2. Two
Two
BEN
W hen 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.
Damn it, Lena.
I promised myself I wouldn’t let the past infect the present, but it’s infiltrated without my consent.
A lone sniper lying in wait. A devious mole, sneaking around and assessing weaknesses.
A damn toxin, slipping into the bloodstream.
Anyone who believes the past can’t hurt them anymore is living in a fucking fairytale.
The past hurts me every day. It’s a desperate perp rummaging through my life and taking whatever it can get, an addict, feeding off me, eating away at my peace of mind, leaving destruction behind.
Lauren’s the perfect example.
I wish she’d never come back in my life.
I’m dealing with enough shit already. There should be a statute of limitations on former relationships—any long gap in communication should forfeit future contact.
Lauren fucking Riley. Before her call, it’d been twelve years.
Was it guilt that made me finally take her call? Anger? Or just stupid curiosity?
Regardless, that was my fault.
I want to blame Lena for the rest, but I shouldn’t.
I went to her with my sensitivities already primed, forcing me to overreact and then fuck up.
Dropping her name instead of Lena’s feels criminal.
I needed her this morning. Not sex, exactly.
I wanted her comfort, her kiss, and all those small, beautiful things she does that build, shield, and better me.
Closeness with Lena comes with a full-bodied, emotional recharge—I need her.
Especially today.
But I sabotaged us.
I turn off the water and swipe the moisture over the cracked tile. It’s not broken enough to replace, but a layer of caulk will reseal it properly.
A task for later.
I dry off, straining to listen for any signs of Lena lingering or Ruthie waking.
It doesn’t matter—I can’t hear a thing. Without my hearing aids, I’m more likely to feel their movements—the door vibrating at Lena’s exit or the soft reverberations of Ruthie’s feet plodding down the hall.
I’ve even told her to use heavy feet so that I’ll “hear” her better. It’s a game for her now.
I exit the bathroom in a steam cloud, retrieve my hearing aids from the bedside table, and slip them into place.
Faint morning sounds fill my ears—Hugo and Penelope barking as they accompany Lena to the café, chickens cluttering from the pen, and a delicate ensemble of birds serenading the rising sun.
My shoulders drop. I’ll miss those sounds.
Most of all, I’ll miss Lena’s voice. And Ruthie’s. She sounds a little older every day. I hate that I’ll never hear her as an adult. Hell, even our game of heavy feet won’t work forever.
My head droops. The temporary relief of the hot water is gone.
My hands claw and fist, imagining a silent future when my career is no longer an option and dependency shifts from my capable shoulders to theirs.
Their words will be replaced with touches and gestures drenched in sympathy, and I’ll be no more useful than one of Ruthie’s bunnies.
I take a breath, centering myself.
Bullshit circumstances corner me and impact those I love. I can’t even get a quickie right.
I stare at the unmade bed, where half-asleep, I imagined Lena with me, curling close and kissing my chin. That’s what drew me from bed to find her.
It’s no surprise she looked at the clock. Lena chooses work over me all the time. She doesn’t even realize it anymore.
I make the bed. Tight corners. No wrinkles.
Then, I extract my navy-blue suit from the walk-in closet. I haven’t worn it since Will Harvey’s wedding last year. Lena said I looked like “a badass Secret Service agent,” which still makes me smile. Impressing her pleases me.
I miss that feeling and don’t understand where it’s gone.
Planes need lift to fly. Lights need electricity. Sailboats need wind. Jeeps need fuel. And love needs presence.
She misses most of the meals I prepare and the outings I plan. Saddletree steals ninety percent of our time together because she cannot say no or manage her time. Every disappointment prompts me to tell her that her failure to make time for us bothers me.
But when the moment arises, I freeze. I don’t want to ruin what little time we have with a conflict or cause her anxiety. More than that, I don’t want to hurt her.
Only I just did. Twice. Saying Lauren’s name and following it up with I miss us was a double-hit she didn’t deserve.
But she asked our question, and I had to say it.
I’ve wanted her to ask me that question for months, but she hasn’t had time.
Everything about Lena is honest, from her over-the-top efforts to keep this place going to her anxiety disorder to her beautifully expressive face.
She is the realest person I know, and I love her for it.
My admission crushed her, evident in her watery eyes, pinched brow, and entire body drooping like a wilting flower.
Shit.
I set up the ironing board, let the iron heat, and retrieve my white button-down.
Running the warm iron over the shirt’s creases makes me shake my head.
Lauren Riley doesn’t iron clothes. She has people for that—a fact that blew my mind in high school.
Lauren doesn’t clean her toilet or wash her car, either.
As a teenager, I found her life amazing.
After becoming a soldier, I found it superficial.
There’s something that feels disingenuous about living such a charmed life.
Her world is soft, clean, and uncomplicated.
But having sampled her easy life, it’s hard not to miss it sometimes.
Hanging my crisp shirt on the door handle, I fumble over Lena’s discarded nightgown. I tidy her side of the closet and put the ironing away.
Sipping coffee on the front deck, I take comfort in the lights coming from the bakery’s kitchen.
It glows with activity like a lighthouse amid rough seas.
It glows with her . Everything’s okay . Lena’s working, and that’s where she’ll be when I return later.
Then, I’ll tell her everything—I’ll insist. I should’ve insisted sooner.
