Page 138 of Every Good Thing
“I’ll come around for you,” I say, but she’s already out the door. I catch her at the barn’s entrance, thankful that her high heels limit her speed. “Lena.”
“You should go,” she says, her voice weak and trembling. “I’m sure you have…”
“I don’t have anything.”
“Please.” Her shoulders bounce in a tired shrug. “I’m so heartbroken, Ben. I can’t keep pretending or putting on a brave face. Please. I can’t hold it together another second longer… even for you.”
Her pain and vulnerability feel like iced daggers penetrating me—I did this. To her.
“I lied to you,” I blurt urgently. “I didn’t sleep with Lauren.”
“What?” she scoffs. “Why should I believe—”
“I swear, I didn’t. I went to her house but never made it to her door.”
She shakes her head in renewed anguish. “Don’t do this. You’re not making sense. You destroyed me. Why would you lie?”
“You were right—I fire-bombed us to avoid what I was going through and stop hurting you over and over. I stupidly thought that one huge hurt would protect you from a lifetime of smaller ones—a damn explosion rather than a slow death. I don’t expect forgiveness or understanding. Hell, I don’t understand it completely. I’ve had a dozen sessions with Dr. Reese just to get here today. She thinks nearly leaving Adam behind triggered my PTSD and survivor’s guilt from that day in Afghanistan, and Lauren’s reappearance made it worse. I tried handling it all alone because that’s what I’ve always done. I get small, tightening all that shit into an impenetrable ball deep inside me. It’s worked before. But not this time. It’s not just me anymore—and I don’t want it to be. I need you to know that Lauren and I didn’t happen.”
I’m out of breath, my confession so labored and agonizing but so intensely necessary that my heart rate skyrockets. She glares, eyes glassy with tears and mouth parted in anguish, just as hurt as the day I told her that awful lie.
“I’m sorry, Lena. So fucking sorry.” Mr. Wickers’s words skip into my thoughts. “I let go because I was too afraid to hold on. I love you, Ruthie, and Saddletree. I just got… fucking confused.
“But not anymore. I turned down the job, even commandeered my portrait. It didn’t belong there, and neither do I. If you give me another chance, I’ll never let go again.”
Her brow forms a wonky L as she takes in my words. Her hands slip behind her to hide her growing panic. “I’ve been in misery,” she mutters weakly as if actively trying to extract herself from it but failing. “You hurt me. On purpose.”
“Yes,” I admit, hanging my head. “I’ll spend a lifetime making it up to you, whether you take me back or not.”
“Take you back? How am I supposed to trust you? What happens if you get small again and don’t come back?”
“That won’t happen. Lena, I promise,” I say, shaking my head as the words come out. “I know my promises don’t mean shit right now, but… you held my hand. That meant everything to me. It must mean there’s hope. All I can ask is that you try to believe me. I’m at your mercy. Now. And always.”
Her face seems rigid with hurt, and my desperation sinks into resignation.
“I don’t want you at my mercy. I want... I can’t… It’s too much,” she finally says, her breath quick. “I need time.”
I nod. It’s all I could ask for, given everything I’ve put her through, especially as she tries to regulate her panic. She puts her hand up, stopping me from helping. I back away, leaving only because she needs me to.
The rain hits me like a waterfall as I push through it. I slump in the driver’s seat. Her pain—the pain I’ve caused—reaches out, pulling me to her.
But she wants me to go.
And I should. She’s heard me out and knows the truth. Hopefully, she’ll join me for counseling this week and for as long as it takes for Dr. Reese to help us work through the damage I’ve caused. Leaving now doesn’t mean there isn’t hope for us.
I put the Jeep in drive, easing off the brake.
A shadow moves through the pouring rain. She stands at my headlights, arms outstretched as if she might physically prevent the Jeep’s forward motion.
She mouths the words, “Don’t go!”
I exit the Jeep and meet her there. Her sapphire eyes lock on mine. “I held your hand because… for better or worse, that’s what we said. This is just… worse. We made a promise. You promised me, Ben. We said for better and worse. I don’t care if it’s worse from now on, I still want you. Need you.”
Her voice gets lost in her sobs.
“Don’t go,” she repeats, yelling over the rain. She’s soaked and desperate, holding onto my arms like she can’t stand on her own. “This is the last time I’ll ask you. Are you ready to come home, Ben?”
I drop to my knees in the mud at her feet, like I tried to do the day I asked her to marry me. She wouldn’t permit it then, but she does now. Rain hides my tears as I fist her hands between us. For better or worse. Her words bulldoze every barrier I’ve thrown up, freeing me.
