8. Eight
Eight
LENA
T he ride home begins in silence, which is weird, considering we have so much to say. The pain meds kick in, making me mellow and inexplicably sad. I don’t have the energy for our usual communication games and shouldn’t have to wrestle it from him. He knows what I need.
“You should close Saddletree temporarily.” His knuckles protrude against his tight grip on the steering wheel, and his right hand is red and swollen.
“What happened to your hand?” I ask.
His fingers stretch against the wheel, and he looks almost surprised. “It’s nothing.”
I huff—it’s the answer I should’ve expected. “I can’t close. Alice has tomorrow covered with a bare-bones menu. I’ll figure things out then.”
“What’s to figure out? You can’t bake like this, and you don’t have enough staff to compensate for your absence.”
“I’ll make do. Somehow.”
He doesn’t like my bullshit answer, but it’s all I have right now.
We stop at Publix for my prescriptions. While I wait in the Jeep, he runs in and returns with the pills, a Dr. Pepper, and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups because he says, “Your blood sugar might be low.”
When he learns I haven’t eaten since breakfast, he detours to Elizabeth’s Pizza for carry-out—not the dinner I planned, but nothing about today has gone right.
Heading out of Wilmington, he finally says, “Riley Trust Bank wants me to be their new head of security for their Wilmington campus. Outstanding benefits. Better hours that’ll align with the family schedule.
Nearly triple my current salary. Incredible healthcare.
There’s an on-site preschool. Ruthie could go to work with me. ”
“Ruthie loves her school, and she helps me in the kitchen in the afternoons. It’s our time.”
“It’d be there if we need it,” he amends.
I peel open the peanut butter cups and shove one into my mouth. “Riley Trust Bank, as in Riley Trust Park with the baseball fields and the Riley Trust Amphitheater downtown? That’s a big deal.”
“Yes. Thirty-five hundred employees. A thirty-acre campus. I’d manage all their security systems from their campus to their network, handle employee background checks and situations, and provide private security for the family.” He smirks slightly. “It’s nothing like being a mall cop.”
“I wasn’t thinking mall cop. You’d hate that.”
“Say again?” He leans closer, keeping his eyes on the road.
I repeat myself louder, and he nods.
“I wouldn’t even wear a uniform. Business casual.”
A smile drifts up my cheeks, imagining Ben in khakis and button-downs every day. “You sound interested.”
“I wasn’t initially, but I am now.”
“It sounds amazing… if leaving the police department is what you want. Is it? It must be since you’re job hunting.”
“I wasn’t job hunting. They approached me.” He twists the wheel like he’s wringing a wet towel. “I know the family.”
“The Rileys? Are you hobnobbing with rich socialites behind my back?”
“No,” he answers quickly, unamused.
“How do you know them?”
I expect a cop story. He met Alice Harvey after she pulled her gun on a purse snatcher at Independence Mall. The first time we met, he pulled me over for speeding. And erratic driving , he’s quick to add whenever I tell the story. Ben meets many people through work—it’s the nature of what he does.
So, hearing, “I dated their daughter,” makes me choke on chocolate and peanut butter. I scramble for the Dr. Pepper but fumble with it one-handed. Ben opens it for me. I take a long swig.
Through Dr. Pepper burps, I sputter, “Let me guess… Lauren?”
“Yes.”
“Ben…” His short name sounds longer with disappointment trailing in my voice.
“It was a long time ago. It doesn’t matter.”
“Yes, it does. An ex-girlfriend offers you a dream job, but you can’t tell me about it because I’m difficult to talk to suddenly?”
“You’re difficult to talk to because you never have time,” he sighs.
“I would’ve made time. All you had to do was ask. I shouldn’t be blamed for your deliberate deception.”
“Deliberate?”
“Yes, not coming in to say goodbye this morning because I would’ve asked about the suit. Not telling me about the interview, let alone any history with Lauren Riley, and brushing off who Lauren was this morning when you said her name instead of mine. You deliberately mislead me.”
He hesitates, rubbing his temple with his left hand. “I… yes. I did. I’m sorry. It seemed easier not to tell you.”
His shoulders slump as he turns into our driveway. Every bounce along the well-worn gravel and dirt path sends pain ricocheting up my arm, enough to bring tears to my eyes, though that’s not entirely why they’re there.
