Page 126 of Every Good Thing
I hear Mom’s voice. You deserve better than this.
I don’t even realize I’m hitting him at first. His chest becomes a punching bag—my emotions have nowhere else to go. Fists and forearms. My cast whacking against him with whatever force I can. Anything to hurt him, though it’s nothing compared to how he’s hurt me.
He doesn’t fight back or try to stop me. He stands, tall and strong, before me, hands at his sides as he accepts the blows.
“You’re a fucking liar,” I breathe out finally—a truth, either way. “How could you do that to us? To me? To Ruthie? That’s not who you are, Ben.”
He doesn’t answer but turns his eyes to the ground between us. His coldness hits me with a new truth—I don’t know this man.
About to hyperventilate, I back-step. I glance at Becca’s house, hopeful that no one has witnessed my anger. This isn’t me. Seeing no faces peering through the windows, I take a deep breath, determined to regain some semblance of control.
“This is what you wanted,” I decide. “The fire alarm wasn’t enough of an escape to make you feel better, more in control? So, you fire-bombed us to bits instead? Just like the damn IED—irreparably broken and safely alone for the aftermath.”
“You don’t know anything about it.” He drags his hand over his face before shaking his head and saying, “This conversation is over.”
“It’s over when I say,” I correct sternly but with remarkable calm as if my subconscious (or perhaps my anxiety bitches) prepared me for this. “If it’s true, tell Ruthie you’re not coming home before returning her to me tomorrow. Tell her why, Ben, and don’t you dare blame me. Understood?”
I don’t wait for a response but race to my truck.
Two blocks later, I pull over. Uncontrollable sobs force me into a McDonald’s parking lot. My purge takes so long that an employee taps on my window, asking if I’m okay.
Not okay.
I don’t remember the drive home. Or the hour I spend on farm chores. Or going to Mrs. Moore’s house.
Hugo and Penelope race from the truck when we arrive, their barks waking me from my numb stupor. Dot greets me for our prearranged girls’ night with Cherry and Jaye. I feel drained—nothing but a skeleton, wobbly and bare, going through the motions. There, but not really. Maybe it’s my ugly denial again, and I’m shoving the truth away like food on my plate that I can’t stomach, but I don’t tell them what happened. Admitting that Ben’s a cheater after all will only tug the last string of my marriage apart. I can’t. Yet.
When they ask if I’m okay, I tell the truth. “I’m tired.”
Even so, dwelling in misery doesn’t work with this crowd. Cherry makes pink champagne margaritas, and we feast on Mrs. Moore’s famous mac-n-cheese casserole and crab dip that’s so hot, it burns my tongue but, so good, I keep eating anyway. We play poker with the antique cards Dot bought for her birthday. I do terribly, but I laugh, get tipsy, and somehow enjoy it even though my world is burning to ashes.
Mrs. Moore gets loads of laughs over her funniest teaching moments. Cherry has us on the floor with her worst dating stories. Jaye regales us with hilarious, jaw-dropping tales about Hollywood and the graphic novel business. And Dot chimes in with experiences that are so ridiculous that I wonder if they’re true.
I don’t care. True or not. Truth is a murky puddle these days, anyway. Laughing feels good, releasing the pressure behind my eyes and choking my heart. I need this. I need them. And sometimes, laughing is the best—the only—thing to do.
On Mrs. Moore’s front porch, I FaceTime with Ruthie around bedtime. She’s sleepy from movie night but happy. Ben hasn’t told her anything yet.
“Good night, sweet girl. Love you. Be good for your dad,” I say before she hands the phone to Ben.
“I’ll have her there at three tomorrow,” he says, brow pinched.
“Yes, I saw the calendar.”
“You okay?”
I hang up before he says anything else.
Reentering the living room, Jaye says, “The way Ben swooped in there and saved the day puts anything Hollywood might make up to shame.”
Mrs. Moore smiles. “Jaye was just telling me what happened at comic-con.”
“He started with holy water, but he had pig’s blood in his bag,” Dot says. “Can you believe that twisted bullshit? Pigs fucking bled for that?”
“The world is full of misguided people who make terrible mistakes,” Mrs. Moore quips dryly.
“Wait, do you mean the stalker or Ben?” Cherry asks, chuckling. “What’s the status on our hero-boy, huh?”
A weak smile emerges. “He’s having movie night with Ruthie.”
