Page 50 of Every Good Thing
Marriages fall apart by a thousand small jabs—not one hit. Usually. I’ve seen it repeatedly when arguments between couples escalate and require police assistance. Domestic disturbances are my second-most-frequent call after car accidents. It’s sad and humbling to watch couples go through that.
Whether a slow erosion or sudden destruction, witnessing such unkindness and cruelty between people makes me question how they ever loved each other at all. Love isn’t a fixed constant. It either grows and changes with the couple or dies altogether.
Love is easy. Endurance is hard.
Until this moment, I never believed that could be us. One argument is nothing, but that’s where it always begins. For the first time in our marriage, fear grows—that the subtle cracks in our foundation will lead to catastrophic disrepair if nothing is done. And she’s right—I want to blame her, but I’m the problem, more than she realizes. If I’d been upfront, none of this would’ve happened. Lena doesn’t need my criticism. She needs my help. My honesty. My everything.
I find her in the kitchen, supervising Ruthie on a badly executed peanut butter and jelly sandwich. A decisive stride brings me to her. Her breath hitches when I embrace her.
She stiffens in my arms but doesn’t pull away. I can almost feel the anger and hurt pumping through her veins, the tension keeping her tight and unwilling to accept me. So, I do what I should’ve done when I found her at the tree—I hold her, whispering the same thing over and over.
“I’m sorry. I love you, and I’m sorry.”
After ten attempts, her muscles relax. After twelve, she puts her arms around me. Finally, she pulls back so I can see her face, and a weak smile emerges through her tears when she mouths, “I love you, too.”
Relief sweeps over my sharp regret.
A plan forms. To reassure Lena about my commitment to her and Saddletree, I must show her how much I believe in her and what she does here. I’ll also show her how things can be improved, for both our sakes.
Watching her move slowly and sorely around the kitchen convinces me to extend my PTO and enact my plan tomorrow. Lena needs me.
Twelve
LENA
Ruthie and Mr. Wickers show up at exactly the right time for me to avoid an embarrassing sob-fest slash panic attack. Ben’s words—that I’m difficult, complicated, chaotic, and basically a terrible businesswoman and wife—not only unleash my anxiety bitches from their weakened cages but give them free rein, like untethered ghosts whipping around in an old mansion. I’m tormented by them and his gorgeous former fiancée ( no game, my ass). It’s truly unfair that God makes people like her. That they were together longer than we’ve been means she might know him better than me—even now.
She knows his history, anyway. Set his path. Broke his heart?
Maybe it’s my insecurity talking, but my woman’s intuition hits red alert status. She reminded me of a little bird puffing out her chest and twittering around his words. Showing up here—twice—screams ulterior motives. First, she wanted to check me out. Second, she hoped I’d be dead.
Okay, that may be an exaggeration, but it’s not far off.
Dot will back me up on this.
Lauren Riley hopes to fill more than a job vacancy—that’s clear. Well, clear to everyone except maybe Ben.
That he turned all this around on me makes it all so much worse. He’s never said such hurtful things to me—I never would’ve guessed him capable of it.
Unraveling this knotted tangle between my reality and my anxious thoughts challenges me—there’s too much going on up there. I hate that I’ve reverted into this—a crying, panicky woman—like my Nervous Nellie persona is an annoying meme that won’t die out. That used to be my nickname growing up, thanks to those damn Garbage Pail Kids cards. I’m supposed to be stronger now. Stable. In control-ish. Fucking therapized. I did so well that Dr. Reese changed our appointments to quarterly. This isn’t me anymore.
But it only ever takes one thing. One hole to sink the ship. One day to question everything. One push to send you over the edge.
So, with my body aching and heart breaking, I take a page from Mom’s book and fix PB&Js.
I try, anyway. Ruthie quickly takes over, giggling at my inability to do the simplest thing.
When Ben enters the house, I expect round two (a muted version for Ruthie’s sake, anyway). I called him a liar and insinuated that this woman means more to him than he lets on, and neither accusation feels entirely accurate. I can’t even look at him. I keep picturing a chaotic dog park with me trapped inside and Ben outside the opposite fence, bulky arms crossed and head shaking in irritation and disappointment while gorgeous Lauren dotes and twitters at his side.
I never thought he felt such disapproval of me. How can he feel so strongly against me when it was his support that led to Saddletree in the first place? I always believed it to be ours, not mine.
I’m so hurt and angry that I can’t look at him but catch glimpses of his silhouette moving across the kitchen, like a soldier on a mission.
Expecting more unkind words, I’m shocked when his big arms lock around me. Irritated that he thinks a hug will suffice to earn my forgiveness after he called my business a dog park, I tense up, determined not to let him off so easily.
But then, he says he’s sorry. He loves me, and he’s sorry. Over and over. The more I hear those words, the longer he holds me, I melt, relaxing into his embrace like I did the tub last night.
Oh, Ben. He means it—I’m as sure about that as I am that we’re standing in our kitchen over globs of peanut butter and jelly to a soundtrack of Ruthie’s laughter.
