Page 127 of Every Good Thing
“You know what I mean,” Cherry balks. “When’s he coming home?”
I take a breath, my hands fidgeting under the table. “He’s not.”
Dot gives me an angry look. “What did I tell you about talking like that?”
“I’m not talking like anything. I’m presenting facts. He told me today.”
They stare like this doesn’t compute, and they require more input. I don’t give it to them, though. I don’t share Ben’s final push simply because I can’t handle them knowing yet. Not with Dot’s murder plans and Cherry’s man-hate.
“God, are you okay?” Cherry asks.
“I’m letting go.” I force a short smile. “I have to. For his sake. For our family’s sake.”
“What about your sake, huh?” Dot demands. “He’s your fucking husband. You can’t accept that bullshit.”
“I don’t have a choice. I have to make the best of things for Ruthie. It’s bad enough that he doesn’t love me anymore—I can’t handle him hating me. That’s what happened with Mark. It’ll break Ruthie’s heart if her dad despises me. No matter how hurt I am, I refuse to let that happen.”
Even Dot fails to argue. Cherry and Dot aren’t mothers, but they love Ruthie like we all gave birth to her.
“Now, whose turn is it to deal?” I choke out. “And how about another margarita, huh?”
Jaye grabs the cards. Cherry takes my empty glass for a refill. Dot leaves the table, probably to vape on the porch and perhaps to consider her murder plan.
Mrs. Moore’s delicate hand falls on mine, catching my tearful attention. “This too shall pass,” she says, words Mom said often. “Loving is losing, eventually… but I don’t believe all is lost yet.”
She pulls me into her pink floral cardigan and circles my back as I cry into her shoulder.
Thirty-Nine
BEN
My phone flashes to the home screen with a definitive beep. Lena hung up on me. I deserve it. It was a dumb question, anyway. You okay?
Of course, she isn’t.
I’m not, either.
After she left, I fell apart. Knowing I couldn’t face Ruthie or anyone, I texted Becca to watch her and took off running. Soon, sweat hid my tears as the miles moved under my feet. I pushed myself, hoping my heart would explode with the effort.
I didn’t have a destination in mind—just wherever the sidewalk took me. But on the other side of Wilmington, I came to a huffing stop in front of my former residence—the craftsman cottage I bought after Lauren, a fixer-upper to focus my energy. It’s where I spent seven years getting my life back together, where I planted roots for the first time in my adult life, where Lena and I spent our first night together.
Memories swirl like a home movie projected in front of me.
Us walking up the sidewalk after a strange discussion about sharks and gators.
Me asking her at the first step if she was sure she wanted to spend the night.
Her hopping up a step in the affirmative before asking me the same.
Me taking all the steps at once to assure her I was.
Then, me coming clean about my scars at the doorstep, suddenly fearful and nervous that she’d recoil at the sight and change her mind.
She didn’t. And that night, I told her what I’d wanted to say for ages. I loved her.
I stare at the house, noting the differences from when I owned it—a swing set in the yard, an unfamiliar car in the driveway, plants across the front porch, and a cat sunning in the front window. I put it on the market as soon as Lena and I moved into the barn house, and it sold the same week. I had zero hesitations signing it over—that’s how confident I was in us. The money went to Ruthie’s college fund, our savings, and Saddletree’s farming vehicles.
I said all in, and I meant it.
