Page 49 of Every Good Thing
She stops to wipe her cheeks, though it’s a pointless enterprise—the tears flow continuously. Still, she pushes her smile through them, almost like it’s a robotic tick.
Or a defense mechanism.
“This isn’t you,” she decides tearfully. “Maybe instead of a business lecture, you should figure out why you don’t want to talk to me about Lauren and whatever else you’re avoiding. I can’t be here for you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong. What do you really need to tell me?”
She awaits an answer—my head floods with them. I don’t know where to start, even if I wanted to.
I don’t. Not like this, especially.
Her pleading eyes shatter me. Her disappointment is another vise on my chest, tightening, adding pressure. I catch glimpses of our future, when it’s not what I’ve left out of our conversations that frustrates her, but our difficulty communicating altogether. One day, Busy Lena will take on the responsibility of caring for me like I’m another Saddletree project, burying herself behind forced smiles and extra work. I’ll be the burden I’ve always feared, weak and vulnerable. And Lena’s one look of love and acceptance will be replaced with exhaustion and resentment.
She’ll hate what I become someday.
The longer I’m silent, the more flushed and fidgety she becomes. She tries controlling her breathing, but it’s hurried and irregular. I think to help her as I did at the hospital, but I know she’ll reject my touch.
“I didn’t mean to make you feel small or incapable,” I say.
But before I finish my sentence, she turns toward the house. My weak-ass answer pushes her to her limit.
What should I tell her anyway? That my career is over? That I must consider their offer because it’s the best I’ll get? That the damn IED didn’t kill me but stole my life all the same and keeps taking?
That one day, it’ll take her from me, too, when she no longer sees me as the man she fell in love with but a burden she’s stuck with, broken and unfixable? Unlovable and unworthy.
The dogs race to her side, followed quickly by Mr. Wickers and Ruthie. Ruthie pushes a handful of dandelions and buttercups toward her, and Lena’s good hand goes to her heart dramatically before accepting them. Her tears and panic move aside for smiles and gushing—Lena is good at redirection. She always makes everyone feel good, even when she doesn’t.
How could I have been so hard on her? I love Saddletree and everything she’s built here. People adore and depend on her. Local papers call Saddletree a community treasure, and TripAdvisor has deemed it a top pick for family fun in Wilmington.
Comparing it to a dog park was a dick move.
Not telling her the truth about Lauren was another.
Deflecting blame was easier. A burning self-hatred grows inside me, a tumor in my thoughts, malignant, and all I want is to get small and disappear.
But I can’t. I’m a husband and father—I have to make this right.
After a brief interchange, Lena and Ruthie head toward the house while Mr. Wickers wanders over, hands in the pockets of his pressed khakis.
“Ben.”
“Mr. Wickers.”
“Lena doesn’t seem herself today,” he says.
“She isn’t.”
Mr. Wickers looks disappointed, as if his team has just fumbled what would’ve been the winning touchdown. “Things are always fine until they’re not.”
I respect Mr. Wickers, but I hope he doesn’t press it further. My loyalty lies with Lena, and this is between us.
“She looked a little green. Tummy trouble, she said. She’s taking Ruthie up to the house for food and a nap. She asked me to retrieve her phone.”
“I’ll take it to her.”
“Good man.” He pats my back. “Want me to hold down the fort?”
“Sure. Thanks.” I don’t know exactly what that entails, but it seems okay.
Mr. Wickers salutes and heads toward the café. I go home.
