Page 121 of Every Good Thing
Pull it in. Drive on. Get small.
Four miles away, I pull into the dusty lane between cornfields. I clench the steering wheel until my hands pop and ache. My heart races, and fluttering palpitations make it difficult to catch my breath. I’m gasping and sweating, and my hands tremble with the surging energy.
A fucking panic attack.
I almost laugh at the damn irony. I’ve spent years gently staving off Lena’s panic, and providing a calming presence amid her worst storms. I’ve got it down to a science with her—I can see her anxiety rising and regulate her breathing in minutes.
I can’t do it for myself, though.
Just breathe. Breathe.
I exit the Jeep and inhale the earthy air, willing myself to slow down.
But the pressure built over the last months compounds, a rock heavy on my chest. I’m killing her. She loves me, and I’m killing her.
I can’t pinpoint what set me off exactly. Her words. How lovely and strong she looked. Missing her. That she’s changing for the better without me. My chronic need to avoid talking.
Or maybe it was Saddletree’s logo.
I couldn’t have imagined a more perfect visual. Saddletree has always been Lena’s dream, successful because of her. Her talent and warmth bring people in and keep them coming back. She’s the heart of the business. Her mom’s tree represents its foundation. And Ruthie’s future will be shaped by it, one way or another.
But it confirms what I know and fear—I don’t belong. I’m the guy in the background, unable to talk to people or smile or be warm and approachable. I’m on the outside looking in, a truth that will worsen as I do.
Lena and Saddletree are better off without me.
Falling sunlight flickers over the corn stalks, dancing in my eyes. I lean against the driver’s door, taking long breaths and massaging the pressure points in my wrists. One then the other. Easing myself down with tears specking my eyes.
My phone rumbles in my pocket, and with a still-shaking hand, I extract it. A text from Lauren.
Looking forward to tonight. What time will you be over?
I scoff. I’d completely forgotten the invitation that I neither accepted nor refused. I text back as fast as my jittery fingers will let me. I love my wife. That’ll never change. Not for you or anyone. Think about what you’re asking.
I don’t expect an answer. My response is terse, direct, and probably mean. But I know Lauren, the games she’s played, and I want to be clear.
The ellipsis engages immediately.
We aren’t kids anymore. I know what I’m asking, but I’ll clarify. One night, just between us. I want to right my wrong. Nothing more.
“Fuck me,” I blurt with irritation and disbelief. My panic upticks with her absurd suggestion, and I refocus on breathing.
But when my phone buzzes again, I can’t help but look.
I know you’re hurting. Disappear with me, Ben.
Tears spit from my eyes. I lean over, bracing my body against my knees. She used to say it when I came home on leave whenever I had that faraway look on my face, lost in thoughts about the last deployment or the next one. Disappear with me. And I would. Sweet and innocent in the early days, that meant diving into waves, off-roading to the furthest points on the island, camping, or hiking. When we got older, that meant losing ourselves in each other.
She let me get small between battles, I realize now.
I don’t answer her text, but a wicked game ensues, daring me onward.
What if I leave this cornfield?
Then, I do.
What if I head toward her neighborhood?
And I turn in her direction.
