5. Five
Five
BEN
M y hands strangle the steering wheel hard enough to form blisters in the Riley Trust Bank parking lot.
I’m nervous. I don’t get nervous. I bump up the Jeep’s AC to combat my damp palms and beading forehead.
This morning still bothers me. Distracted over Lena, I failed to prevent one of Ruthie’s classmates from grabbing my leg with his glue-covered hands.
Preschoolers view me as a rock wall, ready for climbing, which is fine when I’m not in a suit.
Wet spots linger on my pants’ legs from my rigorous cleaning in the preschool bathroom.
Nothing is going right. My gut instinct assures me this won’t either.
Nervous. Irritated. Distracted. The evidence is clear—I shouldn’t be here, but I’ve already committed. Drink water. Drive on. Do your fucking duty.
I shake out my sore fingers and roll my head around my neck.
Refocus and assess the surroundings.
The Riley Trust Bank campus is impressive. A twelve-foot-high black iron fence surrounds the property, not unlike the type I want for Saddletree. Lena doesn’t think we need it, that we’re too far from the city to worry about robberies and break-ins.
But everyone thinks it won’t happen to them. Until it does.
A uniformed security officer checked me in at the gate and provided a temporary badge.
Top-of-the-line 4K cameras perch on every lamppost leading into the sprawling, meticulously maintained thirty-acre campus.
Majestic pines and thick-leaved magnolia trees shield the area from the main roads, hiding the business like a secret.
Most people probably don’t know it’s here—no cut-throughs or main roads.
Several buildings occupy the grounds, but I stare at the tallest one—a glass structure a dozen floors high with small trees surrounding the top floor. That’s where my party awaits me.
Thirteen minutes early, I wait and reread Lena’s text. Dinner tonight is just what we need, and I’m relieved she suggested it. She isn’t upset with me, and tonight, I’ll tell her everything and hope she’ll forgive me for putting it off this long.
I silence my phone and tuck it into my jacket pocket. I repeat my rules for this meeting: listen as promised and avoid anything personal.
This will be a challenge. The Rileys make everything personal.
I exit my vehicle in an unwelcome train of memories—glasses clinking across the Riley’s large dining table, the glass of a Molotov cocktail breaking against the Humvee that day in Afghanistan, wine glasses shattering over Lauren’s hardwood floors.
Fuck. There’s no way to keep this from being personal.
A cleansing breath moves me forward. Focus.
Cameras occupy the corners, and security guards man the doors.
The restaurant is named after Lauren’s mother, Jillian, a vibrant woman consumed by fundraising events and perfectionism—her house, her wardrobe, and her daughter. At least, when I knew her. The upscale restaurant on the top floor resembles its namesake. It’s elegant, expensive, and intimidating.
Scanning the room, my eyes magnetize onto Lauren like a predetermined target. Feelings surge, so I force my usual unresponsive demeanor. I prefer not to react.
But it’s difficult.
Twelve years have passed since I last saw her, but closing in on her from across the room seems to pull the time together like a drawstring. She’s barely changed.
My anger isn’t as sharp as I expected, as I wanted , seeing her again. Faded memories stream in bright technicolor—good more than bad—and I hate myself for entertaining them like old friends.
This woman reminds me of everything I lost that day in Afghanistan, everything I’m still losing.
She stands when she sees me, straightening the baby-blue dress that clings to her slender frame like it was made for her. It probably was.
She intercepts me halfway to the table, and an awkward beat passes in mutual examination.
“Hey, stranger,” she finally says, side-smiling.
Her familiar greeting tightens my throat, making it hard to swallow.
She leans in for an embrace, but I extend my hand, pushing it awkwardly into her tight stomach. She recovers with a knowing look and accepts the compromise.
“Lauren.”
“Ben, it’s good to see you.”
The soft upturn of her smile seems genuine, but it’s difficult to fathom how that can be true after our last encounter.
I can’t return the sentiment. It’s not good to see her. It’s weird and disconcerting.
She directs me toward the table. “The years have been good to you. How come men get more handsome as they age? Hardly seems fair.”
She sits first. I tuck her chair in behind her.
“Ever the gentleman. Just like the old days,” she says, as I sit opposite. She leans forward, elbows on the table—something her mother often ridiculed her for—and seems to contemplate me.
“Should we address the elephant in the room first? Or should we waste more time feeling curious and awkward?”
I feel both awkward and curious. “Fine.”
Her hands open submissively against the table. “We share a beautiful history. It ended in a way neither of us wanted. But it’s done, and we’re better people for it. Agreed?”
