Page 11 of Every Good Thing
I set up the ironing board, let the iron heat, and retrieve my white button-down. Running the warm iron over the shirt’s creases makes me shake my head. Lauren Riley doesn’t iron clothes. She has people for that—a fact that blew my mind in high school. Lauren doesn’t clean her toilet or wash her car, either. As a teenager, I found her life amazing. After becoming a soldier, I found it superficial. There’s something that feels disingenuous about living such a charmed life. Her world is soft, clean, and uncomplicated.
But having sampled her easy life, it’s hard not to miss it sometimes.
Hanging my crisp shirt on the door handle, I fumble over Lena’s discarded nightgown. I tidy her side of the closet and put the ironing away.
Sipping coffee on the front deck, I take comfort in the lights coming from the bakery’s kitchen. It glows with activity like a lighthouse amid rough seas. It glows with her. Everything’s okay. Lena’s working, and that’s where she’ll be when I return later. Then, I’ll tell her everything—I’ll insist. I should’ve insisted sooner.
Talking is a challenge I avoid. Discussing feelings or anything that matters feels foreign and uncomfortable for me. I endured combat for a decade, yet therapy has been my most challenging experience to date.
Therapy and marriage. Talking to Lena used to be the exception—our game of telling each other what we thought in the moment helped in the early days. I didn’t have to plan what to say, only reveal it. But she rarely asks anymore. Not that I need a prompt to talk to her, but the things I need to say get snuffed out every time she glances at the clock. Noting the time is Lena’s signature move these days.
I need to pull us together again. Pull it in. Pull her in.
Five years ago, I told Lena about the IED that caused my injuries, but I didn’t tell her everything. I left out the aftermath. Now, it’s come back on me. I’m even having the fucking nightmares again.
Talking to Lena then relieved and centered me. If I let her in again, I know it’ll help.
I lean against the deck railing with a deep breath. Why is it so hard to do?
Words forced into me from my Ranger days make me shudder. An emotional mind is a distracted mind. A narrow mind. Drink water. Drive on. Do your fucking duty. I pull my thoughts in.
Headlights bounce up the driveway. Mr. Wickers’s 2014 Prius quietly enters its spot next to Lena’s 2005 Honda Pilot. He exits the vehicle and tosses me his usual wave, which I return. He shows up every morning before the bakery opens to keep Lena company—a distraction she doesn’t need, not that she’d ever let on. My wife is too good-natured to turn anyone away. He raps his knuckles on the sliding glass door. She lets him in a moment later, waving a hand towel like a flag to usher him inside.
Our rural community believes that Lena saved Gus Wickers from his retirement depression just by being herself—warm, funny, welcoming… present.
In the early days of our relationship, I recall showing up at that same door and being awed by her beautiful, easy manner. Lena makes everyone feel at home, a truth I love and sometimes resent.
Still, it would’ve been a much better morning if I’d kept my mouth shut. And people wonder why I’m so quiet.
I return to the house, listen for Ruthie, and mentally review my day.
Breakfast.
Prepare Ruthie for preschool.
Clean.
Leave no later than 8:30 for my 10 o’clock meeting.
Say goodbye to Lena at the bakery.
I pause, leaning against the couch to reevaluate my plan. I can’t say goodbye to Lena in my suit. She’ll ask too many questions I’m not ready to answer. I hate the idea of breaking our routine to postpone a conversation, hate that it will hurt her.
When faced with limited choices, people resort to the unthinkable. I’ve seen it a thousand times. I shouldn’t be one of those people, but I feel myself getting small, wanting to hide.
So, here I am. About to do the unthinkable. For the second time.
Lauren called four times before I answered. Someone must be dead, I thought. Why else would she reach out after all this time? No one was, though—a relief, considering I once cared very deeply for the Riley family. Now, three conversations later, she’s stuck in my head like a fucking migraine.
The morning progresses as planned, except for uncharacteristic nerves gnawing away at me from the inside like embedded termites. I shouldn’t have agreed to this, but I’m already committed.
The bakery is across the expansive yard, visible from our elevated barn house, but we drive the distance because it puts us closer to the driveway and our exit. I park outside the kitchen door, which provides easy access to Lena while avoiding interactions with customers in the dining room. We aren’t antisocial, just on a schedule. It’s our morning routine, stopping in to say goodbye, and one of the few moments I get with her.
But I can’t today. “Ruthie, run inside and say goodbye to Mom.”
“Aren’t you coming, Dad?” she asks, unbuckling her booster seat.
Guilt joins my growing unease. “No. Go on.”
