Page 34 of Every Good Thing
An entire year!
“Didn’t you miss it?” I asked when she overshared. “The sex? The closeness?”
“I was too busy to miss it,” she admitted regretfully. “By the time I realized something was wrong, he’d already fallen for someone else.”
My eyes close as my thoughts spin into an anxiety tornado. I can’t let that happen to us. I can’t make fifty to seventy-five sandwiches one-handed. I can’t make myself less difficult, whatever that means, or make Ben talk to me. I can’t—
“Lena.” Ben’s voice stills my mental storm.
I open my eyes to find him staring at me.
“Breathe.” His hand latches over my good one—I hadn’t realized it was shaking or that my breathing had become hurried. I flush with panic and embarrassment as Dr. Langston looks on, assessing me.
“Are you alright, Lena?” she asks.
I nod, taking deep breaths in and out, slowing myself down, and feeling even more disappointed. The panic I’ve battled all day has finally won.
Ben presses my good hand to his chest under his tie. He holds it there flat so that I feel the gentle rise and fall of his breathing. He glances over his shoulder at Dr. Langston. “She’s fine. Are we done?”
“The nurse will be by with your follow-up information and paperwork.”
“Thank you, doctor,” Ben says as she leaves. The room quiets again. “Focus on me. Everything’s okay.”
“No, it isn’t. Nothing’s okay if we’re not okay.”
His brow knits. “We’re fine. Just breathe.”
I match his breathing—slow, steady, and calm. Just like him. Soon, I no longer need to tell myself to do it.
“Been a long time.” He sounds proud. Going from a panic attack every few days to every few years makes me proud, too. But it stings, resetting the sign in my head—Days Without a Panic Attack, 0.
My therapist, Dr. Reese, would say I’m being hard on myself. That’s a problem for me and probably most women who give a shit about anything. Pushing too hard. Thinking too much. Trying to please everyone.
That’s not living. That’s doing. Look at the facts, she’d say. Rough morning. Car accident. A long recovery ahead. And sudden uncertainty. Give yourself a break.
Ben often says something similar when I get like this, especially when I have so much to do that I don’t know where to start. “What’s most important?” he usually asks, clearing my focus. Right now, it’s this—us, together.
“It’s been sneaking up on me all day, even before the accident,” I admit, still breathless. “It’s a wonder I lasted this long.”
“Tell me about it,” he urges. “Tell me everything.”
“You first, when we get out of here. Please.”
“Yes. Understood.”
My hand slips down his chest, bringing me back to this morning when I only wanted to stay tucked against him in bed, safe, warm, and uncomplicated. “Tell me you love me, Ben.”
His left brow perks in surprise at my request. But the nurse comes in before he gets a chance to say it.
Eight
LENA
The ride home begins in silence, which is weird, considering we have so much to say. The pain meds kick in, making me mellow and inexplicably sad. I don’t have the energy for our usual communication games and shouldn’t have to wrestle it from him. He knows what I need.
“You should close Saddletree temporarily.” His knuckles protrude against his tight grip on the steering wheel, and his right hand is red and swollen.
“What happened to your hand?” I ask.
