drew me from bed to find her.
It’s no surprise she looked at the clock. Lena chooses work over me all the time. She doesn’t even realize it anymore.
I make the bed. Tight corners. No wrinkles.
Then, I extract my navy-blue suit from the walk-in closet. I haven’t worn it since Will Harvey’s wedding last year. Lena said I looked like “a badass Secret Service agent,” which still makes me smile. Impressing her pleases me.
I miss that feeling and don’t understand where it’s gone.
Planes need lift to fly. Lights need electricity. Sailboats need wind. Jeeps need fuel. And love needs presence.
She misses most of the meals I prepare and the outings I plan. Saddletree steals ninety percent of our time together because she cannot say no or manage her time. Every disappointment prompts me to tell her that her failure to make time for us bothers me.
But when the moment arises, I freeze. I don’t want to ruin what little time we have with a conflict or cause her anxiety. More than that, I don’t want to hurt her.
Only I just did. Twice. Saying Lauren’s name and following it up with I miss us was a double-hit she didn’t deserve.
But she asked our question, and I had to say it.
I’ve wanted her to ask me that question for months, but she hasn’t had time.
Everything about Lena is honest, from her over-the-top efforts to keep this place going to her anxiety disorder to her beautifully expressive face. She is the realest person I know, and I love her for it. My admission crushed her, evident in her watery eyes, pinched brow, and entire body drooping like a wilting flower.
Shit.
