Page 37 of Every Good Thing
But this feels more substantial than that. Like the ground is shaking under every good thing we’ve built together.
Of course, that could be my exhaustion talking. Or the pain. Or the meds.
The door opens. I swipe my tears one-handed, wishing he’d stayed away long enough for me to be less of a mess. No wonder he calls me difficult to talk to—I turn into this.
He sits beside me, sliding his hand over mine. “I’m sorry. I should’ve told you.”
“You’ve always been so honest with me—that’s what drew us together in the first place. If you’d asked me yesterday to name my top five things Ben Wright would never ever do, lying to me would be first, and hanging out with an old girlfriend would be a close second.” I twist on the bed to face him, bringing my knee up between us. “Help me understand why you thought leaving me out of this was okay.”
“It wasn’t.” He sighs. “I didn’t want complications over a job I didn’t think I’d want and a past better left alone. That’s all. I planned on discussing the job tonight over dinner once I had all the information.”
With a deep breath, I feel slightly better. This sounds like Ben. He prefers to keep things simple. “So, I shouldn’t worry about Lauren being an ex-girlfriend?”
He recoils like I’ve said something ridiculous. “No. If I could remove her from the equation, I would. I’m considering the job. Nothing else. My heart belongs to you and Ruthie.”
Through a relieved smile, more tears emerge, cleansing me of these preposterous ideas. I’ve given my anxiety bitches too much room to speculate.
“I’m sorry,” I breathe out.
“No, it’s my fault. I should’ve talked to you.” He locks eyes with his sternest, most sincere expression. “Forgive me for creating doubts and not being forthcoming.”
“You’re forgiven.” The words fall from me like I have no choice. It’s such a rare occurrence that forgiveness is automatic when Ben asks for it. I can’t think of anything I’d deny him. “But will you tell me all about it? I need more information.”
“Understood. Whatever you need.” He fiddles with the loose scrunchie and tugs it out, sending my purple and mud-stained locks around my shoulders. “You’ll need help washing your hair. I’ll draw a bath.”
I’m about to protest—a shower would be quicker, and I’m tired.
But, he adds, “Soaking in warm water and Epsom salts will be good. You’ll hurt like hell tomorrow.”
“Really?”
“Yes. The soreness is always worse on the second or third day.”
“Something to look forward to, then.” I try loosening the knot that holds my sheathed arm in place but fail.
Ben takes over. “Let me help.”
He presents like a tank but is incredibly gentle. I love this about him. His careful attention reminds me of him braiding Ruthie’s hair, his big hands weaving the pieces together so delicately that she never flinches.
I don’t flinch now, even as he maneuvers me from the sheath and my shirt. He traces the reddish lines crossing my chest—marks from the seatbelt. My chest feels sore with their discovery, reminding me that it should hurt, too.
With a heavy sigh, his eyes trail the marks on my arms and shoulders—not ugly bruises yet, but they will be. He kneels and removes my jeans next, finding more of the same.
“You’re right. A bath is a good idea.” I nibble my inner lip, anxiety rising and tears streaming as he tallies up my injuries.
He holds me around the waist, resting his head against my stomach. “It’ll be okay.”
“It’s going to be tough on me,” I admit.
“Tough on us,” he corrects with a wry smile. “But it’ll bring us closer.”
A chuckle eases from me. “That almost sounds romantic.”
He smirks again. “I am helping you get undressed and drawing you a bath.”
I tug at his tie one-handed. “Will you get in with me? And bring the pizza?”
“That’s already my plan.”
