Page 125 of Every Good Thing
“Thanks.” He sets it by the porch. “I want you to be happy, too.”
I smile weakly. “Without you? No chance. But I’ll make do… Oh, and we’re not going with the logo you saw. I told Cherry it can’t represent Saddletree without you in it.” I slide out my phone and show him a picture of her first version with him leaning beside me by the tree. “That’s the one we’re using.”
His Adam’s apple bobs in a heavy swallow. “The one with you and Ruthie is better, Lena.”
I shake my head. Don’t cry. “No, it’s not. Saddletree wouldn’t exist without you. It’s where you belong. I’ll never stop hoping you’ll come home to us. When you’re ready…”
“Lena.” My name hooks on his tongue like it doesn’t want to come out. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
When he pauses, I flash my usual smile of encouragement, hoping to help his words come easier. But the longer he takes, the more my anxiety grows. His tough-guy stoicism is gone, replaced by what looks like exhaustion and devastation. Ben suddenly looks like a man who hasn’t slept in days—and can’t, like he’s tormented by Jaye’s witches whenever he closes his eyes.
Or something worse.
“You can tell me anything,” I say softly when the silence feels stifling. I step closer and think to run my hand over his arm like I’ve done a million times. But I stop myself, unsure.
His arms fold, creating a muscular barrier between us.
Suddenly, I realize that whatever he wants to say is not what I want to hear. He knows it, too—that’s why he hesitates. He’s afraid to tell me.
“Go ahead. Say it.” My voice is stern but not unkind, despite how my anxiety bitches launch their attack. He’s ending it once and for all. He’s going to say the d-word. Divorced again. Nothing ever works out for you. Every good thing I’ve worked for comes at a price. My first marriage. Mom. Now him. My life is a monkey’s paw, cursed.
A tear slips down his cheek.
I nod, and tears escape me, too. “Is this the final push?”
“What?”
“The final push that gets rid of me? Is this it?”
He looks stunned. “I’ll never want to be rid of you.”
“Just not married to me anymore, right? Or is it that you don’t want me married to the deaf guy?”
I step closer, scraping tiny bits of strength together and staring up at him with nothing but love and sadness in my eyes. “Tell me the truth, Ben. That’s what we’re about, remember? Whatever you’ve planned to hurt me with… tell me.”
His voice cracks when he says, “I went to Lauren’s house last night.”
Everything inside me shatters like his words are bricks through a window. Still, I conjure his famous calm from some deep reserve of strength I didn’t know I had. “The woman who rejected you because of your scars? Who took one look at you and turned the fuck away? You went to her?”
He pushes his shoulders back, maybe surprised that I don’t believe him. “Yes.”
“And what, Ben?” I push, anger rising despite my best efforts. I lock eyes, studying him. “You what? Kissed her? Fucked her? Pledged your love to her? What?”
“I’m telling you, I went to Lauren’s last night. What does the rest matter?” He stumbles over the words like his tongue is too big.
“You’ve made it this far. Why not tell me all the fucking details, so I’ll believe it? Rip our marriage to pieces in one quick pull, like a band-aid.”
“I’m not—I can’t do that.” He swipes at tears like annoying flies landing on his face. “I won’t.”
“Why not? Have too much integrity to cheat and tell?” I scoff. “Tell me how you laid naked in her bed, her fingers strumming the scars on your chest that once repulsed her while you discussed ending things with me. Did she make you promise to do it today?”
“Stop it. It’s done. It’s over.”
“I don’t believe you,” I say with more confidence than I should have. “I don’t believe it.”
“Fine,” he snaps. “Yes. I kissed her, fucked her, conspired against you. It’s true. Is that what you want to hear?”
His emerald eyes look like cold stones, twisting into my soft places. My heart stops in his iciness. Is he telling the truth? Holy fuck. It is true. My eyes close in acute agony—I can’t look at him. My hands fist. One of them, anyway. Nails dig into my palms. Panic surges with anger like a surfer riding the perfect wave.
