Page 59 of Every Good Thing
Or simply tired of fighting.
After the things I said, I understand.
I continue reading the contract while she moves quietly around me—folding laundry, sort of, rinsing their boots in the mud room, and straightening Ruthie’s toys in the living room. I drown her out, focusing on the convoluted lawyer-speak before me.
After reading every word of the contract (some parts multiple times), I realize it’s a good deal. She’ll make two years’ profit in two months. Plus, she’s thought of everything—maintaining our residency and normal routines, compensation for employees, parking allotments, spaces for support groups to continue meeting, our personal use of the playground, walking trail, fields, barn, and even protection of her mom’s tree. She has the right to attend daily production meetings and offer input. There’s even a stipend for the animals they might use in shots.
This wasn’t a snap decision. She considered everything, even things I wouldn’t have. Though her days often get away from her, Lena is a good businessperson, and Saddletree means the world to her. I should’ve trusted her to ensure that Saddletree is treated with the respect and care it deserves.
Glancing up from my reading, I expect to see her, but the open living room, kitchen, and dining are empty. Except for where I’m reading, the lights are low, as if she’s gone to bed.
A sinking, empty feeling hits me with her absence, growing deeper and darker with every shit thing I said to her earlier. She tried to do something good for us—for me—and I answered with, “Why haven’t you given me more kids?” What the fuck is wrong with me?
I find her in the dark bedroom, turned away from me, appearing asleep. But I feel the tension in the room and know she isn’t. I quietly go about my normal routine, playing along. If she doesn’t want to talk, I won’t make her.
Soon, I slide into bed and curl around her, careful of her injured arm, propped on a pillow beside her. Her body stiffens, but she doesn’t pull away. She always accepts me, even when she probably shouldn’t. I ease closer, cradling her to me, hoping she understands my regret, that she feels what I can’t seem to say.
Sixteen
LENA
Dot, Cherry, and I nestle into our usual spots on Mrs. Moore’s front porch, our white rockers creaking in unison. We sip on what Cherry affectionately calls “wine spritzers”—a mix of wine and Sprite. It’s our post-church and lunch ritual when our schedules allow—not often enough for me. In the yard, Ruthie trails behind Mrs. Moore, a basket of freshly clipped blooms in her hands. Mrs. Moore’s love for fresh bouquets is well-known.
“You should’ve talked to him before signing,” Dot says for the hundredth time. “I told you.”
“I thought it’d be a big romantic gesture, you know? Like Ben’s fireworks.”
Cherry cocks her head. “Remind me… what’s the fireworks story?”
Memories rush in, bringing a wide smile. I love telling this story, and though I’m sure I’ve told Cherry it before, it spills anyway. “It was the shittiest day. I lost what I thought would be my dream job because of the pandemic, ruined the deal to sell the house to the Harveys, the living room ceiling was practically caving in, and I was panicked about my future and Lucas’s because his husband Drew had Covid, and I couldn’t be there to help. Everything had gone to hell. And then, Ben showed up—”
“And Lena attacked him,” Dot laughs.
Warmth rises to my cheeks. “Yep, I did. I’ll never forget our rainy first kiss… or what happened after.”
Cherry coos. “Ooooohhhhhh. Give me all the sexy details.”
Dot and I share a grin before I say, “We didn’t do that, Cherry.”
“Not for lack of trying,” Dot added. “Lena basically played musical make-out spots all through the house before ending in the barn, unable to… close the deal.”
Cherry gapes. “Why the hell not?”
“I couldn’t relax,” I admit. “Not in that house, the way it was. Not with myself, either. My anxiety took over, and I fell apart. I broke out crying.”
“So, things were getting all hot and heavy, and you cried? What’d Ben do?”
“He held me.” My hands drift up my arms, remembering the feeling. Not that it’s hard. The same comfort warmed me last night when he fell asleep molded to me like icing on a cake. For a while, I lay there, confused and hurt. After the things he said, it’s a wonder he wanted to touch me at all. But soon, I let go of my thoughts for the reality of his actions—he loves me and must’ve felt sorry.
“He held me as long as I needed… and later surprised me with real fireworks over the pond. Fireworks for fireworks, he said. He turned the worst day into the best night. It was the first time I imagined my family home could be something more… that he and I could be something more, too.”
Cherry sighs. “Damn. I take back what I said about him having no game.”
“As you should,” I smirk. “No one had ever done something so beautiful for me. That’s what I thought the movie deal would be for him—a way to show him everything’s okay. I thought he’d feel loved, not pissed.”
“Men are thick, anyway,” Cherry decides. “If it doesn’t involve food or sex, it takes time for them to get it.”
“Ben isn’t thick. He’s just… hurting. I haven’t been there for him.” I take a deep breath as if sucking in confidence from the warm air. “That’s going to change.”
