Page 16 of Every Good Thing
Dot hovers over my shoulder, peering at my rudimentary, pencil-sketched schedule while crunching Cheetos in my ear. “Did Ruthie draw this?”
“Very funny. Ben wants me to upgrade, but I haven’t had time to research it. Besides, the sisters might revolt if I put their schedules on an app.”
“Who’s running the show here, Lena? It’s your business. Do it your way.”
“My way would be to focus on what I’m best at—baking. I haven’t created a new recipe in years.” I lean against the counter, exhausted, though it’s not even nine. “Sometimes, I miss making do in my mom’s shit kitchen, scrounging for grocery money in the couch cushions, and spending entire days experimenting with recipes. Ben would come over and sample everything, and we’d spend the night talking. He always encouraged me, always said the exact thing I needed to hear.”
“Holy shit, are you crying?” Dot huffs and tucks her open bag of Cheetos into her baggy pocket. “Lena, babe, take a breath.”
I swipe under my eyes. Ben’s right. Even when I’m with him, I’m not. I miss us, too.
Dot catches my gaze sternly. “Is it time to feed the animals?”
I chuckle lightly. That’s Dot’s code for getting me out of the kitchen, a wink-wink between us. Plus, she loves driving the ATV I use for feeding. She calls it a tricked-out golf cart, but it’s much tougher and faster. “I’d love to, but—”
“No buts, Lena. I got this.” She pushes through the swinging door and converses with Trisha.
Then, she drags me out the back door and slips into the driver’s seat.
“What did you tell her?”
“The truth—that you needed a mental health moment. I also got her to clean the kitchen and come in tomorrow.”
“Ah, thanks.”
“They don’t call me Boss Bitch for nothing.” She motions to the lettering proudly displayed on her cap.
I snort. “Only you call yourself that.”
“Only because it’s true. I’m living proof that business owners don’t have to work themselves to death. I choose my schedule and my clients and never work past five or on the weekends.”
“Our businesses are completely different. I don’t have the luxury of choosing my clients or not working weekends.”
She revs the engine and shifts it into gear. “Choices, Lena, babe. Set some damn boundaries. If you don’t have room to breathe, you’ll suffocate.”
It’s hard to breathe already, I think, but don’t say.
Mud kicks up from the back tires as she jerks the ATV into action. I grab the oh-shit handle over the door. Hugo and Penelope race and bark beside us, like engine noise cues them that it’s time for farm work.
Saddletree is a frequent topic of discussion with my business-owning friends, but my issues are unique.
Ben understands, and his advice is always concrete and direct—I should close two days a week “like other reasonable businesses” and upgrade to business software, so I’m not “overwhelmed with paperwork.” He wants an entrance gate and better security to prevent people from showing up when we’re closed or wandering into off-limits areas—that happens a lot. He tells me that good software and better planning would prevent my “frequent mistakes,” like overbooking the support groups.
He’s probably right, and his advice is always welcomed. We made most of Saddletree’s original decisions together, like partners.
But it’s hard to change what’s been established—not that I have time. It’s like trying to lose weight after you’ve packed on the pounds—it would’ve been much easier to stay healthy in the first place. So, as it stands, I’m hanging on, maybe by a fraying thread, but getting the job done. Mostly. Some days are hard, that’s all.
We feed the chickens and the bunnies before taking grain to the horses. Shadow, my elderly Appaloosa, looks annoyed when we approach, as if we’re intruders on his property. He flicks his half-tail and turns his gray ass toward us. I chuckle—he’s always been a grumpy horse, but five years ago, he was an integral part of my reinvention after Mom died, building my confidence and teaching me to breathe again. Shadow helped me rediscover me. I long to tack up and go for a rigorous ride.
But, like so many things I want to do, there’s no time.
The water trough overflows, so I close the faucet. The other horses wander over—River, a beautiful thoroughbred, Maxie, another gray Appaloosa, and Coconut, Ruthie’s pale brown pony. Dot sets down the grain buckets, spacing them apart to give the horses room to feed.
Leaning against the fence, we watch them eat. Dot retrieves her unfinished Cheetos and frees a second bag from her other pocket, handing it to me. “Reinforcements. Comfort food.”
I’d argue her definition of comfort food any other day, but not today. I pull the bag apart, toss a Cheeto into my mouth, and my taste buds alight with the synthetic flavorings.
“I checked his IG and Facebook friends,” Dot says while munching. “No Laurens. I don’t think you should read into a bad morning. It’ll only make you anxious. Just rely on what you know about Ben.”
