Page 105 of Every Good Thing
“That’s what closing Saddletree was meant to be. Epic fail. It’s only made him angrier.”
“Yeah, he’s mentioned it… try something more subtle. It’s all change and indecision for him right now. He needs to feel secure. That’s all.”
“Secure. Okay. Thanks for bringing him home and for the advice.”
“No problem, but I’ll be stealing the fireworks thing for my next book. I took his keys. My neighbor Vern and I will bring his Jeep over in the morning.”
“I’ll have a batch of Rowan’s favorite double chocolate chip cookies waiting for you.”
“Hell, yes… Oh, and how ‘bout we take Ruthie for the day? We’re doing the Children’s Museum and Airlie Gardens—it’s free day. Might give you some time to create some fireworks, eh?”
I chuckle. “She’ll be ready. Thanks again.”
He tosses a wave before heading for the stairs.
Ben rests his head on the back of the couch, eyes closed, and I assume he’s asleep. But as my shadow crosses the room, he sits up.
“Lena.” He sounds somber again, as if sucked into whatever black hole he climbed into by tossing back whiskies.
I go to him, grabbing his thick hand in mine. “Feeling okay?”
“I’m okay.”
“How about a sandwich? You’ll feel better with—”
“I’m not hungry.”
I take a breath, trying to decipher his tone. It sounds like regret. “Ben, it’s okay. Everyone gets a little hammered occasionally, and I’m sure Jack made it easy. You’re off tomorrow. We’ll talk then.”
“I don’t want to talk.”
“Um, let’s go to bed,” I say, signing the words as I say them.
His hands shoot up in a rapid-fire response. “I don’t want to go to bed.”
“What do you want? Tell me, Ben.” I try to be soft and understanding, but his clear frustration is pooling and seeping over to me. What happened to the jovial drunk of a few minutes ago who laughed at Jack’s every word? He doesn’t even seem drunk anymore, just bothered and restless.
“I don’t want to talk,” he repeats, running his hands over his head in frustration. “I want… this rock in my gut and this fucking battle in my head to go away. It’s making me… second-guess everything.”
“Second-guess what, Ben?”
“The damn job. My fucking hearing. Hell, you.”
The word runs like a dagger through me—you—then it twists and deepens, splintering my core, with his glassy-eyed glare. But I think of what he’s been through, what he’s still going through, and dredge a secret strength from some dark reserve and bury my feelings. Again. I have to.
I take a breath and manage a smile, thinking of that day Ben showed up as I created my first garden, affectionately called my Middle Finger Garden. I tried to get rid of him, warned him that I was all anxiety and bullshit, not worth his trouble—a sentiment I replayed often in our early days. He stayed anyway and kept showing up. My inner struggles made more sense to Ben than they did to me then. That’s what he needs now—someone who gets it. This is anger, anxiety, and alcohol talking—not Ben Wright.
“Second guess, if you want. But I love you no matter what. Cop or not. Hurting or not. Hearing or not. That won’t change,” I say, slow and clear. “Whatever our reality, remember?”
He softens, but I can’t predict him—his expression lands somewhere between crying and screaming. The starbursts around his eyes melt into gentle lines as he takes me in. His hand goes to my face, almost roughly, and cups my cheek before pulling me to him.
Then, his lips take mine, desperate and sudden.
“I… want… you.” The words straddle kisses and come out like a command—to me or himself, I don’t know. But he repeats it in a sad whisper that he probably can’t hear, but we both feel.
I think to say it back to him, more surely, but I nearly slip from the couch edge as his strong kisses push me against it. “Ben…”
His lips curve over my chin and down my neck, clumsy but determined. Hands grip my back, tugging me closer as he lowers onto me. My legs circle his midsection to keep my balance and draw him closer. I’ve missed this. He fumbles with the straps of my cami when one tangles with his watch—a mishap that’d usually have us giggling. But he isn’t even smiling like the joy is lost. He seems bothered and hurried.
