9. Nine
Nine
BEN
T ub Lena relaxes instantly. In two minutes, she scarfs down an entire pizza slice before twisting and backing herself between my legs. My hands slip around her, freely roaming over her familiar places. Naked Lena is one of my favorite versions of her.
I love all her versions. Lena is beautiful, sexy as hell, funny and warm in a way that brings comfort to any situation, intelligent, creative, and a good person—everything I want.
She’s also a multiverse, complicated and intense, ruled most often by Busy Lena—my least favorite and most difficult to handle because she tends to overthink, overwork, and overplease.
I like things simple. Busy Lena makes things hard.
This applies especially to Saddletree. She feels she has to do it all, from the day-to-day to the deliveries to the damn dishes.
When I suggest automating aspects of Saddletree’s management, delegating more to her employees, or cutting back on hours and offerings, I’m met with frustration.
No time is her most frequent excuse. Already spread thin, she’s pulled in too many directions, incapable of making necessary changes.
Her people-pleasing and unrealistic expectations come at a cost.
That cost is usually me.
I don’t require much. But closeness with Lena has become a natural necessity for me. I almost lost her today—a stark reminder of how much I love and need her. I need more of this. More of her. And enough love and connection with my wife to feel like we could handle anything together.
Because anything is coming.
I should’ve told her everything long before today, but my confidence in us has slipped.
What holds me back from her is her. How am I supposed to feel secure in us when I barely see her?
It’s hard to feel good about the woman you love when she constantly chooses everything over you and doesn’t notice that it’s been weeks since we’ve had a real conversation or even been naked together.
She doesn’t have time to miss me, either.
But it affects her, too. Busy Lena is all about tasks and forced smiles. She doesn’t relax or slow down. Busy Lena gets by but barely breathes. I help with that when she lets me.
Right now, though, I glimpse the Lena I love most—Present Lena, radiant and smiling. Holding her like this comforts me and makes me think everything’s okay.
It isn’t, though. I fucked up today—my deception was deliberate—but, to her credit, she’s here, naked in the bath with me.
“When do you have to decide?” she asks as I shampoo her hair. “Or have you already?”
“I won’t decide anything without you. We have a few weeks, but I can ask for more time if needed.”
“Wow, that’s generous of them.”
“They’re motivated.” Before she asks why, I add, “But it’s a major decision. Without your full support, the answer is no.”
She leans her sudsy head against my shoulder and peers up at me. “I want you to be happy. Will this make you happy?”
“Happiness isn’t a factor. You and Ruthie make me happy. Work is work.”
Even upside down, I decipher her expression—the cocked brow and her bold, questioning eyes. She dislikes my answer.
“Ben, working to live is one thing, but no one wants a job that makes them miserable. Be honest—you haven’t been happy being a cop in a while.”
“I’ve had some setbacks.”
She scoffs and twists in the tub to face me again. “No, you’ve had struggles. The headaches. The hearing issues. Seeing people at their worst. Don’t understate what you’ve been through.”
“Fine. Struggles.” I pick up Ruthie’s watering can and rinse Lena’s hair. Still facing me, she closes her eyes to keep the soap from getting in.
Clearing her face of water, she says, “It’s okay to make a change if you want one.
And there’s no rush to figure out what that should be.
If this offer excites you, let’s talk about it.
But you don’t have to work for the sake of working.
Or take a job you’re lackluster about for a larger salary. Saddletree’s doing great—”
“That could change,” I point out, motioning to her arm. “I appreciate that we live comfortably, thanks to Saddletree, but I provide consistency and stability.”
“ Always , even without a paycheck.” She grins. “But you’re a cop—anything could happen to you, too. My point is you don’t have to work. Let me be your sugar mama.”
I groan.
She laughs knowingly. “You have breathing room, Ben, and you’ve earned it. Why not just… retire?”
Retire? Retirement is for seniors—not mostly capable, highly qualified, and self-sufficient forty-two-year-olds with a family. She claims I have breathing room, but it doesn’t feel like it.
Tub Lena morphs into Anxiety Lena as she studies me. “Okay, don’t retire. Work at Saddletree. You could take over all the support groups. I know how much you love them. I could really use the help—”
“No. I mean, yes, you do. But no.”
“No?” Her face contorts at my quick and curt response. “Why not?”
“I… just can’t.” I don’t want a handout, and I shouldn’t have to accept one just because I’m losing my hearing. Besides, butting heads with her regarding Saddletree might strain us, and I don’t want the chaos.