Talking is a challenge I avoid. Discussing feelings or anything that matters feels foreign and uncomfortable for me. I endured combat for a decade, yet therapy has been my most challenging experience to date.
Therapy and marriage. Talking to Lena used to be the exception—our game of telling each other what we thought in the moment helped in the early days.
I didn’t have to plan what to say, only reveal it.
But she rarely asks anymore. Not that I need a prompt to talk to her, but the things I need to say get snuffed out every time she glances at the clock.
Noting the time is Lena’s signature move these days.
I need to pull us together again. Pull it in. Pull her in.
Five years ago, I told Lena about the IED that caused my injuries, but I didn’t tell her everything. I left out the aftermath. Now, it’s come back on me. I’m even having the fucking nightmares again.
Talking to Lena then relieved and centered me. If I let her in again, I know it’ll help.
I lean against the deck railing with a deep breath. Why is it so hard to do?
Words forced into me from my Ranger days make me shudder. An emotional mind is a distracted mind. A narrow mind. Drink water. Drive on. Do your fucking duty. I pull my thoughts in.
Headlights bounce up the driveway. Mr. Wickers’s 2014 Prius quietly enters its spot next to Lena’s 2005 Honda Pilot.
He exits the vehicle and tosses me his usual wave, which I return.
He shows up every morning before the bakery opens to keep Lena company—a distraction she doesn’t need, not that she’d ever let on.
My wife is too good-natured to turn anyone away.
He raps his knuckles on the sliding glass door.
She lets him in a moment later, waving a hand towel like a flag to usher him inside.
Our rural community believes that Lena saved Gus Wickers from his retirement depression just by being herself—warm, funny, welcoming… present.
In the early days of our relationship, I recall showing up at that same door and being awed by her beautiful, easy manner. Lena makes everyone feel at home, a truth I love and sometimes resent.
Still, it would’ve been a much better morning if I’d kept my mouth shut. And people wonder why I’m so quiet.
I return to the house, listen for Ruthie, and mentally review my day.
Breakfast.
Prepare Ruthie for preschool.
Clean.
Leave no later than 8:30 for my 10 o’clock meeting.
Say goodbye to Lena at the bakery.
I pause, leaning against the couch to reevaluate my plan. I can’t say goodbye to Lena in my suit. She’ll ask too many questions I’m not ready to answer. I hate the idea of breaking our routine to postpone a conversation, hate that it will hurt her.
When faced with limited choices, people resort to the unthinkable. I’ve seen it a thousand times. I shouldn’t be one of those people, but I feel myself getting small, wanting to hide.
So, here I am. About to do the unthinkable. For the second time.
Lauren called four times before I answered. Someone must be dead , I thought. Why else would she reach out after all this time? No one was, though—a relief, considering I once cared very deeply for the Riley family. Now, three conversations later, she’s stuck in my head like a fucking migraine.
The morning progresses as planned, except for uncharacteristic nerves gnawing away at me from the inside like embedded termites. I shouldn’t have agreed to this, but I’m already committed.
The bakery is across the expansive yard, visible from our elevated barn house, but we drive the distance because it puts us closer to the driveway and our exit.
I park outside the kitchen door, which provides easy access to Lena while avoiding interactions with customers in the dining room.
We aren’t antisocial, just on a schedule.
It’s our morning routine, stopping in to say goodbye, and one of the few moments I get with her.
But I can’t today. “Ruthie, run inside and say goodbye to Mom.”
“Aren’t you coming, Dad?” she asks, unbuckling her booster seat.
Guilt joins my growing unease. “No. Go on.”
She climbs out of the Jeep and bumbles through the back door, her skirt askew in her undershorts. I’ll address that problem when we arrive at preschool.
Identify the problem. Solve the problem. Simple.
Yet, I’ve created multiple problems this morning with no easy solutions.
Hiding in the Jeep to avoid Lena creates another.
I should’ve told her about Lauren, but the pressure mounted every time I considered it until I couldn’t breathe, let alone talk.
It doesn’t make sense—this fear of talking to my wife.
I adore Lena. My intense affection borders on unhealthy, as if it should be moderated like carbs and beer. Sometimes, I play a mental game, challenging my devotion: what wouldn’t I do for that woman?
Sacrifice a kidney?
Easy.
Crawl across the Sahara?
Yes, though beach sand is the only good kind.
Naked?
Damn. Yes.
Show up to the station naked?
That’d be rough, but yes.
The answer is always the same. It’s a dumb game.
Point is, I’d do anything for her.
That’s why it’s hard to talk to her. I don’t want to hurt her. I don’t want to be her burden. If she sees me as I am, it’ll do both. Five years ago, she was a new beginning. She replaced my dark past with her warming light and made it all worth it, every scar.
I don’t want to go back. But I can’t move forward, either.
I close my eyes, gripping the steering wheel and twisting as tightly as my hands allow. My red-knuckled right hand is sore from punching the tile. That was stupid. I take a breath, again centering myself.
The immense pressure that’s been building for months doesn’t lessen. I’m suffocating, especially in this damn suit.
Ruthie races from the kitchen door, carrying her prize—cookies in a sleeve. Her skirt is fixed, but I’ll inevitably have to shake her free of crumbs before preschool. But that’s another solvable problem.
She jumps into the Jeep, and I assist, buckling her up.
“Dad, Tessa made me these,” she reports excitedly. “Mom says she loves you.”
The vise tightens, killing me slowly.