Page 39 of Every Good Thing
She scoffs and twists in the tub to face me again. “No, you’ve had struggles. The headaches. The hearing issues. Seeing people at their worst. Don’t understate what you’ve been through.”
“Fine. Struggles.” I pick up Ruthie’s watering can and rinse Lena’s hair. Still facing me, she closes her eyes to keep the soap from getting in.
Clearing her face of water, she says, “It’s okay to make a change if you want one. And there’s no rush to figure out what that should be. If this offer excites you, let’s talk about it. But you don’t have to work for the sake of working. Or take a job you’re lackluster about for a larger salary. Saddletree’s doing great—”
“That could change,” I point out, motioning to her arm. “I appreciate that we live comfortably, thanks to Saddletree, but I provide consistency and stability.”
“Always, even without a paycheck.” She grins. “But you’re a cop—anything could happen to you, too. My point is you don’t have to work. Let me be your sugar mama.”
I groan.
She laughs knowingly. “You have breathing room, Ben, and you’ve earned it. Why not just… retire?”
Retire? Retirement is for seniors—not mostly capable, highly qualified, and self-sufficient forty-two-year-olds with a family. She claims I have breathing room, but it doesn’t feel like it.
Tub Lena morphs into Anxiety Lena as she studies me. “Okay, don’t retire. Work at Saddletree. You could take over all the support groups. I know how much you love them. I could really use the help—”
“No. I mean, yes, you do. But no.”
“No?” Her face contorts at my quick and curt response. “Why not?”
“I… just can’t.” I don’t want a handout, and I shouldn’t have to accept one just because I’m losing my hearing. Besides, butting heads with her regarding Saddletree might strain us, and I don’t want the chaos.
But I can’t tell her this—she’d only argue. I deal with conflicts every day and usually diffuse them. But, when it comes to Lena, disagreements make me feel vulnerable and unnerved, overrun with fears of saying or doing the wrong things. I long to get small, to avoid either of us getting hurt.
Now, I see the pushback coming. Worry lines shadow her face. She removes herself from my grasp and leans on the end of the tub again, as far away as possible, while watching me intently.
“Can’t because?” she pushes again. “Saddletree is ours, remember?”
Saddletree hasn’t felt like ours since the business grew, and Busy Lena took over, shutting me out—another thing I can’t say. “I’m proud of what we started, but…”
She leans forward. “When did you stop telling me what you’re thinking?”
“When you stopped asking.”
She recoils again, filling me sharply with regret. When did I stop talking to her? It happened slowly. One less conversation here, fewer words there. Then, all at once, after Adam, I went silent.
“Lena, I’m sorry. I love Saddletree, but I don’t belong here. Professionally.”
It’s a vague truth. I don’t elaborate. It’s better for her to come to her own conclusions, and there are plenty of obvious reasons to choose from.
That I’m a cop, not a business owner.
That food service isn’t my skill set.
That I’m socially awkward and terrible at chitchat.
Even organizing her groups could be handled by purchasing appropriate software if she’d take the step.
There isn’t a real place for me, and she seems to understand that because her face softens as she considers it.
“Fine.” She drifts closer. “Tell me more about Lauren and the Rileys. How did this happen?”
“A phone call.”
Her eyes narrow. “From Lauren? When was the last time you heard from her?”
“Twelve years.”
