11. Eleven
Eleven
BEN
“Y ou were engaged?”
Lena’s voice trembles, sorrow seeping through her surprising calm.
She sits at the base of her mom’s tree—so much of our history has happened here.
It’s where I opened up about my injuries and the IED—something I hadn’t done with anyone except my therapist and Becca.
Her parents’ ashes were spread here. It’s where I asked her to marry me, where she told me she was pregnant, and where we had the ceremony a few months later.
It’s too sacred a place for this discussion.
But, as Dot bluntly ordered after she and the others stared me down, I must “meet her where she is and beg her forgiveness.”
“I’m sorry, Lena. Yes.”
“How long were you with her?”
My hand drags over my mouth, unable to form the words.
Lena’s tear-streaked face kills me. Lauren fucking Riley —I wish I’d never taken her call, but how can I dismiss any opportunity knowing how limited my options will be when my hearing loss becomes profound?
Sure, the department would find a place for me.
So would many other fine institutions. But I already know those are jobs I don’t want.
Clerical. Behind a desk and a screen. Away from people.
A common misconception is that I dislike people. That’s not true. Quietness does not mean disinterest. Often, it simply means I’m listening.
Now, I need to talk. Holding Lena last night, I promised myself I would.
But everything’s working against me. Lauren dropping our engagement as casually as a remark on the weather has upended my planned conversation with Lena, the one I’ve been prepping all morning in my head.
Now, I’m forced to play defense. Lena’s already hurt.
Already pissed. And she has every reason to be.
Her tears and disappointment make this much harder.
My mouth goes dry, but I force the answer free. “Ten years.”
“Ten fucking years? That’s more than a few , Ben.”
“I was deployed for most of it.”
“How come you never told me?”
“It felt unnecessary to discuss.”
Her vivid eye-roll rivals those of busted teenagers, angry at me for calling their parents.
Only with Lena it makes an impact. I sit on the ground beside her and absentmindedly drape my hand over her thigh.
She shoves my hand away and tries standing, but her soreness prevents her.
I assist her gently, though she quickly pulls her good hand free from mine once she’s on her feet.
Now, standing under the same branches that have shaded so many fond memories, she glares at me with hurt eyes. My deception, my very presence , has heightened her anxiety. She radiates it like she’s sourcing the humidity in the air.
It’s hard to breathe.
“It should’ve been necessary last night when I specifically asked you if there was anything significant I needed to know. Why couldn’t you tell me then?”
“I didn’t want complications.”
“Complications? The truth isn’t complicated, Ben. I don’t understand.”
“We were both with other people before us—the wrong people. I don’t understand why it matters.”
“ You matter. This is about you. You can’t leave shit out because you don’t want to talk about it—”
“Fine.” I run a hand through my hair, handling my frustration like it’s a door I’m holding shut. “Lauren and I were once engaged. We thought we loved each other, but shit happened, and we realized we didn’t. End of story. I never told you because it didn’t matter—I love you, and we’re a good fit.”
She scoffs. “A good fit? Like I’m a comfortable, old shoe.”
“No. I didn’t mean it like that.”
“You’ve lied to me. Twice. You’re making it impossible to believe there’s nothing more to this than a job.”
Heat rises inside me with her accusation. “Last night wasn’t the right time to discuss it.”
“Fuck that—I asked; you should’ve answered,” she says, trying to sign the words as well.
“I wanted to be with you, to take care of you, not go through a fucking interrogation.”
“A fucking interrogation?” she cries out. “ That’s what you think I do to you? If I didn’t ask questions, you wouldn’t talk to me at all. And that seems to be how you’d prefer it.”
“No, damn it!”
Startled by our raised voices, a mallard nearby flaps with irritation before taking flight, forcing us both to pause and reset. Pull it in.
I take a breath. “I’m sorry, truly. I should’ve told you about her and her former significance. It’s just that I’ve missed us. I didn’t want to waste last night, or any night, on her.”
Her brow pinches into what looks like sympathy. “I’m sorry, too. I don’t mean to interrogate you. Or overthink things. It’s just… I told you everything about Mark.”
“Information I didn’t need or want.”
