Page 110 of Every Good Thing
“Penis-Dar?” Jaye repeats.
“Oh, that’s the penis activity tracking app Dot and I are working on,” Cherry says. “It’ll be big, and we’re looking for investors.”
Jaye smirks. “Not a bad idea.”
“Well, the sooner you know, the better. That way, you can shed your tears and move on with your life. There’s no coming back from that.”
“He only left a few hours ago. Maybe it’s too soon to talk about moving on with my life. And that’s not the problem, anyway. He needs me to be less… me.”
“Is that what you really think?” Dot shoots back as she waves a hot pad over the mac-n-cheese she’s just pulled from the oven.
“That’s what he said, pretty much. It’s what I’ve always feared. I’m not enough, and I’m too much…” A loud sniffle separates my words. “I don’t know what to be anymore.”
“This isn’t your fault,” Mrs. Moore says, sitting beside me. “He needs a minute to get himself together. A reset—that’s all. He’s losing his hearing and grieving for it. Who here wouldn’t fall apart over something like that?”
“What do I do?” I ask. “How can I be what he needs?”
Mrs. Moore’s pale face eases into a wide smile, and her gray eyes twinkle. “Just be the woman he fell in love with. Be yourself.”
Tears spill over my eyes, especially when her soft, bony fingers slip over mine. She pats my hand like one would a baby’s back. At my new tears, the women rush over to me. Love surrounds me on all sides like a blanket, making me warm again.
Thirty-Three
BEN
I nearly turn around six times before I reach Becca’s house. Exhausted, I try to sleep in her guest room, but it doesn’t go well. It’s not home. I know I’m doing the right thing, that I need this. But why are the right things always the hardest?
I text Dot for updates on Lena’s condition and find solace in the fact that she’s not alone.
After a tense dinner with Becca’s family (she’s none too pleased that I’m here), I FaceTime Lena.
She answers after the first ring. A weak smile accompanies her distracted greeting. “Hey, we just finished eating.”
Her hair is pinned up in that soft way she does when she’s cooking, but loose bits fall around her face, waving as she moves through the kitchen. Her eyes look puffy, but she isn’t tearful or upset. For that, I’m grateful.
Her swimming pool eyes take me in, but only for a second. She’s probably ensuring I am where I say I am, which is why I made the call in my sister’s unmistakable yellow kitchen in front of their family beach portrait.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
Her lips perk weakly, like she wants to smile but can’t. “Want to talk to Ruthie?”
She doesn’t wait for an answer. The screen moves from her face to the floor and into Ruthie’s chubby fingers.
“Dad.” She pushes her face into the screen way too closely. “You won’t believe my day.”
Ruthie carries me around the house as she tells me about it. Her. Adam. Jack and Rowan. The Children’s Museum. Airlie Gardens. They picnicked under the “ginormous tree” and “pretended to be herons and turtles.” It’s not until she exhausts her story twenty minutes later that she takes a deep breath and asks, “What’re you doing at Aunt Becca’s?”
“I’m staying here for a while. Remember when I went with Grandpa to his cabin to help him re-shingle the roof?”
“Yep.”
“Well, it’s like that. I have a problem that requires extra help to solve, so I’m spending time here to fix it,” I explain, wishing I’d rehearsed this better.
She giggles, scrunching her nose. “So, you’re fixing your roof?”
“Something like that. We’ll talk more about it when I see you.”
She shrugs, thankfully not sensing a problem.
