Page 107 of Every Good Thing
“Oh, a surprise for you,” she beams coyly. “Let’s go off-roading. I’ll drive. We’ll picnic on the sand, hang out, swim, relive that beach kiss, remember?”
“Lena, I can’t.” My army-green duffle drops to the floor by my feet, and I drape my dry-cleaned uniforms on top. I avoid eye contact as I cross the room and grab my keys and phone from the island. I prompt my screen and send a hurried text before tucking it in my pocket.
“Why not? What’re you doing?” She stumbles around the island, nearly tripping over her feet and looking desperate as her eyes go from my bag to me again.
I manage the words I’ve prepared, but they come out weakly. “It’s not good for me to be here now. I need time. Away.”
She waves off my words like a fly buzzing near her face. “No. It’s Sunday. Let’s spend the day together. Just you and me. I made us a picnic. I promise not to interrogate you or be pushy. We’ll sit in the sun and watch the waves.”
“That won’t help.”
“Yes, it will.” Her lips curve into a strained smile and her eyes flood with tears, as if part of her understands what’s happening while the other is still catching up. “The beach is always a good idea. That’s where I first told you about my dreams for Saddletree. You helped me believe it was possible. You’re making decisions about your future, so it’s fitting to do it there, right? We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. We can just… be there together.”
“I’m telling you we can’t be together right now. Every time we’re together, I hurt you.” I step closer, hands rising submissively like I’m about to talk her down from the ledge. “I’m sorry. It kills me to say it. But I have to go.”
Her head bobs in a weird half-shake, like the words don’t make sense. “You’re leaving me?”
She winces slightly when I take her hands. I hold up her casted arm, and seeing her bruised and swollen fingers from last night’s stumble at the door makes tears fall from my eyes. “I can’t keep hurting you.”
“You’re hurting me now,” she cries.
“It’s best for us—”
“No! What’s best for us is being together,” she says. “That’s what you’ve always said to me.”
I swallow like I’m choking and stop myself from crumbling into her. “I love you. Please, try to understand that this is different—”
“No, Ben. It’s a rough patch. That’s all. You can’t leave. Please.”
“I’m sorry. I see how hard you’re trying. I know you’d do anything for me, that you love me. Love isn’t the problem. I am. It’s unfair for me to stay, unfair for me to heap blame and frustration onto you like a fucking packhorse. All I do is hurt you. And last night…”
I falter then, bowing my head to the pain forcing its way through me. She cups my cheek, bringing me back to her. “What about last night?”
“I broke our trust,” I manage, my voice cracking. “It’s one of our rules… If we’re both not all in, it shouldn’t happen. I knew you weren’t all in, but you’d give in to me, anyway. I took advantage—”
“No, you didn’t. I wanted to—”
“You cried in the bathroom. Didn’t you?”
She doesn’t answer.
“You know that wasn’t us. That was… you accommodating me, forcing a smile, holding me all night even though I hurt you. Over and over again. I can’t…”
I succumb to my emotions, sobbing into the space between us.
“I can’t let you lose yourself in me like you did with your mom and Mark. I can’t be Mr. Wickers, dependent on you for my well-being while you force your smiles, mediate my conversations, and stay busy to make me happy. I can’t be the husband you need, either. I’m not sure he even exists anymore. Please understand. It’s just too difficult to be here now.”
She nods. “I’m too much. I’ve always been too much. I’m sorry. I’ll keep my distance. You don’t have to leave. I’ll sleep on the couch—you can have the bedroom—”
“Stop being so fucking accommodating, please. That won’t work.”
“Tell me what will work, Ben? Something that will keep you here. If you go, you won’t come back—I know you won’t. You can’t do this. Please, don’t do this.”
Her pleading eyes almost do me in, especially when she pushes into me and kisses me with anguished desperation. I want so badly to say, “Fuck this stupid idea,” and take her to bed like last night. But it won’t make things better. I gently pull away.
“You’d do anything for me, right? I need you to let me go,” I say, and her hands fall away like she can’t help it.
She curls into herself, hand to mouth in a vain attempt to stifle her sobs. It takes every ounce of my remaining fortitude not to comfort her.
