Page 6 of Every Good Thing
She grabs onto me, shifting her legs to pull me into her chest. It feels so good to be here—to be home—that I crumble. My arms lock hers to me, and I bury my face in her warm, soft neck.
I don’t know how long we stay this way. Today mixes strangely with that one like they’re the same event, replaying on a wicked loop, dragging me into a familiar dark place.
But Lena grounds me. I hold her as tight as I can until I feel anchored again.
When I finally drag myself off her, she smiles softly, running her fingers along my damp cheeks.
“Want to talk about it?”
“No.”
She nods. “Okay. Tell me what you need.”
My forehead drifts to hers, creating a small pocket between us. “I-I don’t know.”
“Come with me.” She tugs me along lightly by the hand. We cross through the kitchen, picking up my leftover pieces. She stops at Ruthie’s door and motions me inside. “Go kiss your daughter.”
I do as I’m told, tearing up as I lean down and graze her chubby cheek. She’s warm and fast asleep—she doesn’t even flinch at my kiss.
Returning to Lena in the hall, she leads me to our bedroom. She puts my things away and starts the shower. Zombie-like, I follow her lead, kicking off my boots and undressing. I let the hot water pour over my head, ridding me of the misery of the last few hours. Or pushing it aside, at least.
When I emerge from the shower, she hands me a towel. Then, she helps me into bed, pulling me to her chest. She rubs my head, delicately massaging my temples as if she sees my migraine underneath.
“You’re home. You’re safe. Everything’s okay.” Her words reach me despite not wearing my hearing aids.
And I want to believe them.
But in a few hours, she’ll leave for work. I’ll wake alone. And she’ll be so busy with the million and one tasks of Saddletree Bakery and Café that even when she asks what happened today, I won’t be able to tell her, for all the chaos and noise. Why would I darken her bright, beautiful world with that anyway? It’ll be locked away, where all my unsaid words go to fester but not die. The memories will return, forcing me to get small in fear of the day when my luck runs out.
One
Five months later… Now.
LENA
My phone rattles on the nightstand. Four a.m. I tap the screen. Just another ten minutes. A window glance confirms it’s still dark. This tops my shortlist of peeves about being a baker and business owner.
But when you love something, you have to work for it.
Burrowing into my pillow, my packed schedule streams like an unwelcome dream, and to-dos poke me. I don’t have another ten minutes.
Rolling over, I spy Ben lying on his side, facing me. Watching him dissipates my rising tension. He extinguishes so many mental fires—he has no idea. Seeing him every day, being privy to that almost imperceptible smile, those penetrating green eyes, hearing his mild but strong voice, having that sweet marital permission to touch him whenever I want, waking to him beside me, anything Ben, his mere presence calms me like nothing else. It whispers to me. Everything’s okay.
He twitches suddenly, jerking his head. His fingers tighten into fists against his chest. Another nightmare.
I wiggle closer, nestling in the crook of his neck and shoulder. My fingers wander his bare chest, drifting across familiar terrain and rough edges. The lumpy gashes made by hot metal shards, the textures of burns, scrapes, and divots driven into him by flying debris, healed but never forgotten—this is his survivor story, like cave drawings etched into a mountain.
I relax against his warmth as his arm drapes around me. With a heavy breath, he settles again.
Drifting away in his comfort, I know my alarm will erupt again at any second. A slight turn and glance at my phone confirms what I already know—I’m late. My anxiety bitches, those panic-inducing voices in my head that rarely shut up, are quick to nag me with their usual spiel.
Falling behind means never catching up.
There are cakes to bake, orders to fill, people to feed and make happy.
They’re counting on me.
What am I still doing here in bed? There’s no time for this.
