Page 86 of Every Good Thing
With a sharp turn into the empty parking lot of a closed CVS, Lena bursts from the Jeep and throws up into overgrown bushes. I rush to her, hand going to her back. She coughs and spits as I hand her a napkin from my pocket.
Soon, her nausea subsides enough for her to stand upright. “I’m not pregnant.”
“I didn’t suggest you were.”
She breathes into the napkin like she might hyperventilate. “I was too nervous to eat at the thing. Or before it. The pain pills didn’t like that. Plus anxiety. Sorry.”
“Stop apologizing. Everything’s okay.”
Lena’s disorder often leads her to bad decisions, like not eating out of fear that her anxiety will upset her stomach. Still, it adds to my guilt that this event agitated her nerves and worse for not noticing. I usually pay attention.
I go to the Jeep’s tailgate and return with a water bottle. She takes manageable sips, and her color returns slightly.
“We passed a McDonald’s. Want fries and a shake?”
This earns me a short smile. It was her go-to craving with Ruthie.
“Okay,” she says, breathy and uneasy. She leans against the Jeep. “One more minute.”
“Take all the minutes you need.” I nod toward Ruthie, who has her head back and mouth open in a deep sleep. “Our passenger doesn’t mind.”
Lena smirks again.
“I don’t mind, either. I’m sorry I keep hurting you. I don’t want to. It just happens,” I say, pinching my temples between my fingers. “I understand why you speak for me, and it helps. But sometimes, you overcompensate, making me feel incapable, and here, I wanted to make a good impression.”
“You did,” she says weakly. “I’m sorry for helping too much. I’ll try not to take over so much anymore.”
“Sorry about the dancing, too. I didn’t want to. She was trying to avoid ‘Ryan from accounting,’ an overly determined suitor,” I say, though my excuse sounds lame.
Lena chuckles, rolling her sapphire eyes knowingly. “Ah, the old fake-dance trick.”
I give her a stunned look. “Fake? What do you mean?”
“We used to do it at high school dances with guys we liked. Oh, please, kind sir, will you dance with me so so-and-so thinks I’m unavailable and stops bothering me?” She uses a high-pitched voice. “It always works on the good guys.”
I groan. “It seemed legitimate.”
“Maybe it was,” she allows. “But I didn’t like it.”
“Understood. It won’t happen again.”
She nudges my shoulder as we lean against the Jeep, and I rest my head on hers, her wild tendrils tickling my chin.
“I don’t like how things have been with us lately. Up and down and… tense.”
My chest tightens with nonsensical pressure, hearing her say that. “Me, neither. It’s my fault. My indecision. My…”
“Please, talk to me, Ben.” She edges in front of me, much like in John’s office, studying me with her huge eyes. “What’s making you so angry?”
My mouth feels full of sand, dry and uncooperative, but I push the words through. “I hate that my life continues to revolve around one damn day in Afghanistan. I keep reliving it. That day stole everything from me, and I’m afraid it’s happening again.”
“No, we won’t let it.” She wraps me up awkwardly around my folded arms. “You are not your circumstances.”
I unlock my arms, pulling her into me as her words—my words to her years ago—resonate.
“You’re more than that day, Ben. More than your injuries. More than your hearing,” she says as I bury my face in her neck. “I love you, no matter what. You’re safe with me. Safe and loved and never alone. Whatever happens, we’ll face it together.”
Her words pull me closer to her than anything has in ages, like she’s my anchor, holding me in place.
