Page 38 of Every Good Thing
My tension releases. This is us—casual, sexy, messy us.
We rarely argue, anyway, and never with raised voices—an eye-opener given my volatile marriage to Mark. He and I mastered shouting matches the way other couples do team sports—with intense practice. All those fights and yelling only led to something worse: absence. Marriages die the moment a couple stops talking and spending time together. The only thing left after that is giving up.
With Ben, I’ve learned the rules of a good marriage. For one thing, yelling isn’t necessary or helpful. Talking and listening work more miracles than fighting ever could. His calmness offsets my anxiety, and my personality eases him into talking. Usually. Marriage is a delicate balance of two personalities, and we appreciate rather than resent our differences. Our disagreements don’t follow us, either. Letting go is better than keeping score. And we’re like-minded, most of the time.
Today was a blip on an otherwise clear radar. We’ll get over it quicker in the tub.
That’s another rule for a good marriage—never miss an opportunity for closeness. I haven’t been good about following that one lately, but I’m determined to make up for it.
He holds my good hand as I step into the bath, the almost-too-hot water easing me at once. He cushions my splinted hand with a towel on the side edge. Then, after handing me a slice of pizza, he climbs in with me.
Nine
BEN
Tub Lena relaxes instantly. In two minutes, she scarfs down an entire pizza slice before twisting and backing herself between my legs. My hands slip around her, freely roaming over her familiar places. Naked Lena is one of my favorite versions of her.
I love all her versions. Lena is beautiful, sexy as hell, funny and warm in a way that brings comfort to any situation, intelligent, creative, and a good person—everything I want.
She’s also a multiverse, complicated and intense, ruled most often by Busy Lena—my least favorite and most difficult to handle because she tends to overthink, overwork, and overplease.
I like things simple. Busy Lena makes things hard.
This applies especially to Saddletree. She feels she has to do it all, from the day-to-day to the deliveries to the damn dishes. When I suggest automating aspects of Saddletree’s management, delegating more to her employees, or cutting back on hours and offerings, I’m met with frustration. No time is her most frequent excuse. Already spread thin, she’s pulled in too many directions, incapable of making necessary changes. Her people-pleasing and unrealistic expectations come at a cost.
That cost is usually me.
I don’t require much. But closeness with Lena has become a natural necessity for me. I almost lost her today—a stark reminder of how much I love and need her. I need more of this. More of her. And enough love and connection with my wife to feel like we could handle anything together.
Because anything is coming.
I should’ve told her everything long before today, but my confidence in us has slipped. What holds me back from her is her. How am I supposed to feel secure in us when I barely see her? It’s hard to feel good about the woman you love when she constantly chooses everything over you and doesn’t notice that it’s been weeks since we’ve had a real conversation or even been naked together.
She doesn’t have time to miss me, either.
But it affects her, too. Busy Lena is all about tasks and forced smiles. She doesn’t relax or slow down. Busy Lena gets by but barely breathes. I help with that when she lets me.
Right now, though, I glimpse the Lena I love most—Present Lena, radiant and smiling. Holding her like this comforts me and makes me think everything’s okay.
It isn’t, though. I fucked up today—my deception was deliberate—but, to her credit, she’s here, naked in the bath with me.
“When do you have to decide?” she asks as I shampoo her hair. “Or have you already?”
“I won’t decide anything without you. We have a few weeks, but I can ask for more time if needed.”
“Wow, that’s generous of them.”
“They’re motivated.” Before she asks why, I add, “But it’s a major decision. Without your full support, the answer is no.”
She leans her sudsy head against my shoulder and peers up at me. “I want you to be happy. Will this make you happy?”
“Happiness isn’t a factor. You and Ruthie make me happy. Work is work.”
Even upside down, I decipher her expression—the cocked brow and her bold, questioning eyes. She dislikes my answer.
“Ben, working to live is one thing, but no one wants a job that makes them miserable. Be honest—you haven’t been happy being a cop in a while.”
“I’ve had some setbacks.”