But I can’t tell her this—she’d only argue. I deal with conflicts every day and usually diffuse them. But, when it comes to Lena, disagreements make me feel vulnerable and unnerved, overrun with fears of saying or doing the wrong things. I long to get small, to avoid either of us getting hurt.
Now, I see the pushback coming. Worry lines shadow her face. She removes herself from my grasp and leans on the end of the tub again, as far away as possible, while watching me intently.
“Can’t because?” she pushes again. “Saddletree is ours , remember?”
Saddletree hasn’t felt like ours since the business grew, and Busy Lena took over, shutting me out—another thing I can’t say. “I’m proud of what we started, but…”
She leans forward. “When did you stop telling me what you’re thinking?”
“When you stopped asking.”
She recoils again, filling me sharply with regret. When did I stop talking to her? It happened slowly. One less conversation here, fewer words there. Then, all at once, after Adam, I went silent.
“Lena, I’m sorry. I love Saddletree, but I don’t belong here. Professionally .”
It’s a vague truth. I don’t elaborate. It’s better for her to come to her own conclusions, and there are plenty of obvious reasons to choose from.
That I’m a cop, not a business owner.
That food service isn’t my skill set.
That I’m socially awkward and terrible at chitchat.
Even organizing her groups could be handled by purchasing appropriate software if she’d take the step.
There isn’t a real place for me, and she seems to understand that because her face softens as she considers it.
“Fine.” She drifts closer. “Tell me more about Lauren and the Rileys. How did this happen?”
“A phone call.”
Her eyes narrow. “From Lauren? When was the last time you heard from her?”
“Twelve years.”
“How long were you two together?”
“A few years.”
“Years?” Her blue eyes go wide. “How come you’ve never mentioned her?”
“Seemed irrelevant. Why should I?”
“Um, because knowing about significant exes provides an important backstory in a relationship.”
“No, it isn’t. What does it matter?”
“It matters now,” she protests. “And because you haven’t told me about her, I have to play catch-up. Where did you meet her?”
I grab a washcloth and soap it up. “High school. The Rileys were family friends.”
Her eyes go even wider. “High school sweethearts?”
“No. Well, sort of. We were friends first. I was older so—”
“How much older?”
“Two years. I waited until she was eighteen.”
She gawks. “What? Why? That never matters in high school.”
I shrug. “It mattered to me. It felt like the right thing to do.”
She groans. “Friends first. First love. Together for years. It sounds perfect, like one of Cherry’s romance novels.”
“It was far from perfect.”
“Well, tell me about her.”
She inches closer, her legs butting softly against mine under the water. Still, she gives me a cock-eyed glare. It’s her go-on-Ben look—I see it often. But this territory seems fraught with landmines. I don’t want to discuss Lauren tonight—or any night.
Lena and I have varying views on what’s need-to-know. She told me too much information about her former marriage to Mark, unsolicited. I would’ve preferred not to know.
But Mark isn’t a factor in our lives, and Lauren suddenly is. So, the day’s guilt catches up to me.
“Fine, we were good friends,” I say, gently running the washcloth over her cheeks and neck.
“She helped me with algebra. We connected over unrealistic family expectations. She didn’t want to go into her family’s banking business.
I didn’t want to go to college. The Rileys have a long history of military service that I admire—her aunt, father, and grandfather.
That influence led to my decision to enlist.”
Her mouth drops. “So, you didn’t just date their daughter. How can you call your history with her irrelevant?”
I wince. “My relationship with Lauren set me on a path, yes. But my decisions were my own. I’ll have little contact with her if I accept the position.” I slip the washcloth over her shoulders and chest, hoping to distract her.
She moves closer but narrows her eyes, dissatisfied.
“Please, can we just drop it?”
“No. Tell me how it ended.”
“We broke up.”
Her eyes narrow. “ That , I figured out. Why?”
“Forget it. I won’t take the job. It’s decided.”
Lena scoffs and gives me her serious look again. “Ben, if she’s irrelevant, why is she hard to talk about?”
“I didn’t say she was irrelevant. I said our history was. We didn’t work out. That’s all.”
She nods, biting her lower lip like she’s processing the information. She pulls the washcloth away and runs it over my chest with her good hand, softly soaping my scars and defects with the same admiration she always has when she sees me.
This woman loves me.
With all her versions and complications.
Deeply and intensely.