23. Twenty-Three
Twenty-Three
BEN
L ena carries Ruthie awkwardly to the bathroom. I’m compelled to follow and lend a hand.
I’ve never spoken to her like that and regret it immediately, but my harsh reaction felt necessary in the moment.
I don’t need her to talk or hear for me— not yet .
At Saddletree, she intercedes on my behalf frequently, and I’ve never objected.
It’s a noisy environment there, and her help prevents me from making apologies and asking people to repeat themselves.
It’s surprising how often that irritates people.
The only difference is that she did it here, around people I want to impress, a distinction that’s unfair to her.
Guilt settles on my shoulders the further they get from me. I turn, determined to follow.
Lauren’s hand slips around my bicep like a hook, stopping my forward motion.
“You okay?” she asks. “Mom said—”
“Everything’s fine. They might need help.”
“Are you kidding? Lena’s got this. She’s handled this a million times—that’s expert-level momming.”
I groan, not needing Lauren to tell me what a good mom Lena is. I know firsthand. But since she’s operating one-handed, I want to help and deliver my apology. I turn toward the lawn and no longer see them through the dense crowd.
Lauren’s head tilts toward me—part pained, part curious. “Did you really watch those awful movies for me?”
“Yes.” I scan the area, wondering if they’re inside the restroom yet. I could wait for them outside if I knew which bathroom they entered.
“Gosh, Ben. I wish you would’ve said.” Lauren’s voice is like a fly buzzing around my ear. “I didn’t like them either.”
“What?” I demand, my eyes landing on hers. “ You wanted to watch them.”
She shakes her head before I get the words out. “No… I mean, yes, I suppose it’s my fault. But Uncle Rob told me if I wanted to get close to you… watch a scary movie.”
That fits. Rob’s good at two things—gross doctor stories and making moves. It sounds like his bad advice.
Still, this new information amuses me. “So, we watched movies neither of us wanted to see?”
“He was only on his second wife then… I still should’ve known better than to listen to him.” Her tone shoulders bounce in a sheepish shrug. “Good memories, regardless.”
A smile emerges, remembering her face buried in my shoulder and me, eyes closed, trying to be “the man” and not cringe every time a knife plunged into a victim. I hated those movies and still have a problem with gratuitous violence.
I wonder how Lena and Ruthie are faring.
“Lena’s amazing,” Lauren says, returning my attention to her. “And beautiful.”
“Yes.”
When I don’t engage, Lauren launches into a long-winded oration about her boys and how violence in movies increased their aggression as middle schoolers. I zone out.
More regret bombards me. The other night, Lena suggested we watch the first Hunter movie together. I made a snide remark about getting enough of Jim Hunter already and went to bed early, claiming a migraine. It felt easier.
Standing here, shooting the shit with Lauren when I should be chasing Lena to apologize, also feels easier.
But that’s not the only reason I stay.
I glimpse John and Jillian watching from several yards away.
A familiar warmth rekindles in me. I recall my homecomings.
Lauren would drop everything for my return, commit all her time and energy to me, knowing every second was a countdown before another long stretch apart.
Disappear with me , she’d say. Her complete attention kept me going until my last tour.
I lived in two worlds; in hers, I found incredible comfort, zero pressure, and love.
Until I didn’t.
“I wonder how else he steered me wrong,” she says.
“Who?”
“Rob.” Her dainty head tilts, contemplating me. “Where were you just now?”
“What do you mean?”
Her finger twiddles around my face. “That faraway look of yours, like the old days.”
Her inside knowledge unnerves me. “I wasn’t anywhere. Here. Thinking about Lena.”
She nods, glancing at her feet, and I feel sorry for my curtness, especially after Lena’s insights in John’s office. The Rileys pressured her about everything—her appearance, education, job choices, relationships. That pressure surely extended to me. Even now, maybe.
“I was… thinking about your great-aunt’s questionable potato salad and your grandmother getting pissed at Rob for that awful joke he made at my last going-away party,” I say.
