22. Twenty-Two
Twenty-Two
LENA
“W ow, Ben.” I stand at the window wall in his potential office, overlooking a delicate rock, sand, and stone garden below. Flashes of orangey gold catch my eyes as koi skim through the pond. Box turtles bake on a staged log. “Ruthie’ll love the view. This office is swanky.”
“I don’t need swank, but I like the minimalism and efficiency of it.” He adjusts a light switch near the door, and the recessed lighting dims.
I move toward the room’s center and lean against the desk. “I can picture this for you. You deserve swank and dimming lights and a koi pond. What are you thinking?”
He leans beside me, folding his arms. “The decision is harder than it should be. One minute, I’ve decided. The next, I don’t know.”
“Well, what excites you about it?”
“The schedule and managing my time my way. The money. No-limits healthcare. Working with John. The minimal bullshit,” he lists off quickly.
“What’s holding you back?”
“Handing in my badge. Giving up the larger community.” He pauses, glancing at the dark tile floors beneath us. “The Rileys. You.”
“Me?”
“I don’t want a job that will cause you anxiety.”
I chuckle. “You mean more anxiety than you being a cop?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes, I do.” I push off the desk and twist to stand before him, straddling his extended legs.
My cast arm rests on his shoulder while the other lands on his chest. He unlocks his arms and slides them around me.
“I won’t worry as long as we have this… you and me together, talking, as long as we’re us again. Are we?”
“Yes.” His forehead presses to mine. “We’re always us, even when it feels like we aren’t.”
“Then, I’m with you, whatever you decide to do.” A soft kiss bridges the gap between us. “Tell me why you’re reluctant about the Rileys.”
His shoulders bounce. “How about I show you?”
He doesn’t explain as we leave the office, travel down the hall, and up the elevator again. His badge grants us access to a posh suite with John Riley’s name on the door. Everything is dim and quiet, and it feels slightly wrong to be here, like snooping in someone’s medicine cabinet.
But Ben is undeterred.
He doesn’t turn on the lights—they aren’t needed with sunlight pouring in from the floor-to-ceiling windows. Mr. Riley’s workspace is larger than the dining room at Saddletree, and I can’t fathom the cost of the leather sofas, handmade desk, or modern art.
Ben motions toward a display of pictures elegantly centering a glossy wood-paneled wall opposite John’s desk and plush seating. I move closer, and that’s when I see Ben’s army photo amongst the others.
A breathy sigh escapes me, taking it in, and I’m bum-rushed with feelings, good and bad, not knowing which to latch onto. It’s the same portrait on our family wall at home.
Finally, Ben says, “I feel like the prodigal son, and this offer is my return to the fold. Maybe it doesn’t matter—a job’s a job—but it’s wrong. Leaving the Rileys behind wasn’t me avoiding or wasting my life… it was me finding my life.”
His eyes lock on mine like he wants to study me.
He’ll see only love in my eyes now that his words have broken through my crowded emotions.
God, I adore him. I’ve always known this about him, but it strikes me, once again, how thoughtful and intelligent Ben is—he doesn’t say much, but he thinks about everything.
And this insight into his relationship with the Rileys is a profound one.
He shrugs lightly, shoving his hands into the pockets of his khaki pants. “I could be overthinking it.”
“You’re not. Trust your feelings, Ben.” I nod toward his picture. “This is… strange.”
“It’s a symbol of respect. He’s always viewed me as a son.”
“You aren’t, though… I don’t want to overthink it, either. Or dissuade you from something that could be amazing. Military service is important to them, and so are you. They want to showcase it—no big deal, I guess.”
“But?”
“But, do you think that attitude comes with… expectations?” I ask, my mind spinning over what it could mean.
“That’s why I’m reluctant. I don’t know.” He runs a hand through his short hair. “They want to pick up where we left off, and that’s challenging after…”
I know better than to ask what happened. I don’t want to push him when he’s finally opening up. But his furrowed brow makes me hurt for him—it was no ordinary break-up.
“So, accepting the job feels like stepping back into your old life?”
“It suggests I want that life back. I don’t.” He winces. “I want the job as I am… not who I was. If that makes sense.”
“It does.” My good hand goes to his arm for a gentle squeeze.
“When you know, you’ll know—that’s what Mom used to say.
It’s like falling in love. I loved Mark, but always tried to make us fit when we didn’t.
I didn’t know any better until you came along.
Don’t try to make anything fit. It either will or won’t.
When you know for sure, that’s your answer. ”
He smirks briefly and nods. “So, wait?”
