Page 130 of Every Good Thing
He looks shocked. “Really? You think so?”
“She said so. Best poker face ever,” I grin, “and best strategist.”
He smiles—the first I’ve seen in so long that it hurts. “That means a lot… and thanks for not shutting me out.”
“I’ll never shut you out, Ben. Ruthie needs you. I… ”
Tears flow again as if my body’s sprung leaks that won’t be stopped. I want to beg him to stay, to ask my usual question, but knowing he doesn’t want to and what he’s done, it’d only make me feel more pathetic. This is how he wants it—hands off, feelings off, on to someone else. Sadness tugs at my weaknesses like a sweater about to be undone.
“You should go,” I manage.
“If you need anything, let me know. I mean it,” he says, slow and stern. Then, he leaves.
The days blur together like a hazy sunset. Dot’s estranged family reaches out, curious about the will, and I steer her through that drama like a captain, ready to go down with the ship. We were relieved, but again, not surprised, to discover that Mrs. Moore left Dot everything—her beautiful farmhouse, everything inside it, and even her cute MINI Cooper.
Both having cried ourselves out, we sit through social calls and death details in numb stupors—zombie women. I mourn her and my marriage together like they’re a packaged deal. I mourn Mom again, too. She put the pieces of me back together after my last marriage failed. She’s not here to puzzle me together this time.
I take care of Dot and Ruthie as best I can. In quiet moments, I bake and ride—the same joys that got me through Mom’s death.
My cast comes off in a quiet appointment with Dr. Rob Riley. He spends five minutes with me while my head spins with anxiety. Does he know? Do all the Rileys know? Are the Rileys giving themselves high fives and back pats over Lauren and Ben’s reconciliation? Rob doesn’t say anything, but my imagination feeds my anxiety bitches plenty of material. Ben doesn’t show up to my appointment this time.
He texts often to see how I am, even on days we’re not exchanging Ruthie, but I only manage quick answers, like he’s an addiction and I’m in a difficult recovery. Ruthie doesn’t notice our strange situation—it’s too strange a time. We’re off our usual schedule, Ben is still “fixing the roof” at Becca’s, we’re sad and mopey over Mrs. Moore, and there are witches in the woods around the house—nothing is normal.
But that’ll soon change.
After the funeral, we’ll sit down with Ruthie to explain it as gently as possible to a four-year-old. I imagine he’ll start proceedings, and there’ll be lawyers and custody agreements—all the sad rigamarole of separating our lives. He slept with someone else—there’s no coming back from that. Is there? When I think about them together, I flush with anger, but I can’t stay that way long.
Sadness takes over every time.
I still haven’t told anyone. It’s not the right time, and the pathetic truth is, I’d still take him back. It goes against my female identity and all the strength I supposedly have to admit it, but I would. I’ll never be Cherry, pinning Ben’s face to a dartboard and cackling while I throw darts at it. I’ll never move on to male nurses and dating apps, hardening my heart with each emotionless encounter. It’s fine for her, no judgment, but it’s not me. There’s a huge difference between Cherry and me—she wasn’t meant for Warren, but I was meant for Ben. I still am.
We just failed. I failed.
Forty-One
BEN
I sit in the Riley Trust Bank parking lot, tightening my hands around the steering wheel until my knuckles crack. My appointment with John should’ve started five minutes ago, but I can’t exit my Jeep. I stare at my phone, perched on my dash, hoping the screen will alight with a notification. The text I sent to Lena twenty minutes ago, asking how she’s doing, if she needs anything, remains unanswered. Though reason assures me that she’s doing as well as can be expected and probably busy caring for Dot and Ruthie, awaiting her response puts me in agony. An agony that’s swollen with additional brokenness, like Lena’s hand after the accident. Brokenness I caused, and that’s sharpened since losing Mrs. Moore.
I need to know she’s okay. Need this shred of connection to remain intact. Need her to know that I’m here.
Despite the destruction I’ve caused, I long to be with my family. Especially now.
Instead, I’m here, and late to a meeting for the first time in memory.
My phone pings. A text from Lena. We’re okay. Shopping for funeral dresses. Are you okay?
That she asks makes me tear up. I don’t deserve her concern. But that’s my wife—always prioritizing her love over her pain.
I stare up at the glass building, blurry in my tears, and my resolve solidifies. I know what I have to do. I’ve known since holding my girls to my chest as they sobbed over Mrs. Moore; a realization that came too late, but I owe them the follow-through regardless.
My first instinct is to respond that I’m fine. It’s my go-to answer. But I delete it and try again. I’m hurting for you and Ruthie. I’m here for anything you need.
She reads the message but doesn’t answer. That’s okay.
I exit my vehicle, ready for this meeting.
John Riley greets me with a beaming smile when I enter his office moments later. Lauren sits on the leather couch, opposite Captain Tenor. Between them, champagne chills in a silver ice bucket and crystal glasses await pouring on the coffee table. I shouldn’t be surprised that they’ve turned my contract signing into a celebration.
