Page 43 of Every Good Thing
I should’ve expected this. The first time I spent the night with Ben, he commandeered my phone so I’d sleep in. During Ruthie’s up-all-night baby years, he did the same thing. He knew what I needed.
I’m not sure that’s true now, not with Saddletree to consider.
“What about the bakery? Is it open?” I ask my precocious four-year-old.
“Yep.” Ruthie hops to my rescue when I get tangled in my shirt. I lean down so she can help me get it on properly.
“I like helping you, Mom. It’s funny.”
“Sometimes, we all need a little help, and it’s always okay to ask for it. Remember that. Where’s your dad?”
She shrugs. “At the bakery.”
More frazzled than usual, if that’s possible, I step into the bathroom and stare blankly at my toothbrush. I can’t pinch my left fingers together, let alone apply toothpaste without making a huge mess. An anxious wave of what I can’t do floods me…
Mixing and pouring batter…
Lifting heavy pans from the oven…
Delivering coffee and a cinnamon roll to a customer at once…
Buttering bread…
My shoulders slump achingly into resignation—this’ll be a nightmare. Jaye’s movie comes to mind. Who needs a coven of witches to cause problems and wreak havoc when a broken wrist is enough of a horror show?
“Ruthie, help.”
She giggles and obliges, pinching a toothpaste glob onto my bristles. Then, she leaves me to finish getting ready.
Stepping onto the front deck, I bathe in the sunlight. It hadn’t been a perfect night’s sleep—not with the pain in my arm waking me every hour or so and Ben rousing me at midnight for more pills.
But it was more sleep than I usually get, and restful, nonetheless. I’ve forgotten how refreshing it felt.
Spending time with Ben, too. I want to lasso Ben, pull him to me, hog tie him, and keep him there forever. Last night felt like an excellent start to our revitalized us-mission.
This feels pretty good, too—Saddletree appears to be running fine without me. The usual cars occupy the lot—Trisha’s Subaru, June and May’s bright red Hyundai, Mr. Wickers’ Prius, and Alice’s minivan. Dot’s work van is wedged between a white BMW and an old pick-up truck. Regulars dot the patio while Jack Harvey strolls the garden in his usual overalls and baseball cap. With the breakfast rush over, it’s a quiet Friday.
The anxiety knotting my stomach loosens in a breath. Ruthie’s hand slips into mine.
Hugo and Penelope greet us as we traverse the lawn, demanding Ruthie’s attention. She races them to the playground by the garden. The restaurant isn’t the five-alarm fire it feels like every other day—it stands and operates without me. A smile eases over my cheeks. Everything’s okay.
My serenity is whacked with a wrecking ball when I walk inside.
Everything stops—restaurant noises, air circulation, conversations, heartbeats—and not in a good-to-see-you way. Their wide-eyed, gaping stares make me think I’ve caught them doing something naughty, like giving away free pastries or reporting to the health inspector that I don’t always wear a hairnet.
Dot’s ginormous brown orbs find mine. Her oh-shit expression alarms me as she mouths fuck me and points not-so-discreetly to her left.
Ben stands with probably the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in person. Her Swedish-esque blond hair makes mine look dirty, as if she’s a descendant of elves in Rivendell and I’m a hobbit. She has the sweet girl-next-door charm of Anne Hathaway combined with a strong vixen vibe, as if she studied sex appeal under Nicole Kidman’s tutelage and was her best student. She wears a white linen sundress showing off her silky, sun-kissed skin and Barbie curves, and she doesn’t have a single worry line on her forehead. Not one.
This is Lauren Riley. Her icy eyes meet mine with strange relief. No competition there, I imagine her thinking. Her full lips curl into a beaming smile like her new best friend has arrived. Or her rival, and she’s already one-upped me. She carries a soft bouquet, bride-like, and stands so close to Ben that my stomach twists into a hard, tight knot.
Ben needs close proximity to hear, especially here, where there is a lot of noise and few soft surfaces to buffer it. Still, he steps back when he sees me, breaking their tight circle. Any other time, I’d coo over how adorable he looks sporting an antique blue apron dotted with lemons and his hairnet, discarded in his hand. But not today. He looks perturbed. Whether at Lauren or me, I’m unsure.
My automatic smile shows up in record time. I approach, extending my right hand. “You must be Lauren.”
Her dainty hand feels like expensive silk against my calloused, working woman’s hand.
“Lena, I’m delighted to meet you finally.” She looks and sounds like a Disney princess, especially when her nose scrunches with sympathy. “How are you feeling?”