“I think so. All you have to do today is enjoy the picnic and spend time with Ruthie and me. Right?”
He gives me a short kiss. “Right. We should get back to her before she runs away with the ponies.”
I laugh as his hand slides into mine and folds through my fingers.
Before we reach the door, I nod toward his handsome portrait.
“It must be shitty for Lauren, walking into her dad’s office every day to see an ex in a place of honor on the wall.
The first thing Mom did when I left Mark was take down every picture of us—I found the stack buried in her closet after she died. ”
Ben’s brow pinches, considering my words. “I hadn’t thought of that. Trying to make me feel sorry for her?”
“I’m not trying to make you feel anything for her… but seeing that, I kinda do,” I shrug, pulling him to the door.
Ruthie races full speed across the lawn when she sees us. Ben scoops her up, and she straddles his side. “Dad, I rode the ponies four times. They were a little slow for me, but that’s okay. There’s a cotton candy machine!” Her eyes look like green golf balls.
“How about some real food first?” I say.
Mrs. Riley lumbers over, winded and sweaty in her museum-worthy attire. “Ruthie, you got away from me again.”
“Sorry, Jillian. She tends to do that.”
“I love her independent spirit,” she puffs. “Reminds me of Freddy and Omar. Course, we didn’t have them at her age.”
Her pointed expression makes it a complaint.
“Let me introduce you to some of Riley Trust’s families, huh?”
She steps between us, linking her arm to Ben’s like a move she’s done a thousand times. With Ruthie in his arms and Jillian on his free side, I fall behind them—a tagalong afterthought.
She leads us to the calmer right side of the grassy area, away from the food trucks and children’s spaces—where a lovely picnic-scape hosts the Rileys and their special guests.
Colorful awnings tied to posts provide ample shade for blankets, pillows, Adirondack chairs, and tables with food and drinks.
It could be a magazine spread in Coastal Living under the headline—“Outdoor Dining with the Upper Crust.” This is their space—and though it’s not roped off, it feels like the red-carpet section where one must be invited in, which makes me think of vampires again.
Ruthie slides off of Ben and takes my hand. “I’m thirsty.”
I lead her to a serving table and pour her some lemonade. She’s flushed and already tired. When Ruthie goes full force, she crashes quickly. So, I think of finding a quiet spot where she can settle before her next round of fun.
But Lauren’s laughter lures me back to Ben. A gold-star wife wouldn’t leave her husband alone in such an important social situation. Ruthie and I wedge next to him as best we can.
Jillian and John introduce us to other members of upper management.
John brags about Ben’s workday at Riley Trust and how he prevented a homeless invasion near their property line—a story Ben neglected to share with me, but it sounds like they were under a zombie attack with them scaling the fences and gnashing their teeth to hear them tell it.
God, what is with me and the zombies and vampires today?
Ruthie leans against my leg, sipping her drink. New to cups without lids, she holds it precariously in her stubby hands, sucking from the rim instead of tilting it back. I scoop her up carefully, shifting her against my right hip so I can balance the cup for her with my cast hand.
“So, Lena, I hear Hollywood has taken over your little business,” Jillian says. “What’s that like?”
Little? Okay, that’s the route we’re taking? “Um, different, but exciting.”
“My grandsons love that Hunter movie,” Jenny Tenor chimes in. “Have you met Matt Kirby?”
I nod, shifting Ruthie’s weight as she leans against me. “He’s nice, very down-to-earth.”
“Is he as handsome as he is on TV?” Jenny asks. “I always think those actors must be air-brushed.”
“Um, he’s alright,” I answer diplomatically. “He’s not air-brushed.”
“He’s been raving about Saddletree on Insta,” another woman says.
“I loved this pic of you two.” She holds up her phone and pans it around to the crowd.
Jaye took the image of Matt and me in front of a hay bale.
I couldn’t dismantle it with the pitchfork one-handed, and he came to my rescue. “Positive publicity,” Jaye called it.
Judging by the sudden divot on Ben’s cheekbone from tightening his jaw, I imagine he’d call it something else.
“Oh, right,” I say weakly. “Everyone loves farm chores, especially when they don’t have to do them every day.”
“Well, he adores the place. He posts more about Saddletree than he does the movie,” she says, tucking her phone away.
“Must love the free advertising,” John Riley says, tilting his beer.
“I liked him in Nightshift . What about you, Ben? Are you a Matt Kirby fan?” Larry asks.
A beat passes, making me think Ben didn’t hear him.
“Ben’s not into horror movies or crime shows—he gets enough of both at work,” I say, shifting their attention back to me.
