Page 12 of Every Good Thing
She climbs out of the Jeep and bumbles through the back door, her skirt askew in her undershorts. I’ll address that problem when we arrive at preschool.
Identify the problem. Solve the problem. Simple.
Yet, I’ve created multiple problems this morning with no easy solutions. Hiding in the Jeep to avoid Lena creates another. I should’ve told her about Lauren, but the pressure mounted every time I considered it until I couldn’t breathe, let alone talk. It doesn’t make sense—this fear of talking to my wife.
I adore Lena. My intense affection borders on unhealthy, as if it should be moderated like carbs and beer. Sometimes, I play a mental game, challenging my devotion: what wouldn’t I do for that woman?
Sacrifice a kidney?
Easy.
Crawl across the Sahara?
Yes, though beach sand is the only good kind.
Naked?
Damn. Yes.
Show up to the station naked?
That’d be rough, but yes.
The answer is always the same. It’s a dumb game.
Point is, I’d do anything for her.
That’s why it’s hard to talk to her. I don’t want to hurt her. I don’t want to be her burden. If she sees me as I am, it’ll do both. Five years ago, she was a new beginning. She replaced my dark past with her warming light and made it all worth it, every scar.
I don’t want to go back. But I can’t move forward, either.
I close my eyes, gripping the steering wheel and twisting as tightly as my hands allow. My red-knuckled right hand is sore from punching the tile. That was stupid. I take a breath, again centering myself.
The immense pressure that’s been building for months doesn’t lessen. I’m suffocating, especially in this damn suit.
Ruthie races from the kitchen door, carrying her prize—cookies in a sleeve. Her skirt is fixed, but I’ll inevitably have to shake her free of crumbs before preschool. But that’s another solvable problem.
She jumps into the Jeep, and I assist, buckling her up.
“Dad, Tessa made me these,” she reports excitedly. “Mom says she loves you.”
The vise tightens, killing me slowly.
Three
LENA
“Who the fuck is Lauren?” Dot’s voice blares through my phone on the stainless-steel counter in the kitchen. She sounds much more awake than when she answered my 5 a.m. call with a weak, “You okay? Ruthie okay?” After assuring her everyone was fine, the confusing story plummeted out of me.
Now, I take a breath. “I don’t know. He said it was no one, work-related, not to read into it.”
Her heavy sigh scratches through the phone. “Then, don’t. Lauren sounds like Lena. Ben works with a lot of people. He probably just had a brain fart. Besides, he’s obsessed with you and not the cheating type. I get the emergency wake-up call, but I’m sure it’s nothing. Trust me.”
Her response is stern and quick—exactly what I need.
Once, Dot, Cherry, and I made a promise over a dwindling Chardonnay box, and we’ve kept it like a blood pact.
Always tell each other the truth, even if it hurts to hear it.