“Maybe not, but at least you knew he existed. And damn, I wanted to tell you, the same way I want to tell you when I have cramps or feel anxious or when Ruthie says something funny. I want to tell you everything—”
“I’m not like you—”
“You used to open up to me. Intimacy is more than having sex and sharing a bathroom. We’re supposed to be partners. We’re supposed to be close.”
“Close? We haven’t been close in months. How can we be close when we’re never together? You don’t have time for me.” The pressure shifts away from me and onto her—a relief—but I hate how her shoulders slump and her eyes water.
“I’m sorry,” she says sternly. “I never meant to make you feel neglected.”
“I feel… alone.” The word slips out, and I immediately want to reverse it, even if it’s true. I want to erase this entire conversation.
Pale and pained, she gawks as if one word has stolen what her body needs, leaving her weak and faint. “Alone? How can you feel alone? I’m right here.”
“You’re never here for me. You give Saddletree 110 percent, and I respect you for it. But there’s nothing left over. I average about five minutes of your time daily, and it’s usually about Ruthie.”
“That’s not fair. I always have time for you. You have to ask.”
“I’ve tried. Have you forgotten all the times I’ve asked you to have dinner or take a walk, all the horseback rides and beach days you’ve turned down?
I’ve tried scheduling time with you, but you forget or back out.
There’s always something keeping you from us.
Something has to change. I want our lives to center around us, not Saddletree. ”
She rubs her head near yesterday’s bruise. “I want that, too, and I’m trying.”
“Are you? You run your business like a dog park—you open the gate and let everyone frolic and play with little supervision. I offer help constantly, but you refuse to implement any suggestions. It’s frustrating living with someone who prefers chaos.”
“Ben, what the fuck? How can you say that to me? I don’t prefer chaos.”
“Your business is badly managed. You have little time for your family. Your head is always spinning. And you drive like a maniac to make your appointments. The evidence proves it.”
She’s devastated, eyes brimming with hurt like she doesn’t know who I am. I’m not sure I know, either. I should be dropping to my knees and begging for her forgiveness, but fear prevents me.
“It needed to be said,” I mutter weakly, trying to convince myself.
She exhales in a long puff that makes her bottom lip quiver. “So, I’m the Queen of Chaos, and my business is a shitshow. That’s what you really think of me?”
“Um, well, that’s not what I said, but—”
“You’re an asshole for turning this around on me.
” Her finger goes up in a weak accusation.
“Again! You blindsided me with your interview and Lauren. You’ve kept a decade of your life a damn secret from me.
I looked like a clueless idiot in front of her, my staff, and my friends, thanks to you. This is about you, Ben. Not me.”
“No, it isn’t—”
“ You lied. You. This isn’t my fault. How can you blame me for the distance between us when you’ve held back the entire time?”
“Only about this one thing. I didn’t think it mattered.”
“That’s not true, either. It matters so much that you’ve derailed this discussion by belittling my business and making me feel small and incapable— that’s a first for you.
I’ll add it to the list of things I never thought you’d do.
Lying. Spending time with old girlfriends—oops, no, fiancée. And now, making me feel like shit.”
She stops to wipe her cheeks, though it’s a pointless enterprise—the tears flow continuously. Still, she pushes her smile through them, almost like it’s a robotic tick.
Or a defense mechanism.
“This isn’t you,” she decides tearfully. “Maybe instead of a business lecture, you should figure out why you don’t want to talk to me about Lauren and whatever else you’re avoiding. I can’t be here for you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong. What do you really need to tell me?”
She awaits an answer—my head floods with them. I don’t know where to start, even if I wanted to.
I don’t. Not like this, especially.
Her pleading eyes shatter me. Her disappointment is another vise on my chest, tightening, adding pressure.
I catch glimpses of our future, when it’s not what I’ve left out of our conversations that frustrates her, but our difficulty communicating altogether.
One day, Busy Lena will take on the responsibility of caring for me like I’m another Saddletree project, burying herself behind forced smiles and extra work.
I’ll be the burden I’ve always feared, weak and vulnerable.
And Lena’s one look of love and acceptance will be replaced with exhaustion and resentment.
She’ll hate what I become someday.