Easier not to tell me? Like I’m his parent, and he doesn’t want to get in trouble. Or his boss and he’s been slacking off. Or maybe it’s because I’m his wife, and he still holds feelings for Lauren Riley.
Why else wouldn’t he share this with me?
Pain splits through my injured hand as my swollen digits tremble. Another wave of panic crashes over me, knocking me into a spin. Breathe.
Control your emotions, or your emotions will control you . My therapist’s words flood into me.
I twist toward the passenger window, wrestling tears. Again. This isn’t me anymore!
I fixate on the world outside the window.
The late summer sun sets behind the property, highlighting the glistening garden, the peaks of the house and barn, and the pond.
I spy Jack Harvey on his ATV, refilling my empty gas tank and feeding my horses.
Alice’s minivan assures me that she’s inside, helping with clean-up.
Mr. Wickers stands sentry-like on the café’s patio, holding a bin of dirty dishes while Trisha fills it.
I toss them a weak wave as Ben drives by.
My neighbors are fucking adorable. Like Dot and Cherry, they’re people I wouldn’t have hand-selected but who make me eternally grateful that I’m not in charge of such things.
They’ve slipped into the empty spaces left behind by those I’ve lost, shoring up my foundation and making me stronger with their love and support. I don’t know what I’d do without them.
Ben’s the family I chose—a decision I’ve never doubted. We found each other exactly at the right time, and everything changed for the better.
Still, a bad feeling wriggles inside me, like a demon baby struggling to break free of its tethers to cause mischief and destruction.
I don’t like comparing my previous marriage to this one—they’re night-and-day opposites.
But I’m reminded of my first struggles with Mark.
He’s keeping things from me. Pulling away.
Blaming me. Letting irritation overrule love.
This isn’t us. And it scares me to death.
“Pain level?” Ben asks as he turns off the engine.
“Moderate but worsening… It hurts more that you couldn’t talk to me.”
His emerald eyes squint as he studies me. Is he concerned? Regretful? Annoyed? I can’t tell.
And—another first—I’m tired of asking. Getting him to talk feels like an endless game of tug-of-war that I’m losing.
It’s okay that he’ll never be one for small talk, that he views socializing as a task, not a pleasure, and that I have to soften his unfriendly vibe by assuring people that he’s just quiet—Ben will never be the life of the party.
But until now, I never thought his distance extended to us. To me.
He says nothing, as usual.
I exit the Jeep with a huff. It definitely won’t be the night I planned.
He’s not even the husband I know— my Ben isn’t dishonest. He doesn’t attend events without logging them on the family calendar.
He doesn’t keep secrets or stay in touch with old girlfriends.
He never even talks about them, as if meeting me moved them into his don’t-care file, lost and forgotten.
Of course, I know they’re out there—nameless, faceless, lucky beings who had their chance to kiss those lips and touch those muscles and lost it. That’s how I like to keep them—nameless, faceless—because those lips and muscles belong to me now.
Lauren. This morning’s failed encounter inflicts fresh stabs into my sore gut. Is it wrong to hope she’s an ogre who smells like beer cheese and cat litter?
Maybe. Yes. But it’s not wrong to expect more forthcomingness from Ben. Wait, is that a word? It damn well should be.
I trudge up the circular staircase leading to our above-barn home. Ben follows, carrying the pizza and meds, saying nothing. Hugo and Penelope join us, ready for dinner and relaxation.
But I can’t relax, not with my head spinning.
I kick my boots off in the mudroom and retreat to the bedroom, closing the door behind me. All the things I should be doing ping through my thoughts—shower, plan for tomorrow, and reach out to my staff. I plop onto the bed’s edge instead and cry. A gigantic purge to wash this shit day away.
Too many feelings. Too much pain. Too many anxiety bitches. It’s all too much.
I tell myself it’s a simple miscommunication, and couples get over these minor mishaps all the time.
But this feels more substantial than that. Like the ground is shaking under every good thing we’ve built together.
Of course, that could be my exhaustion talking. Or the pain. Or the meds.
The door opens. I swipe my tears one-handed, wishing he’d stayed away long enough for me to be less of a mess. No wonder he calls me difficult to talk to—I turn into this.
He sits beside me, sliding his hand over mine. “I’m sorry. I should’ve told you.”
