Page 32 of Every Good Thing
“Ben, I’m okay,” I say, craving his attention. “I’m good—a mild headache and probably a broken wrist. I just had an x-ray.”
My personal Superman eyes my wrist like he has x-ray vision and can see the broken bones underneath the swollen, red exterior.
“Let’s get you back to your room. Dr. Langston will be in shortly.” The nurse scoots ahead, leading us down the hall.
Ben takes my side, latching my good hand around his arm for support. His six-foot-two frame, wide shoulders, and crisp suit look impressive, especially with his tie still taut to his neck.
I’m a complete mess beside him, but that’s our normal state. He’s so together while I’m a walking cartoon of a woman ramming her finger into a wall socket.
Our differences stand out worse today. Mud, blood, and purple icing stain my peasant’s blouse, jeans, and rubber boots. Not my best look. Certainly not with him trying out for the cover of GQ Solider beside me.
Ben doesn’t mind our disparity, though. His hand slips over mine, pressing me closer to him as we slowly follow the nurse.
“Looks like my shift’s over,” Jack grins, kicking himself off the wall as we approach. “Glad you’re okay, Lena.”
“Thanks, Jack.”
“Ben, keep us posted, eh? Take good care of our Lena.”
“Will do. Thanks.”
I turn to Ben when we’re alone in the curtained room again. “Where were you?”
He takes a breath, watching me. “What’s your pain level?”
“Moderate. Where were you?” There’s no tone in my voice. I’m calm. But he steps back and shoves his hands in his pockets like I’ve accused him of something.
He matches my even voice, but my defenses skyrocket when he says, “Let’s talk later when you’re up for it.”
“I’m up for it. It’s a simple question.”
His furrowed brow softens slightly. “Job interview.”
“A job interview?” I repeat with surprise and relief. But it quickly translates into sadness that he didn’t tell me.
He looks expectant of my typical response—an energetic, frustrating game of twenty questions to get answers that he has trouble volunteering in advance. Ben’s minimal communication is endearing sometimes, but I’ve had to meld myself around it like batter in a baking tin. I shield him from social encounters I know he doesn’t want. Then, I carry the conversations that happen regardless. Our private ones, too. All so he doesn’t have to.
That’s what couples do, right? Balance each other like a see-saw? I thought it made us a team.
But this news yanks me off the see-saw and kicks me while I’m down. I am incredibly hurt. An interview means job hunting, which means leaving the job he’s loved for twelve years, and I knew nothing about it. He’s making huge decisions without me. I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to tell your spouse such things… before you actually do it. At least as a courtesy. Another basic marriage rule snaps and lies broken between us.
So, tears replace the questions I should be asking like they’re flushing out the bothersome specks in our relationship.
“I’m your wife,” comes out instead. I sign the words, too, but it’s wonky one-handed.
Three words summarize my hurt feelings better than a long speech or playing twenty questions.
They get a reaction—he’s surprised, and his brow knits with what looks like regret.
He closes the gap, edging between my legs, which dangle sideways off the bed. He grazes my cheek with the outside of his hand, and more tears slip over his tenderness and concern. In our warm huddle, he whispers another apology before resting his forehead softly against mine.
“You scared me,” he says.
“You’re scaring me,” I say slowly as he watches my lips. “Why the secrecy?”
“Not secrecy. I delayed telling you. That’s all.”
“Why?”
