Page 9 of Every Good Thing
“Breathe,” he says, and I obey in long, slow breaths. Ben sighs and locks eyes in that sincere, stern way he does that says he’ll only say the next thing once. “I swear, it’s nothing.”
My eyes fix on his as he says it, though his hands move, too. Using American Sign Language is standard practice in our household, even when we speak audibly. Ben’s hearing loss will eventually become profound, so it’s good practice. Communication is a struggle for us, anyway—using both helps.
Now, it emphasizes his words like bold text in capital letters.
I believe him, I think, though my anxiety bitches don’t. Cherry has filled my head with stories about her philandering ex-husband. She heard, “I swear it’s nothing,” for years before finally figuring him out. Similar stories float around the café all the time when the ladies gossip.
It happens, and sometimes, to the best couples.
But this is Ben. The love of my life, Ruthie’s dad, and my sweet husband. Under the sprawling pondside oak tree, the man who rarely shows emotion told me, “I do,” with happy tears in his eyes. I still feel his gentle kisses on my forehead and his strong hand enveloping mine when I was in labor. If not for him, Saddletree would’ve been a lost dream, and my family’s home reduced to farmland. He got me through my mom’s death, joblessness, and the pandemic—I honestly don’t know where I’d be without him. Probably in my brother Lucas’s Malibu pool house, living a half-life, dependent and miserable.
Ben and I bonded over our brokenness, and we’ve healed and strengthened each other ever since. He’d never jeopardize us, our beautiful love and history, for whoever Lauren is or anyone else.
Still, alarm bells ring in my head. Something’s amiss and has been for a while.
But with Ben, finding out the problem isn’t as easy as asking. He never says ten words when three will do and rarely volunteers that many, regardless. He keeps things close to the chest—a trait that’s served him well in his military and law enforcement careers.
Silence isn’t an asset in a relationship, though—it’s a curse.
It’s especially awful for me because I am a talker. Open conversations are the butter on my bread. The sugar that activates my yeast. Without information, I resort to worst-case thinking, and that’s never good.
When we first got to know each other, I battled for more words from Ben with a simple question: what are you thinking? It became a rule between us to ask each other that and answer honestly.
But, when I ask him now, “What are you thinking?” he hesitates.
Why is he hesitating?
He shifts on his feet before folding his bulky arms over his scarred chest, and his words emerge choppily and broken, like I’m a stranger. “You’re always in a million places, but never with me. I miss us.”
“Of course, I’m with you.” My defenses rise with the pitch in my voice and the flurry of my excited hands as they keep up with my words. “I’m here. I’m always right here. What do you mean?”
When he doesn’t speak, I say, “You said the wrong name. How did this turn around on me?”
He huffs, brushing by me. “Go to work, Lena.”
He disappears down the dark hall, leaving me crushed.
I plop against the table’s edge in a full-bodied slump. Still breathing through my panic, I glance at the opposite wall. Amid family pictures, my eyes stop on the two framed hand-written notes at the center. First, a note I found in Mom’s medication journal after she passed, words that inspired Saddletree. Dream something better. The second is from Ben—a message he wrote on a warning ticket after pulling me over for speeding the day we met, words that, in my grief and high anxiety, I desperately needed. Things will get better.
His promise held true. With him by my side, I turned the shitshow remains of my life into a stable and thriving business, and my grip on that has been white-knuckled and fierce ever since. Saddletree isn’t just my dream. It’s our home, Ruthie’s future, and our retirement plan. It’s the safety net that will catch us if his hearing worsens and he decides not to work anymore. That was the deal we made when he supported me through Saddletree’s creation—I’d be there for him if the situation ever reversed. That’s why I work so hard.
But something’s been lost.
Ten minutes ago, I thought I had everything I ever wanted. Now, for the first time, I’m left wondering, do I truly have Ben?
Two
BEN
When I can’t go back to sleep, I hit the shower, the water set to scorching. Steam fills the bathroom. My skin reddens under the heat, but I like that it hurts. The deadened nerves across my chest awaken, relieving the pain felt elsewhere.
But it’s not enough.
My fist slams into a wall tile, cracking it.
“Fuck,” I breathe out into humidity so thick it steals my voice.
I hover under the showerhead, skin red and aching, water filtering over my face into my mouth. Sometimes, I still feel grit in my eyes and taste the damn sand—I could never get clean over there. Sometimes, the pain returns, too—heat eating through my nerves and burning metal slicing paths into my skin. Ghost pain joins the live ones. The searing water, my aching fist, and Lena.