“You’ve always been so honest with me—that’s what drew us together in the first place.
If you’d asked me yesterday to name my top five things Ben Wright would never ever do, lying to me would be first, and hanging out with an old girlfriend would be a close second.
” I twist on the bed to face him, bringing my knee up between us.
“Help me understand why you thought leaving me out of this was okay.”
“It wasn’t.” He sighs. “I didn’t want complications over a job I didn’t think I’d want and a past better left alone. That’s all. I planned on discussing the job tonight over dinner once I had all the information.”
With a deep breath, I feel slightly better. This sounds like Ben. He prefers to keep things simple. “So, I shouldn’t worry about Lauren being an ex-girlfriend?”
He recoils like I’ve said something ridiculous. “No. If I could remove her from the equation, I would. I’m considering the job. Nothing else. My heart belongs to you and Ruthie.”
Through a relieved smile, more tears emerge, cleansing me of these preposterous ideas. I’ve given my anxiety bitches too much room to speculate.
“I’m sorry,” I breathe out.
“No, it’s my fault. I should’ve talked to you.” He locks eyes with his sternest, most sincere expression. “Forgive me for creating doubts and not being forthcoming.”
“You’re forgiven.” The words fall from me like I have no choice. It’s such a rare occurrence that forgiveness is automatic when Ben asks for it. I can’t think of anything I’d deny him. “But will you tell me all about it? I need more information.”
“Understood. Whatever you need.” He fiddles with the loose scrunchie and tugs it out, sending my purple and mud-stained locks around my shoulders. “You’ll need help washing your hair. I’ll draw a bath.”
I’m about to protest—a shower would be quicker, and I’m tired.
But, he adds, “Soaking in warm water and Epsom salts will be good. You’ll hurt like hell tomorrow.”
“Really?”
“Yes. The soreness is always worse on the second or third day.”
“Something to look forward to, then.” I try loosening the knot that holds my sheathed arm in place but fail.
Ben takes over. “Let me help.”
He presents like a tank but is incredibly gentle. I love this about him. His careful attention reminds me of him braiding Ruthie’s hair, his big hands weaving the pieces together so delicately that she never flinches.
I don’t flinch now, even as he maneuvers me from the sheath and my shirt. He traces the reddish lines crossing my chest—marks from the seatbelt. My chest feels sore with their discovery, reminding me that it should hurt, too.
With a heavy sigh, his eyes trail the marks on my arms and shoulders—not ugly bruises yet, but they will be. He kneels and removes my jeans next, finding more of the same.
“You’re right. A bath is a good idea.” I nibble my inner lip, anxiety rising and tears streaming as he tallies up my injuries.
He holds me around the waist, resting his head against my stomach. “It’ll be okay.”
“It’s going to be tough on me,” I admit.
“Tough on us,” he corrects with a wry smile. “But it’ll bring us closer.”
A chuckle eases from me. “That almost sounds romantic.”
He smirks again. “I am helping you get undressed and drawing you a bath.”
I tug at his tie one-handed. “Will you get in with me? And bring the pizza?”
“That’s already my plan.”
My tension releases. This is us—casual, sexy, messy us.
We rarely argue, anyway, and never with raised voices—an eye-opener given my volatile marriage to Mark.
He and I mastered shouting matches the way other couples do team sports—with intense practice.
All those fights and yelling only led to something worse: absence.
Marriages die the moment a couple stops talking and spending time together.
The only thing left after that is giving up.
With Ben, I’ve learned the rules of a good marriage.
For one thing, yelling isn’t necessary or helpful.
Talking and listening work more miracles than fighting ever could.
His calmness offsets my anxiety, and my personality eases him into talking.
Usually. Marriage is a delicate balance of two personalities, and we appreciate rather than resent our differences.
Our disagreements don’t follow us, either.
Letting go is better than keeping score.
And we’re like-minded, most of the time.
Today was a blip on an otherwise clear radar. We’ll get over it quicker in the tub.
That’s another rule for a good marriage—never miss an opportunity for closeness. I haven’t been good about following that one lately, but I’m determined to make up for it.
He holds my good hand as I step into the bath, the almost-too-hot water easing me at once. He cushions my splinted hand with a towel on the side edge. Then, after handing me a slice of pizza, he climbs in with me.