Page 122 of Every Good Thing
What if I pull up to the gate outside her community and give my name?
And somehow, that happens, followed by them letting me in.
I bring the Jeep to a slow stop at the curb across the street from Lauren’s cape-side home. It’s the same house she lived in when we were together—a small, three-bedroom craftsman. I recall her excitement in purchasing it “on her own” and how I stopped myself from mentioning the sizable down payment her grandparents gifted her to make it possible. It’s the house she hoped we’d share, and we did when I was on leave. It’s also where we came to a crashing, devastating end.
Shattering glass echoes. My hands strangle the steering wheel.
But the agonizing panic I felt earlier has left me.
I’m killing her. She loves me, and I’m killing her.
My what-if game turns into a dare, sickening and tempting.
Walking into Lauren’s house means walking out on my marriage permanently. Lauren says just between us, but I couldn’t live with that secret and Lena together. Certain things can’t be forgiven, not that I’d ask or deserve it. I wouldn’t forgive myself for it, either. I’ll forever be small, protected from Lena’s larger-than-life life, and sentenced to handle my traumas and deficiencies alone.
But it’ll end the indecision for us both.
No more couples’ therapy.
Or confusion over where things stand.
This one decision will make them all.
Total destruction.
Then, reinvention. We’ll adjust to the new us. Lena won’t be saddled with caring for me or obliged to accept my mistreatment. I’ll never be her burden; she’ll never become jaded over my inadequacies or permanently stuck on Busy Lena to take care of me. I won’t be weighed down by her pain—eventually. She’ll recover. She’s a survivor. A warrior. Today proved it.
And this moment proves I don’t deserve her anyway.
I stare at the house, gripping the steering wheel until my fingers hurt.
I don’t love Lauren. But somehow, that makes this seem easy.
Only it isn’t.
I’ve responded to many domestic disturbance calls regarding infidelity. The guilty party always makes cheating seem par for the course, like a mess you fall into accidentally or an event attended unintentionally via a wrong turn or detour. For some, it just happens.
Not for me. It’s a decision. A difficult one. Certainly not a fly-by-my-dick whim. It’s premeditated destruction. A Molotov cocktail thrown into a relationship, rendering a painful but quick death.
Lena and I need a quick death because the suffering has become unbearable. In that way, this’ll be a mercy.
My shoulders jerk when my phone rings. My heart races as if the caller knows where I am and what I’m about to do. I take a deep breath, attempting to exhale my fucking guilt.
I answer Alice Harvey’s call with, “Yes, ma’am?”
“Don’t yes ma’am me, Benjamin Allan Wright,” she snaps. “What do you think you’re doing?”
My free hand rakes through my hair as I assess the empty street, half-expecting her to peek out from behind a palm tree. Can she see me? “Nothing. My middle name isn’t Allan.”
She guffaws. “I don’t care. I needed a full name to scold you properly. How can you do this to Lena?”
I twist around, but again, I don’t see her. “Do what?”
“Leave her! You saw her today—she’s devastated.”
That’s partly why I’m here, not that I care to explain that to Alice. Lena amazed me earlier. Watching her lay out her plans for Saddletree reminded me of the confident, intelligent, hopeful woman I married. I’ve always loved her ingenuity and creativity.
Lena shines best in her worst darkness.
