Page 112 of Every Good Thing
Being myself is better advice. I roll over in my empty bed, staring at lights through the woods. Filming has started early today, and shadows cross the deck and bedroom ceiling. Tears wet my pillow again. It’s been an on-and-off production all night—me waking and crying over missing him and feeling sorry for myself.
But present-day Lena can’t believe this is the end for us. Dot and the ladies gave me time to wallow, and that time is over. For now, anyway.
So, on my damp pillow, I ask myself, since Ben’s not here for me to worry about winning over or tiptoeing around, what would I like to do today? It’s a selfish attempt at self-preservation, but necessary, because present-day Lena doesn’t sit around waiting for shit to happen. This Lena makes shit happen.
With the dogs at my heels, I take my coffee outside my bedroom, where set crews work to maneuver the eerie witches and emphasize the blood-stained trees. The sun rises behind me, sending delicate bursts of orange light across the sleeping pond like soft touches, waking it up. Mom’s tree gets the spotlight next and seems to wave good morning with its drooping Spanish moss.
I adore this place. It comforts me. Even now.
When Ruthie wakes, I’m in the kitchen decorating a dozen white and cream cupcakes for her preschool class with jellyfish, sea stars, and whales. It’s ocean week. My skills aren’t quite the level I’m used to with my sore, injured left hand supporting my right, but it’ll do. They’re bonus cupcakes anyway—I needed to bake something.
I went somewhat overboard on batches, trying to get them right—trays of cupcakes cover the enormous kitchen island. And though my decorating skills are off, the taste is on point. I went all out with the flavors, doing my best to recreate saltwater taffy—a distinctly beachy candy.
Ruthie’s ecstatic when she sees them—I love her no-holding-back excitement. It reminds me of Ben’s when he first sampled my bakes. He ate them in almost one bite. Ruthie nibbles the icing first when my phone alights beside her. It’s Ben, and she answers it herself.
“Dad, Mom made the best cupcakes,” she says, panning the phone around the room.
I expect a remark about cupcakes for breakfast, but he says, “She always does… Ready for school?”
Ruthie takes the phone around the room, sharing her to-do list. It’s a thing they do when getting ready. I wonder if this is how it will be now—co-parenting our daughter via FaceTime.
But that’s a worry for later.
It takes several bins to house the cupcakes, but I have them stacked and ready to go when Ruthie pushes the phone to me. I twist it around to me while telling her to get dressed.
“Hey,” I say.
“Good morning. Just wanted to remind you about ten o’clock.”
“Ben, I got it.”
“Will you let me know what Rob says?”
His concern should relieve me, but it doesn’t. Still, I assure him I will before ending the call.
I meet with Jaye and Elsie Todd while loading my cupcakes into the passenger seat of my new truck. Ruthie chases the dogs badly in rubber boots, her backpack flopping as she bounces.
Jaye puts her arm around my shoulders. “Doing okay?”
“One hundred percent,” I lie. “I’ll be gone most of the morning.”
“The paparazzi are back,” Elsie reports, “but the security team is controlling it. We’ll be filming in the main house most of the day.”
“Stop by when you get back,” Jaye says. “You won’t believe how freaking awesome the place looks inside. I’ll give you a tour.”
“Maybe,” I return, waving Ruthie to the truck. “Gotta go… Oh, here.”
I hand Jaye a bin of oceanic cupcakes. They gush with thanks before enthusiastically sharing them with their team.
The security guys and the paparazzi at the end of the driveway also receive cupcakes. Who knows? Maybe I can convince them to behave with sweets.
I drop Ruthie at preschool and make charitable rounds, leaving cupcakes with Myles Drake at the assisted living center, Olivia Jones at the group home, and Rowan Mackey-Graham at Coastal High.
I make my appointment with Dr. Rob Riley with a few minutes to spare. He isn’t as charming without Ben and isn’t with me long. He tells me what I already know—my arm is fine, just bruised.
I exit the building, mid-texting Ben with the update. But glancing up to see where I’m going, I see him. He leans against his Jeep, parked next to mine. A smile crosses my face—I can’t help it. It’s only been a day, but it feels like forever since I’ve seen him.
“Checking up on me?” I ask when I get closer.