My eyes narrow, considering each point. “Yes.”
“Let’s not complicate it, then… You’re here for a job. Not a tug-of-war down memory lane. Yes?”
I smirk. “Yes.”
She holds her hand out again. “Lauren Riley, head of human resources.”
Her fingers press softly against mine. I play her game, comforted by it. “Lieutenant Ben Wright, Wilmington Police Department.”
“Alright, L.T.” She grins.
My smile rises slightly at her informal use of lieutenant.
“Let’s talk business.” She motions for the waiter. “Comfortable with wine?”
“One glass.”
She instructs the waiter. Once he leaves, she reaches for a leather binder beside her and holds it in her lap. “I’ve planned a light lunch to review the position’s responsibilities and benefits. Then, we’ll have a tour and visit Dad. He designed your incentive package himself.”
“I appreciate the itinerary.”
She waves a dismissive hand. “You like knowing the plan—I remember.”
My nerves retreat, and my shoulders relax. I do like knowing the plan.
The waiter brings a charcuterie board with meats, cheeses, grapes, olives, crackers, and figs—Lena makes similar arrangements for groups at Saddletree. He pours pinot grigio into long-stemmed glasses.
She takes a healthy sip. “I heard you’re married.”
So much for avoiding anything personal. Still, it’s good to be clear. “Yes. To Lena. We have a daughter, Ruthie.” A glance at her left hand confirms the absence of a ring.
She catches me looking and holds up her bare hand.
“I never married. Finding that perfect someone is not as easy as people make it seem. All the good ones are taken, and what’s left are bitter divorcees or unscrupulous dolts after my family’s money.
” She chuckles again. “Occasionally, I’ll meet a nice guy, but he always ends up too clingy or untidy. You know I can’t abide disorder.”
Picking up Lena’s discarded clothes comes to mind. “With the right person, you’d be surprised.”
“It’s all okay, though.” Her wide smile returns but seems forced. “I love my independence. I do what I want when I want, and no one but Mom and Dad complain about it.”
I say nothing, not that she expects a response.
“I have two sons.” She grabs her phone, prompting the home screen with her pink-nailed fingers. Then, she shows me a picture of herself standing between two tall, well-built young men with toothy smiles.
“That’s Frederick and Omar. Twins. They’re Haitian.” She smiles adoringly.
This information floors me. “Um, excellent.”
“Shocker, right?” She tucks her phone away, sheepishly.
“After… us, I took some time for myself.” She sets the binder aside and adjusts the linen napkin in her lap.
“Through Riley Trust’s humanitarian efforts with Doctors Without Borders, I traveled to all the places we support: Indonesia, the Philippines, Nigeria, Yemen, and Iraq. ”
Her oration falters at the mention of a country she knows I spent time in.
She clears her throat. “It was eye-opening—you were right, Ben.” Her brow twinges with regret. “I was sheltered and selfish… what did you call it? Blissfully ignorant. ”
“No, Lauren, I’m sorry. I regret saying those things to you. I was…” I don’t know how to finish my sentence, words getting stuck in my throat over the shame and anger I still feel.
She waves this off. “It’s okay. If you hadn’t, I never would’ve gone. I met Frederick and Omar at an orphanage in Haiti. They were rambunctious eight-year-olds, and we hit it off immediately. They did that twin thing you and Becca used to do… they had their own language.”
I nod. Becca and I still enjoy our warped pig Latin. It drives Lena crazy when we do it around her.
“Best thing I’ve ever done. I replaced you and me with Cub Scouts and soccer. They were my rebound boys.” She laughs. “They’re at Duke now. Omar’s pre-med, and Frederick’s pre-law—he’s great at arguing.”
“Rob must be thrilled at the prospect of a lawyer in the family.”
A robust laugh erupts from her. “Uncle Rob’s on his fourth wife… so, yeah.”
I nod—he was on his second when we were together. I expected more. I sip my wine and sample the meats, trying to hide how her laugh pleases me. It’s a relief to hear it under the circumstances.
She clinks her glass to mine. “Thanks for making this easy. I was so worried.”
“Me, too.”
After a long sip, I decide this is okay. I set my glass down, and my eyes find hers again. Gray in this light, like they might be invisible.
The slight rise of her bare shoulders and hopeful smile take me back to when she’d rush from her house when I pulled into her driveway and raced into my arms as soon as I exited my car. She’d wrap her legs around me and lavish me with kisses.
Lauren made me feel like the most important person in the world.
Until she didn’t.