The longer I’m silent, the more flushed and fidgety she becomes. She tries controlling her breathing, but it’s hurried and irregular. I think to help her as I did at the hospital, but I know she’ll reject my touch.
“I didn’t mean to make you feel small or incapable,” I say.
But before I finish my sentence, she turns toward the house. My weak-ass answer pushes her to her limit.
What should I tell her anyway? That my career is over? That I must consider their offer because it’s the best I’ll get? That the damn IED didn’t kill me but stole my life all the same and keeps taking?
That one day, it’ll take her from me, too, when she no longer sees me as the man she fell in love with but a burden she’s stuck with, broken and unfixable? Unlovable and unworthy.
The dogs race to her side, followed quickly by Mr. Wickers and Ruthie.
Ruthie pushes a handful of dandelions and buttercups toward her, and Lena’s good hand goes to her heart dramatically before accepting them.
Her tears and panic move aside for smiles and gushing—Lena is good at redirection.
She always makes everyone feel good, even when she doesn’t.
How could I have been so hard on her? I love Saddletree and everything she’s built here. People adore and depend on her. Local papers call Saddletree a community treasure, and TripAdvisor has deemed it a top pick for family fun in Wilmington.
Comparing it to a dog park was a dick move.
Not telling her the truth about Lauren was another.
Deflecting blame was easier. A burning self-hatred grows inside me, a tumor in my thoughts, malignant, and all I want is to get small and disappear.
But I can’t. I’m a husband and father—I have to make this right.
After a brief interchange, Lena and Ruthie head toward the house while Mr. Wickers wanders over, hands in the pockets of his pressed khakis.
“Ben.”
“Mr. Wickers.”
“Lena doesn’t seem herself today,” he says.
“She isn’t.”
Mr. Wickers looks disappointed, as if his team has just fumbled what would’ve been the winning touchdown. “Things are always fine until they’re not.”
I respect Mr. Wickers, but I hope he doesn’t press it further. My loyalty lies with Lena, and this is between us.
“She looked a little green. Tummy trouble, she said. She’s taking Ruthie up to the house for food and a nap. She asked me to retrieve her phone.”
“I’ll take it to her.”
“Good man.” He pats my back. “Want me to hold down the fort?”
“Sure. Thanks.” I don’t know exactly what that entails, but it seems okay.
Mr. Wickers salutes and heads toward the café. I go home.
Marriages fall apart by a thousand small jabs—not one hit. Usually. I’ve seen it repeatedly when arguments between couples escalate and require police assistance. Domestic disturbances are my second-most-frequent call after car accidents. It’s sad and humbling to watch couples go through that.
Whether a slow erosion or sudden destruction, witnessing such unkindness and cruelty between people makes me question how they ever loved each other at all. Love isn’t a fixed constant. It either grows and changes with the couple or dies altogether.
Love is easy. Endurance is hard.
Until this moment, I never believed that could be us.
One argument is nothing, but that’s where it always begins.
For the first time in our marriage, fear grows—that the subtle cracks in our foundation will lead to catastrophic disrepair if nothing is done.
And she’s right—I want to blame her, but I’m the problem, more than she realizes.
If I’d been upfront, none of this would’ve happened.
Lena doesn’t need my criticism. She needs my help. My honesty. My everything.
I find her in the kitchen, supervising Ruthie on a badly executed peanut butter and jelly sandwich. A decisive stride brings me to her. Her breath hitches when I embrace her.
She stiffens in my arms but doesn’t pull away. I can almost feel the anger and hurt pumping through her veins, the tension keeping her tight and unwilling to accept me. So, I do what I should’ve done when I found her at the tree—I hold her, whispering the same thing over and over.
“I’m sorry. I love you, and I’m sorry.”
After ten attempts, her muscles relax. After twelve, she puts her arms around me. Finally, she pulls back so I can see her face, and a weak smile emerges through her tears when she mouths, “I love you, too.”
Relief sweeps over my sharp regret.
A plan forms. To reassure Lena about my commitment to her and Saddletree, I must show her how much I believe in her and what she does here. I’ll also show her how things can be improved, for both our sakes.
Watching her move slowly and sorely around the kitchen convinces me to extend my PTO and enact my plan tomorrow. Lena needs me.