Page 57 of Every Good Thing
I’m at the pond’s edge, near her mom’s tree. A family leans against the trunk while the children fight over the rope swing.
Nothing is sacred here.
I told Lena I’d refuse the position—that’s the plan. But the words are held hostage by my frustration. How can I turn it down with Saddletree now at risk? Lena’s decision has uprooted our one-sided stability and thrown our future into question. I can’t rely on the hope that Saddletree will bounce back after a long closure.
“Ben, are you okay?”
Flashes of her appear—memories I don’t want. Legs crisscrossed on her pale-yellow bed, making funny faces into her laptop on our video chats. Every exuberant, full-bodied greeting at the airport. Her jumping onto me for piggyback rides at the beach. The gentleness in her voice forces me to see the concerned tilt to her chin, the crease at the corner of her mouth, and her gray eyes expanding with the question. She must’ve asked me that a million times, especially when things got hard.
I always said the same thing. “Fine.”
She pauses as if the answer hurts her.
“It’s not a good time,” I say after a beat. “I’ll… think about it.”
Then, I hang up.
Everything has gone wrong today.
I don’t know where Lena is—maybe in the barn. I circle the property, telling each of Mr. Deakins’ friends that their day is done, ending with him.
“Plans have changed,” I explain, handing over money for him and his buddies. “I’ll be in touch tomorrow about the van.”
“Well, it was fun… we had a good run…”
I don’t stay to hear the rest.
Inside the café, Dot and Ruthie play checkers at a corner table. I instruct Trisha to close as soon as possible before calling Ruthie over.
“Say goodbye. We’re going home.” I don’t mean to sound angry, but Ruthie winces at my voice as if I’ve spoken too loudly. It’s possible. It’s hard to tell anymore. Even so, she obeys.
Dot and I exchange a knowing look—I don’t want to talk, and she has nothing to say to me anyway. Her lips pinch before getting on her phone.
My breathing doesn’t normalize until Ruthie and I are home, closing the door behind us. I want to be home with my daughter, away from the world. I need distance from the lingering families, job offers, movie deals, and residual bullshit.
Distance from Lena, too. I fear the changes ahead and worry she can’t handle them.
I feel even worse forcing her to.
On the counter, the file folder from the studio protrudes from Lena’s bag. I ignore it. My anger is a blanket, keeping me warm, and I don’t want to be without it yet.
But settling onto the couch with Ruthie’s head on my shoulder as we watch TV, my determination falters.
I said things I shouldn’t have.
She’s right—this isn’t me. But the truth is, I haven’t been me since that fucking bomb destroyed me. I’ll never be that young man again, untainted and unscarred by such atrocities, powerful and capable—the real me. The me I so desperately want to be again, but I know I never will be. So many things were stolen that day. Lauren’s reappearance rips the seams on my old wounds, gutting me again, especially since she inflicted many herself.
Not Lena’s fault.
I edge out from under Ruthie and return to my spot a moment later, contract in hand.
I start reading, but the words soon swirl on the page. I move to the kitchen table for more direct light and get my reading glasses—another change I don’t like. I pop my prescription migraine medicine with a glass of water and keep reading.
Soon, the front door clicks, and Lena steps in, carrying a paper bag from Publix. Dot must’ve driven her. I don’t know what to expect, which unnerves me. We’ve never argued like this before. Since she’s often fueled by anxiety, it’s hard to know where this new road will take us.
Our eyes meet—hers are puffy but dry. Her lips upturn slightly—not enough to be called a smile, but an attempt at one.
She offers reassurance. I do nothing. Even so, I feel myself softening to her. Despite our second fight in as many days, she’s home with a dinner plan and a hint of a smile. She always makes others feel good even when she doesn’t.
