3. Three #2
My chest tightens with invisible pressure. She’s right. The long line of construction workers, farmers, and factory workers who stop in before heading to their shifts might be late because I was.
“She’s doing her best.” Trisha breezes between the sisters, sizing me up with her sea-blue eyes. “But there’s a shadow over your aura. Something’s wrong.”
“Aura, bora,” May huffs. Her penciled brow shoots up her forehead.
“I’ll help clean up,” Trisha offers.
“Oh, no, you don’t.” June’s hands plop against her impressive hips. “You’re needed out here. We don’t do clean up, anyway.”
“What do you mean? You don’t do clean up?
” Dot’s boisterous voice fills the restaurant as she enters the kitchen through the swinging door.
My three employees return to work—or at least, their version of it—while I clean my workspace.
Dot chomps her Flamin’ Hot Cheetos as her glare moves from my employees to me and my mess. “Shit, it’s worse than I thought.”
“He left without coming in to say goodbye,” I say softly.
She leans against the counter, shaking her head like she’s watching a disaster movie. “Text him and tell him that was a dick move.”
“Can’t. Won’t. I need to think and… clean this shit up.”
“Why don’t they do clean up?”
Her question makes me grunt. “June says no one over sixty should work in the kitchen because of wet floors and other hazards, so they don’t clean up. Or bake. Or cook. Or take out the trash. Or mop. They handle the front—that’s it.”
Dot chuckles, tossing back another Cheeto. “Sounds like they’re the bosses here, not you.”
“Feels that way sometimes. Trisha’s great, though. I’m lucky I have her and Tessa.”
“You need to hire more help.”
I grab the broom. “I would if I could. Most people don’t want to work thirty minutes outside the city. The gas money alone works against me. Did you sign Alice’s petition for the city to add a bus route out here?”
Dot grins. “Of course. Can’t say no to Alice Harvey.”
I smirk. “Wouldn’t dare. Let’s hope the city can’t say no to her, either. A bus route would save us both.”
Jack and Alice Harvey are the formidable and quirky owners of the farm next door.
He specializes in corn, soybeans, and sweet potatoes, and she in all things lavender.
She makes lavender sachets, soaps, lotions, candles, pillow sprays, and teas.
Her lavender chamomile blend is my favorite, and Ruthie adores her lavender bubble bath.
Five years ago, they nearly bought my property to expand her Lavender Fields Forever business, but when that fell through, we settled on a partial land lease.
We’ve been the best of neighbors ever since, and that’s funny because I once wondered if they were serial killers. In my defense, Jack’s larger than Ben, and wears dirty coveralls and boots like Michael Myers. Alice dresses like a 1950s housewife, and gets things done like a mafia boss.
Raised voices pull our attention to the serving window where May and June bicker, each vying to roll silverware rather than clean tables. They argue at least once every morning.
“I usually separate them.” Resting my broom against the table, I check the schedule on the clipboard by the door.
“Shit. I messed up. I wrote them all in today. I have no one for tomorrow.” I vaguely remember composing this schedule between helping Ruthie with her homework, ordering groceries for pick-up, and making dinner.
Multitasking is one thing. All-tasking is another. I do neither well.
Dot hovers over my shoulder, peering at my rudimentary, pencil-sketched schedule while crunching Cheetos in my ear. “Did Ruthie draw this?”
“Very funny. Ben wants me to upgrade, but I haven’t had time to research it. Besides, the sisters might revolt if I put their schedules on an app.”
“Who’s running the show here, Lena? It’s your business. Do it your way.”
“ My way would be to focus on what I’m best at—baking.
I haven’t created a new recipe in years.
” I lean against the counter, exhausted, though it’s not even nine.
“Sometimes, I miss making do in my mom’s shit kitchen, scrounging for grocery money in the couch cushions, and spending entire days experimenting with recipes.
Ben would come over and sample everything, and we’d spend the night talking.
He always encouraged me, always said the exact thing I needed to hear. ”
“Holy shit, are you crying?” Dot huffs and tucks her open bag of Cheetos into her baggy pocket. “Lena, babe, take a breath.”
I swipe under my eyes. Ben’s right. Even when I’m with him, I’m not. I miss us, too.
Dot catches my gaze sternly. “Is it time to feed the animals?”
I chuckle lightly. That’s Dot’s code for getting me out of the kitchen, a wink-wink between us. Plus, she loves driving the ATV I use for feeding. She calls it a tricked-out golf cart, but it’s much tougher and faster. “I’d love to, but—”
“No buts, Lena. I got this.” She pushes through the swinging door and converses with Trisha.
Then, she drags me out the back door and slips into the driver’s seat.
“What did you tell her?”
“The truth—that you needed a mental health moment. I also got her to clean the kitchen and come in tomorrow.”
“Ah, thanks.”
“They don’t call me Boss Bitch for nothing.” She motions to the lettering proudly displayed on her cap.
I snort. “Only you call yourself that.”
“Only because it’s true. I’m living proof that business owners don’t have to work themselves to death. I choose my schedule and my clients and never work past five or on the weekends.”
“Our businesses are completely different. I don’t have the luxury of choosing my clients or not working weekends.”
She revs the engine and shifts it into gear. “Choices, Lena, babe. Set some damn boundaries. If you don’t have room to breathe, you’ll suffocate.”
It’s hard to breathe already, I think, but don’t say.
Mud kicks up from the back tires as she jerks the ATV into action. I grab the oh-shit handle over the door. Hugo and Penelope race and bark beside us, like engine noise cues them that it’s time for farm work.
Saddletree is a frequent topic of discussion with my business-owning friends, but my issues are unique.