“That’s funny,” Lauren says. “You used to love horror movies. Remember our Halloween and Friday the 13 th marathons?”
“I only watched them because you liked them,” he says.
Lauren goes doe-eyed over his romantic admission while Jillian says, “Aw, how sweet.”
“Now, you’re watching one in your backyard,” Larry laughs. “What’s this one about? Demons? Ghosts?”
“Witches. Jim Hunter is saving a family from an ancient coven trying to steal their souls.” A coven not unlike the Rileys, I think, watching Lauren stare at my husband. Stop with the monster thoughts. “It’s a twist on your classic ghost story.”
“Well, hopefully, it won’t haunt your business,” John says. “It’s risky, closing for two months. Most businesses would find that difficult to recover from.”
I wonder for a moment if Ben has shared his concerns with them.
“I have a strong and loyal community base.” I hoist Ruthie more securely against me. She’s getting heavy, and my wrist twinges with pain under my cast from the effort. “After my accident, it makes sense. I want to do some restructuring anyway. Ben’s helping me make Saddletree run more efficiently.”
My voice upticks on the last part—a gold-star wife would obviously promote her husband’s skillset to the people interested in hiring him.
Ben sighs. “Lena’s a talented baker but a disorganized manager.”
Hello, bus. Didn’t think I’d get run over by you today.
John beams proudly. “A business can’t be successful on cupcakes alone…”
An internal cringe restarts my earlier tension like a stalled motor running again. What’s happening? How’d this turn around on me?
“I didn’t know you were business-minded, Ben.”
Ben’s long pause encourages me to answer for him. “He’s management -minded,” I say, just as Ben starts to speak. He closes his mouth and gives me a bothered look.
Still, I add, “A quality manager can manage any business, right? Cupcakes or not.”
Cold lemonade drizzles down the front of my romper. Ruthie startles awake. “Mom, potty.”
Ben leans in, easing the nearly empty cup from her hands and whispering sternly in my ear, “Stop answering for me.”
His soft, even admonishment comes out in a hot breath and makes me cringe. I don’t think anyone hears it, but I feel his irritation with me, and because my face is a human emoji board, others see it. A tiny smirk carries Jillian away from us while Jenny shoves napkins at me unsurely.
My forced smile emerges again, weaker this time. “Um, we better get cleaned up. Please, excuse us.”
Jenny points me toward the nearest bathroom, a mile away. I trek across the lawn, holding Ruthie tightly so the lemonade puddling in my bra won’t travel to my underwear.
Ruthie does her business in the family bathroom while I strip down to my boutique lingerie (I had high hopes for today) and use the hand dryer on my damp romper. She giggles at my ridiculous display of black lacy-covered butt and boobs—I suppose it is funny, but I don’t feel like laughing.
Have I been answering for him?
My anxiety bitches are quick to show me where I’ve gone wrong on replay. The Matt Kirby question. The business-minded remark. Wearing a romper. Damn it.
The wet spots dry, leaving stained rings on the top of my outfit. I redress with a huff.
“Buck up, buttercup,” Ruthie says suddenly.
I gasp. “Where’d you hear that?”
“Aunt Barb.”
“Huh, your grandma used to say that, too.” Over the river of my anxiety issues and through the woods of my terrible first marriage, Mom must’ve said that to me a million times. Hearing Ruthie say it makes me want to cry over how much I miss her.
I imagine her now, serving up her best Ben-advice between asking me questions about Matt Kirby.
What would she tell me to do? Buck up? Stand up?
Give up? I let so many things slide with Mark just to keep our peace.
Toward the end, I hung on to our pseudo-marriage by frayed threads tied to my finger, libel to break any second.
And they did, of course. Putting up with his shit only delayed the inevitable and made me feel like a human doormat. I can’t let that happen with Ben.
“Mom, cotton candy. Remember?” She climbs the step stool to wash her hands. “I’ll have a hot dog first, if that makes you happy.”
“Um, it would. Yes.” I push off the subway tiles, straighten my back, and switch into mom mode. This isn’t the time for Mom memories or Ben-worries.
But.
Emerging from the bathroom, I look for Ben. He’s easy to spot in a crowd, and I’m desperate to apologize for conversationally overstepping him.
“Where’s Dad?” Ruthie asks.
I scan the red-carpet area and don’t find him. “I don’t know.”
I spot John and Jillian—he pulls his wife closer by the waist, and she leans her head on his shoulder. They’re looking toward the stage, where the band plays a soft pop ballad, and just below, I spot my husband.
He’s dancing with Lauren.