Page 36 of Every Good Thing
“You’re difficult to talk to because you never have time,” he sighs.
“I would’ve made time. All you had to do was ask. I shouldn’t be blamed for your deliberate deception.”
“Deliberate?”
“Yes, not coming in to say goodbye this morning because I would’ve asked about the suit. Not telling me about the interview, let alone any history with Lauren Riley, and brushing off who Lauren was this morning when you said her name instead of mine. You deliberately mislead me.”
He hesitates, rubbing his temple with his left hand. “I… yes. I did. I’m sorry. It seemed easier not to tell you.”
His shoulders slump as he turns into our driveway. Every bounce along the well-worn gravel and dirt path sends pain ricocheting up my arm, enough to bring tears to my eyes, though that’s not entirely why they’re there.
Easier not to tell me? Like I’m his parent, and he doesn’t want to get in trouble. Or his boss and he’s been slacking off. Or maybe it’s because I’m his wife, and he still holds feelings for Lauren Riley.
Why else wouldn’t he share this with me?
Pain splits through my injured hand as my swollen digits tremble. Another wave of panic crashes over me, knocking me into a spin. Breathe.
Control your emotions, or your emotions will control you. My therapist’s words flood into me.
I twist toward the passenger window, wrestling tears. Again. This isn’t me anymore!
I fixate on the world outside the window. The late summer sun sets behind the property, highlighting the glistening garden, the peaks of the house and barn, and the pond. I spy Jack Harvey on his ATV, refilling my empty gas tank and feeding my horses. Alice’s minivan assures me that she’s inside, helping with clean-up. Mr. Wickers stands sentry-like on the café’s patio, holding a bin of dirty dishes while Trisha fills it. I toss them a weak wave as Ben drives by.
My neighbors are fucking adorable. Like Dot and Cherry, they’re people I wouldn’t have hand-selected but who make me eternally grateful that I’m not in charge of such things. They’ve slipped into the empty spaces left behind by those I’ve lost, shoring up my foundation and making me stronger with their love and support. I don’t know what I’d do without them.
Ben’s the family I chose—a decision I’ve never doubted. We found each other exactly at the right time, and everything changed for the better.
Still, a bad feeling wriggles inside me, like a demon baby struggling to break free of its tethers to cause mischief and destruction. I don’t like comparing my previous marriage to this one—they’re night-and-day opposites. But I’m reminded of my first struggles with Mark. He’s keeping things from me. Pulling away. Blaming me. Letting irritation overrule love.
This isn’t us. And it scares me to death.
“Pain level?” Ben asks as he turns off the engine.
“Moderate but worsening… It hurts more that you couldn’t talk to me.”
His emerald eyes squint as he studies me. Is he concerned? Regretful? Annoyed? I can’t tell.
And—another first—I’m tired of asking. Getting him to talk feels like an endless game of tug-of-war that I’m losing. It’s okay that he’ll never be one for small talk, that he views socializing as a task, not a pleasure, and that I have to soften his unfriendly vibe by assuring people that he’s just quiet—Ben will never be the life of the party. But until now, I never thought his distance extended to us. To me.
He says nothing, as usual.
I exit the Jeep with a huff. It definitely won’t be the night I planned. He’s not even the husband I know—my Ben isn’t dishonest. He doesn’t attend events without logging them on the family calendar. He doesn’t keep secrets or stay in touch with old girlfriends. He never even talks about them, as if meeting me moved them into his don’t-care file, lost and forgotten.
Of course, I know they’re out there—nameless, faceless, lucky beings who had their chance to kiss those lips and touch those muscles and lost it. That’s how I like to keep them—nameless, faceless—because those lips and muscles belong to me now.
Lauren. This morning’s failed encounter inflicts fresh stabs into my sore gut. Is it wrong to hope she’s an ogre who smells like beer cheese and cat litter?
Maybe. Yes. But it’s not wrong to expect more forthcomingness from Ben. Wait, is that a word? It damn well should be.
I trudge up the circular staircase leading to our above-barn home. Ben follows, carrying the pizza and meds, saying nothing. Hugo and Penelope join us, ready for dinner and relaxation.
But I can’t relax, not with my head spinning.
I kick my boots off in the mudroom and retreat to the bedroom, closing the door behind me. All the things I should be doing ping through my thoughts—shower, plan for tomorrow, and reach out to my staff. I plop onto the bed’s edge instead and cry. A gigantic purge to wash this shit day away.
Too many feelings. Too much pain. Too many anxiety bitches. It’s all too much.
I tell myself it’s a simple miscommunication, and couples get over these minor mishaps all the time.
