Page 97 of Every Good Thing
“Let’s wait and discuss that part with Dr. Reese. Things have been better for us lately… or, at least, yesterday they were. I don’t want to…” She takes another calming breath when we lock eyes. “I don’t want to argue.”
“We won’t. Just tell me what happened.”
With a long exhale, she says, “You spoke to Lauren about your prognosis. They already have a generous recovery plan for you. They truly want to support you through this. With them, you’ll have the best of everything. It sure as hell beats early retirement or working with me, right?”
A wary smile escapes as she swallows her emotion. She’s done this often lately, pushing down what she usually purges. I don’t like it. It’s not her, and it doesn’t help us.
“I want this job for you, Ben.”
“Then, why does it hurt you to say it?”
She nods, amused at how well I read her—it’s not hard.
“I am hurt. You’re right. Again.”
A lone tear skitters down her cheek. She swipes it quickly, holding tight to her calm. I reach for her reins and tug both our horses to a stop to see her lips and expressions clearly.
“Tell me why.”
“We haven’t discussed the implants yet. I don’t even know if that’s what you want, let alone have a plan for your recovery. But I should be your plan, whatever you do. That’s what I want. But I’m being sidelined for the Rileys. It hurts that she shows up knowing more about you than I do. It hurts that you’d share your prognosis with her and make plans without talking to me first. It hurts that you’d confide to her that I’m the reason you haven’t taken the job yet. How could you… betray me like that?”
“Wait. I didn’t confide anything to her.”
She waves her hand dismissively. “How would she know these things if you didn’t tell her?”
“My communications have been with John and Larry. Not her.” I slide my phone from my jeans and offer it to her. “My texts will prove it.”
Her eyes flicker between the phone and me in a debate. “I’m not reading your texts, Ben.”
“I informed John and Larry about my situation in case they wanted to retract the offer,” I explain. “Instead, they devised a recovery plan. I didn’t solicit it. I didn’t indicate any decision because you and I haven’t made it yet.”
Her shoulders release their pent-up tension in a breath. “Shit. I let her get to me again. Didn’t I?”
“Yes.”
Her face relaxes into pained relief, as if ashamed for believing it. “Sorry, Ben. She was so confident and informed. She looked me straight in the eye and told me you said I was holding you back.”
My stomach knots. “I said that, just not to her.”
Her relief is obliterated.
“Oh, I see. So, I am the problem? And everyone knows it.” A sardonic laugh funnels through her obvious distress—she does this sometimes when her emotions come on too strongly for her to contain. “I’ve been as supportive as I know how to be.”
“Yes. I shouldn’t have said it. I’m sorry.”
She shakes her head, tears dripping now. “Did you blame it on my anxiety or my insecurity about Lauren?”
My head hangs. “Lauren.”
She manages a wry smile. “Bet she loved hearing that.”
“It wasn’t for her to hear. I felt pressured to explain my indecision, and it slipped. Lauren is a difficult factor in this—we both have concerns about her.”
“Yes, but you blamed those concerns on me. That’s unfair. What about the rest? Not wanting to give up the badge, the community, and so on. Did you discuss those, too?”
“No.” My head falls again—blaming Lena felt easier at the time. Now, her disappointment guts me.
“What’re we doing here, Ben?” she asks, her voice tired, edging on defeated.