Ben understands, and his advice is always concrete and direct—I should close two days a week “like other reasonable businesses” and upgrade to business software, so I’m not “overwhelmed with paperwork.” He wants an entrance gate and better security to prevent people from showing up when we’re closed or wandering into off-limits areas—that happens a lot.
He tells me that good software and better planning would prevent my “frequent mistakes,” like overbooking the support groups.
He’s probably right, and his advice is always welcomed. We made most of Saddletree’s original decisions together, like partners.
But it’s hard to change what’s been established—not that I have time.
It’s like trying to lose weight after you’ve packed on the pounds—it would’ve been much easier to stay healthy in the first place.
So, as it stands, I’m hanging on, maybe by a fraying thread, but getting the job done. Mostly. Some days are hard, that’s all.
We feed the chickens and the bunnies before taking grain to the horses.
Shadow, my elderly Appaloosa, looks annoyed when we approach, as if we’re intruders on his property.
He flicks his half-tail and turns his gray ass toward us.
I chuckle—he’s always been a grumpy horse, but five years ago, he was an integral part of my reinvention after Mom died, building my confidence and teaching me to breathe again.
Shadow helped me rediscover me . I long to tack up and go for a rigorous ride.
But, like so many things I want to do, there’s no time.
The water trough overflows, so I close the faucet. The other horses wander over—River, a beautiful thoroughbred, Maxie, another gray Appaloosa, and Coconut, Ruthie’s pale brown pony. Dot sets down the grain buckets, spacing them apart to give the horses room to feed.
Leaning against the fence, we watch them eat. Dot retrieves her unfinished Cheetos and frees a second bag from her other pocket, handing it to me. “Reinforcements. Comfort food.”
I’d argue her definition of comfort food any other day, but not today. I pull the bag apart, toss a Cheeto into my mouth, and my taste buds alight with the synthetic flavorings.
“I checked his IG and Facebook friends,” Dot says while munching. “No Laurens. I don’t think you should read into a bad morning. It’ll only make you anxious. Just rely on what you know about Ben.”
What I know about Ben. Her words flip a switch that floods me with Ben-isms.
He likes a schedule and thrives on routines.
He even schedules time to update the schedule (Sunday nights before bed).
He’s a meticulous record keeper, and since he’s dyslexic, keeping everything organized and correct is like slaying his personal dragons.
He updates a detailed family calendar app that syncs on our phones with his work shifts, car maintenance, doctor’s appointments, and Ruthie’s school schedule.
I don’t always check it, but I try to remember.
Ben does what he says, says what he means, and never says more than necessary. This sometimes comes off as unfriendly to new people. But underneath his rigid composure, he’s compassionate and kind. He understands brokenness and trauma better than most and has a soft spot for anyone who needs help.
He always knows what I need. He’s surprised me with hot baths, beach trips, back massages, late meals, flowers, and often, the horses, all tacked up for a family trail ride. He promised to always romance me. Only lately that’s fallen to the wayside.
Or maybe I’ve been too busy to make the time for it.
Ben shows up. He’s dropped everything over fevers, flat tires, scheduling mess-ups, and once when our dog Penelope got into a thorny bush, requiring an emergency vet visit.
He may be short on words, but he’s strong on commitment.
He’s my perfect partner.
But lately, he’s been distracted and irritable. His hearing has worsened—he hasn’t told me this, but it’s obvious given his frequent headaches and how often he asks me to repeat myself. Cochlear implants are the next step, but Ben seems reluctant.
So, he puts up with more migraines when he’s overstimulated or has a rough day. These debilitating, stomach-turning, pounding headaches blur his vision and piss him off.
Sometimes, he lets me help. More often lately, he doesn’t. The last time, he got frustrated with me for offering to rub his head despite the relief it usually gives him.
He didn’t want my help.
Work adds more frustration. He received a complaint from a witness because she misconstrued Ben’s inability to hear her as his refusing to listen.
Days later, a well-check call led him to find Adam—an eight-year-old, locked in a dog crate. The night it happened, he came home after midnight and held me tighter than ever, so tight I could barely breathe. He shared the upsetting story later, a bare-bones version anyway.
Adam now lives with an amazing family. His foster parents, Jack Graham and Rowan Mackey-Graham, have become good friends. But despite Adam’s happily-ever-after, Ben seems disillusioned by the community service he once loved doing. That’s what I suspect, anyway.
It’s hard to know for sure.
What I do know about Ben, and what Dot reinforces, is that he’s honest and loves Ruthie and me more than anything.
“You’re right,” I say finally. “It’s a bad morning, but Ben loves me.”
“Whatever’s going on with him, he’s having trouble talking to you about it. Work your magic and get him talking.”
“Easier said than done.”
Dot motions toward my phone pocket. “Text him. Get the conversation started.”
I take a breath and do as she says. I’m sorry about this morning. Let’s talk tonight. Dinner under the stars?
A moment later, he texts back. Yes. I’ll be home early.
A long exhale releases my tension. “He’s coming home early for dinner tonight.”
Dot snaps her cheesy fingers and scrolls through her phone. “How about I take Ruthie for one of our epic sleepovers? Huh? I’ll feed her nothing but junk food, show her all the scary movies, and keep her up all night.”
She smirks, and I laugh—she’d never do that to Ruthie.
“Lena, babe, just kidding. We’ll watch the latest Pixar and play cards with Aunt Barb. Ruthie’s becoming quite the poker player.”
I sigh. “What’s cute today will be hell for us when she’s a teenager.”
Looking over my shoulder, Dot’s eyes go from amused to deer-in-the-headlights. She grips my bicep, yanking me to her like a human shield and spilling my Cheetos. “Holy shit, is that her ? Is this a set-up? What’s she doing here?”