15. Fifteen
Fifteen
BEN
I storm away from the barn, headed nowhere, just away.
I hate that she’d give up every good thing she’s worked for over worries about me; I hate that she’d even consider shutting down for two months or closing altogether.
This compounds my fears about our future when I desperately need her to be stable because I won’t be.
My probable deafness and unemployment will burden her constantly, and Busy Lena will be her norm, perpetually stressed and overwhelmed.
She’ll take on the responsibility of supporting our family alongside the daunting task of caring and communicating for me until it crushes her and strains or ruins her business.
It’s happened before; it’s her modus operandi.
Lena gave up herself for her first marriage and business, only for both to fail.
Her devotion to her mom’s care cost her her identity for three years and wrecked her mental health.
Saddletree operates on her blood, sweat, and tears—a beast that will never be satisfied. Still, she keeps giving it more, but her momentum won’t last. She can’t keep her manic pace forever, and she shouldn’t try to, not for me.
How could she be so goddamned impulsive?
Pressure closes in on me from all sides—health, finances, home life, career, and now a future where one bad decision could end everything she’s worked for, and I’d be unable to save it.
Ten yards from the barn, Lauren Riley calls. Feeling angry and like shit already, I answer.
“Yes?”
“Hi, Ben, how’s everything going? Is Lena feeling better?” Her chipper voice grates on my raw nerves.
“She’s fine.”
“Great! I just wanted to check in. I’ve spoken with Dad, and we understand you’re still considering us. Larry won’t retire until the new year, so we’re flexible. Take all the time you need. Really. But—”
I expected a but . My throat constricts as my stress skyrockets.
“He suggested you come in for a working interview to see firsthand what Riley Trust will be like. It’ll alleviate any concerns you may have, and we’ll have the chance to impress you with our thorough background checks, meticulous routines and record-keeping, and our over-the-top tech. ” She laughs. “What do you say?”
I don’t want to say anything. The pressure has me in a stranglehold, my heart racing, and irritation climbing. My boots stop abruptly. I don’t know where I’m going, just away from Lena. I hate that I’ve spoken to her harshly again, and desperate to regain my self-control.
I’m at the pond’s edge, near her mom’s tree. A family leans against the trunk while the children fight over the rope swing.
Nothing is sacred here.
I told Lena I’d refuse the position— that’s the plan.
But the words are held hostage by my frustration.
How can I turn it down with Saddletree now at risk?
Lena’s decision has uprooted our one-sided stability and thrown our future into question.
I can’t rely on the hope that Saddletree will bounce back after a long closure.
“Ben, are you okay?”
Flashes of her appear—memories I don’t want.
Legs crisscrossed on her pale-yellow bed, making funny faces into her laptop on our video chats.
Every exuberant, full-bodied greeting at the airport.
Her jumping onto me for piggyback rides at the beach.
The gentleness in her voice forces me to see the concerned tilt to her chin, the crease at the corner of her mouth, and her gray eyes expanding with the question.
She must’ve asked me that a million times, especially when things got hard.
I always said the same thing. “Fine.”
She pauses as if the answer hurts her.
“It’s not a good time,” I say after a beat. “I’ll… think about it.”
Then, I hang up.
Everything has gone wrong today.
I don’t know where Lena is—maybe in the barn. I circle the property, telling each of Mr. Deakins’ friends that their day is done, ending with him.
“Plans have changed,” I explain, handing over money for him and his buddies. “I’ll be in touch tomorrow about the van.”
“Well, it was fun… we had a good run…”
I don’t stay to hear the rest.
Inside the café, Dot and Ruthie play checkers at a corner table. I instruct Trisha to close as soon as possible before calling Ruthie over.
“Say goodbye. We’re going home.” I don’t mean to sound angry, but Ruthie winces at my voice as if I’ve spoken too loudly. It’s possible. It’s hard to tell anymore. Even so, she obeys.
Dot and I exchange a knowing look—I don’t want to talk, and she has nothing to say to me anyway. Her lips pinch before getting on her phone.
My breathing doesn’t normalize until Ruthie and I are home, closing the door behind us. I want to be home with my daughter, away from the world. I need distance from the lingering families, job offers, movie deals, and residual bullshit.
Distance from Lena, too. I fear the changes ahead and worry she can’t handle them.
I feel even worse forcing her to.
On the counter, the file folder from the studio protrudes from Lena’s bag. I ignore it. My anger is a blanket, keeping me warm, and I don’t want to be without it yet.
But settling onto the couch with Ruthie’s head on my shoulder as we watch TV, my determination falters.
I said things I shouldn’t have.
She’s right—this isn’t me. But the truth is, I haven’t been me since that fucking bomb destroyed me.
I’ll never be that young man again, untainted and unscarred by such atrocities, powerful and capable—the real me.
The me I so desperately want to be again, but I know I never will be.
So many things were stolen that day. Lauren’s reappearance rips the seams on my old wounds, gutting me again, especially since she inflicted many herself.
Not Lena’s fault.
I edge out from under Ruthie and return to my spot a moment later, contract in hand.
I start reading, but the words soon swirl on the page. I move to the kitchen table for more direct light and get my reading glasses—another change I don’t like. I pop my prescription migraine medicine with a glass of water and keep reading.
