18. Eighteen #2
His frustration ripples across the table.
His world is changing, and he doesn’t know how to navigate it.
Offering my opinion feels tricky, especially because I don’t think he wants it.
The job sounds perfect in every way but one.
Cherry and Dot’s words replay in my head— around her…
protecting her… her mad come-hither eyes .
I don’t believe Ben would cheat on me, but she’d put him to the test. Falling into old habits is easy. He may be angry, but he still cares for her. Love and anger are two paths along the same trail, right? His anger wouldn’t exist without having loved her first. What if those paths cross again?
But letting my fears steal his opportunity feels horribly unfair. Like settling for Lucas’s pool house would’ve been for me five years ago. He’d undoubtedly blame and resent me, just as he has with everything else lately.
I manage an encouraging smile. “Whenever I didn’t know what to do, Dad would say to wait for the fog to clear. Advice I wish I would’ve followed more often. Ninety percent of my bad decisions were made too quickly.”
“Time brings clarity—I know,” he says dismissively. “But so does more information. John suggested a working interview.”
The server brings our food, breaking our conversation. When Ben doesn’t continue once she leaves, I launch into my questioning mode. He gives brief but efficient answers, explaining it as a day in the life of the position, with his former training officer showing him the ropes.
While I nod and smile, a full-fledged battle plays out in my head. Anxiety versus Reason.
What harm could it do to have a better feel for the place? Score 1 for Reason.
Ben is a committed husband and father. It’s one day, not a lifetime. Score 2 and 3 for Reason.
She’s one of the top five hottest women of all time (according to Dot), Ben’s first love, and mysteriously missing any worry lines.
Anything could happen. Angry make-up sex.
A romantic reunion. A damsel in distress scenario.
Ah, and he has to carry her? What if they get locked in a closet?
Or a freaking bedroom? Or caught in the rain?
Forced proximity, locked doors, grumpy meets sunshine, second chances, and rekindled love?
Damn Cherry and her romances!
Only it’s not just fiction. These things happen. Even to the best couples.
What if he spends one day with her and decides he no longer wants me? That I’m a placeholder for the woman he lost? What if one touch between them sets off an avalanche of love and regret that buries them inside and takes him away from me forever?
And anxiety slides into home for the win.
Now, I stare into my beer, hoping for answers.
“What’re you thinking?” His emerald eyes latch on mine in his thoughtful way.
“I won’t lie—Lauren bothers me. I’m worried about you and don’t trust her. It’s hard feeling comfortable about this, especially since that time in your life caused you so much pain, and you can’t even talk to me about it.”
There, I said it. An understated version of it, anyway. But calling Lauren my worst, hellish nightmare and my anxiety bitches’ new bestie seems too much.
My brow clinches, waiting for him to argue, blame me, or worse, fall into silence again, leaving me stranded in my overactive imagination.
Instead, he nods. “I understand. I’m asking a lot from you, especially with how things have been lately, but I’d like to explore the option. Not for Lauren. But for me. I’m asking for your trust—”
“You have it.” The words roll out like boulders down a mountainside, unstoppable. “You deserve the opportunity, and I won’t keep you from it. I’ll be okay.”
He looks surprised. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. I want what’s best for you. You should do the working interview and see what it’s like.” I bookend my answer with another forced smile and slip my hand over his for good measure.
He seems relieved, even meeting my smile with a softer one of his. I have to trust him. But this might haunt me when he loves the job, and Lauren becomes a permanent fixture in his work life and my worries.
Worries-for-later file.
Determined not to let everything be about the Rileys, I steer the conversation toward Saddletree. Ben’s remarks about my business hurt, but despite how poorly he said it, he only wants to help me and get his wife back. I need to let go of feeling offended and get to work.
His mood shifts, thankfully. He shares his ideas beyond Shakespeare and the van.
Going completely digital tops his list—scheduling, inventory, ordering, and accounting—and he gets excited as he explains.
Transforming my system, such as it is, fills me with trepidation.
But he’s narrowed software options to three, making it more manageable for me to research.
“Setting it up will be the most time-consuming part. Once it’s in place, you’ll be amazed at the time you save.”
He texts me their websites, briefly explaining their pros and cons. I look forward to sitting on the deck overlooking the pond with coffee, my computer, and an open mind. If Ben gets excited about this, so should I.
He gives me a shortlist of security companies that install electric gates and cameras.
“That way, when we’re closed, we’re closed,” he says. “We can enjoy Saddletree without interference… the way we used to. I miss how peaceful it was then.”
“Me, too.” Ben has pushed for this since the first “trespassers” wandered into the off-limits barn and drove down our driveway during off-hours. People show whenever they feel like it, as if Saddletree was public land paid for by tax dollars, and they’re entitled to it.
“It’d be nice to have some privacy again,” I say.
“So, you’ll consider it?”
“Definitely. Saddletree is ours first. I’m sorry it hasn’t felt like that lately, but I promise that’ll change.”
“Lena, thank you.” He says the words slowly, oozing sincerity like it’s exactly what he needed me to say.
We share a look that assures me we’re thinking the same thing. Everything’s okay.
But everything’s not okay—Elsie Todd flags us down as we pull into the driveway later that afternoon. Ben stops and puts down his window.
“The bunnies,” she gasps, “they’ve escaped.”
Ruthie makes a strange wallop from the backseat while unbuckling her car seat. Ben puts the Jeep into park, mid-driveway, and we race to the pen. The door flops open, and the pen lies empty.
“I’m so sorry,” Elsie gushes. “Someone wanted a cuddle but didn’t latch the door properly.”
“Here’s one,” a crewman says as he approaches.
“Chandler!” Ruthie coos, eyes full of fat tears. She follows the man inside the pen, where he releases Chandler.
“Ruthie, stay here in case any bunnies come back,” Ben says. She plops on the tree stump inside, loving on the big ears of the rescued American Fuzzy Lop.
“Perimeter search,” Ben says. “You take the barn. I’ll take the chicken coop.”
I do as I’m told, starting in the stall where the feed is kept. There, Monica, a checkered black and white bunny, nibbles on a feed bag. I scoop her up and return her to the pen, where Ruthie claps through her tears.
Ben finds Phoebe and Joey, the Rex Rabbits, near the chicken coop, looking lost and confused. Jaye finds Rachel, the fluffy cashmere, under the hay in an empty barn stall.
But we can’t find Ross. After two hours of frantic searching for the pygmy rabbit, we take a fitful Ruthie home. She is devastated. Ben carries her upstairs, and she cries on his shoulder.
“Pygmies like to dig holes, remember?” I say, tearing up. “He’s probably hiding in a hole.”
“He’d never hide from me, Mom.”
In bed, she curls into a ball and sobs. Ben gives me a look outside her bedroom that stabs my heart—anger, irritation, blame—and our good day vanishes.
“I’ll keep looking,” he says gruffly. “Stay here.”
Ruthie soon falls asleep. Helpless, I stand on the deck with binoculars, hoping to glimpse the tiny bunny.
I don’t find Ross, but my property is overrun with trucks and gear.
A huge white tent has been erected near the tractor-trailers.
Construction has started on the new shelter by the pond.
Crews set up scenes on the walking trail, in the main house, and around the carport.
Golf carts, a small pick-up, a forklift, and over a hundred people traverse the landscape like ants over an anthill.
They’ve come in and taken over, just like he said they would. My promise to make this place feel like ours again feels further away.