Soon, the front door clicks, and Lena steps in, carrying a paper bag from Publix. Dot must’ve driven her. I don’t know what to expect, which unnerves me. We’ve never argued like this before. Since she’s often fueled by anxiety, it’s hard to know where this new road will take us.
Our eyes meet—hers are puffy but dry. Her lips upturn slightly—not enough to be called a smile, but an attempt at one.
She offers reassurance. I do nothing. Even so, I feel myself softening to her. Despite our second fight in as many days, she’s home with a dinner plan and a hint of a smile. She always makes others feel good even when she doesn’t.
“Mom, look. Dad’s letting me rot my brain,” Ruthie tattles, pointing at the princess movie on TV. Catching my stern gaze, she shrugs. “He told me not to let the princess part go to my head, though.”
Her smile grows. “That’s good. Hungry for dinner?”
“What’re we having?”
Lena gives her a coy look. “A Ruthie special.”
Her face goes wide with delight. She spits “spaghetti” in a single syllable. I laugh—I can’t help it, and the room feels like home again—not a waiting room for an unwanted appointment.
Chuckling, Lena empties the bag one-handed, revealing each ingredient to her captive audience.
Ruthie loves helping with dinner, but given my work schedule, I don’t get to see their dinner game very often.
With each unveiling, she steps toward the kitchen, until finally climbing onto a barstool and leaning half her body across the counter.
“First, we start the sauce,” she declares, holding up a wooden spoon with authority.
Lena gets out a cutting board, knife, onion, and green pepper. She attempts to hold the pepper with her injured hand and cut it with the other, but it spins out from under her loose grip.
“Let me help.” I rise from the table. My eyes need a break anyway.
Lena moves aside, saying nothing, and busies herself with a more manageable task—boiling water for the noodles.
I sympathize—the inability to do what should be easy poses a mental challenge. She’s not used to it. Not like I am. Her frustration grows with each difficult action, even when I step in to help. No one wants to depend on help. At least her affliction is temporary.
Over dinner, not much is said. Lena seems reluctant to engage us like usual. But finally, she fills the void with, “Tomorrow’s Sunday, and it’s our first day off together in ages. Let’s do something fun. I thought we could—”
“I’m working.”
Her shoulders fall. “On a Sunday? You never work on Sundays.”
“Making up for time lost.” I don’t tell her I called my captain and asked for a shift. I’m not proud of this. Or her disappointment.
But work provides a good distraction. Besides, she’s done this to me a hundred times.
“What shift?” she tries, her voice duller than usual. “Maybe we could do something before or after.”
“Mid.”
“How about Ruthie and I bring you dinner, then? We could meet at the park like we used to.”
“The one with the gators?” Ruthie gushes.
“Yes, gator park,” Lena says. Her eyes land on mine, softly pleading. “Will you come gator spotting with us, Ben?”
A lump forms in my throat. “Can’t. I’m working a concert at the amphitheater downtown.”
“Oh, Ben. A concert? That won’t be good for you,” she says and half-signs together.
“I’ll be fine.”
“Can we go to church with Auntie Dot and Aunt Barb?” Ruthie asks. She shouldn’t call them Auntie or Aunt, especially not Mrs. Moore, but I’ve given up correcting her. She’s claimed Dot as her Auntie; by extension, Mrs. Moore is Aunt Barb.
“Sure.” Lena collects dirty dishes and takes them into the kitchen, swallowing her disappointment.
She attempts no further discussion, even after Ruthie goes to bed.
No talking.
No interrogation.
Maybe she’s broken.
Or simply tired of fighting.
After the things I said, I understand.
I continue reading the contract while she moves quietly around me—folding laundry, sort of , rinsing their boots in the mud room, and straightening Ruthie’s toys in the living room. I drown her out, focusing on the convoluted lawyer-speak before me.
After reading every word of the contract (some parts multiple times), I realize it’s a good deal.
She’ll make two years’ profit in two months.
Plus, she’s thought of everything—maintaining our residency and normal routines, compensation for employees, parking allotments, spaces for support groups to continue meeting, our personal use of the playground, walking trail, fields, barn, and even protection of her mom’s tree.
She has the right to attend daily production meetings and offer input.
There’s even a stipend for the animals they might use in shots.
This wasn’t a snap decision. She considered everything, even things I wouldn’t have. Though her days often get away from her, Lena is a good businessperson, and Saddletree means the world to her. I should’ve trusted her to ensure that Saddletree is treated with the respect and care it deserves.
Glancing up from my reading, I expect to see her, but the open living room, kitchen, and dining are empty. Except for where I’m reading, the lights are low, as if she’s gone to bed.
A sinking, empty feeling hits me with her absence, growing deeper and darker with every shit thing I said to her earlier. She tried to do something good for us— for me —and I answered with, “Why haven’t you given me more kids?” What the fuck is wrong with me?
I find her in the dark bedroom, turned away from me, appearing asleep. But I feel the tension in the room and know she isn’t. I quietly go about my normal routine, playing along. If she doesn’t want to talk, I won’t make her.
Soon, I slide into bed and curl around her, careful of her injured arm, propped on a pillow beside her.
Her body stiffens, but she doesn’t pull away.
She always accepts me, even when she probably shouldn’t.
I ease closer, cradling her to me, hoping she understands my regret, that she feels what I can’t seem to say.