Her entire demeanor lifts. Even her feet rise onto her toes. “Oh, gosh, I remember. The potato salad was crunchy—what the hell made it crunchy? Oh, and Rob… you’d think a doctor would refrain from dirty jokes.”
“Rob doesn’t refrain from anything.”
She laughs.
Glancing over my shoulder, she mumbles a quick, “Oh, shit.” She reaches for me but thinks better of it. She cowers instead, peeking carefully over my shoulder on her tiptoes. “Not again.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Ryan from accounting.” She huffs and rolls her eyes. “Don’t look.”
I look.
Behind me, thirty yards and closing, an average-looking guy in a flamingo shirt scans the crowd.
Lauren edges closer, using me as a human shield and pleading with her gray eyes. “We went to dinner once, and he’s weirded me out ever since.”
My brow furrows, and I prepare to have a word with him.
Lauren slaps my chest in amused protest. “Ben. Relax. He’s a decent guy, just not for me.”
“Situations like that escalate.”
“He doesn’t need a talking-to. He means well, but… is there any way you might dance with me?”
“No.”
“Ben, I’m not asking you to enjoy it,” she grins, “just help me out. If he sees me with someone more… impressive… he’ll get the hint and back off.”
I nod, reminded of Rowan Mackey and her similar trouble once. Lauren pulls me toward the stage, and music echoes through my hearing aids like I’m in a cave. Trapped. My hands find her waist but barely hold on, as if that makes this better.
The determined man detours when he sees me, confirming her story. It’s Lauren Riley, after all. Unwanted suitors must be a daily problem.
“Thank you.” Her hands slide up my chest and circle my neck.
“Can we stop dancing now?”
“Another minute, please.”
“Obsessive men are a problem for women,” I say, trying to be conversational. “I see it often. It’s a wonder women still tolerate men at all. Evolution should have done away with us by now.”
She laughs, though I don’t mean to be funny.
“Be direct with him next time,” I advise.
“Tell him you’re not interested. He could be emotionally disturbed and should be taken seriously.
A friend of mine settled for a man she considered decent, and he turned violent.
She has facial scars from a burn injury she sustained as a teenager, and he used them to manipulate her self-worth.
Now, she’s with someone who loves her as she is. ”
I shut my mouth—I’m talking too much.
Lauren huffs, her pained irises drifting toward her feet. “I fucked up, Ben. You don’t have to remind me.”
Shit. Scars. “I wasn’t.”
“I’d do anything to change what happened.” Her voice is stern but shaky. Her glassy eyes find mine again. “ Anything. ”
I don’t like the desperation in her eyes. I don’t like many things about this. My hands fall off her waist like freed weights. Stepping on this conversational landmine was not my intention—explaining Rowan’s situation was meant to encourage her not to fall into the same trap. That’s all.
But I see the unfortunate parallel between our stories and wish I’d said nothing. This is why I don’t talk much.
Lauren’s soft gaze tugs gently on the tight locks that keep the past contained. Her expression is identical to the first time I kissed her. I’d been nervous, but she made it easy with the same sweet, wanting, and patient look she’s giving me now.
She read me like a book she never wanted to put down.
That was the best thing about Lauren—she was easy.
Not in a derogatory sense, of course. Just in the way that I became the axis on which she rotated, and she never required anything of me except my attention.
She hung on my words, clung to my arm, and devoted herself to my happiness. Completely uncomplicated.
I thought she was it for me.
That’s why what happened to us destroyed me with such totality—that memory slips through the locked door, too. To her, I was broken. And my love for her shattered with the cold wince of her eyes. The IED taught me pain, but Lauren wounded me.
Wounds I’m now grateful to have endured since they led me to Lena.
“It can’t be changed, and I’m exactly where I want to be,” I finally say, hating how the memory still tightens my throat. “Excuse me.”
“Ben, I’m just—”
Her voice disappears as my attention diverts to the crowd. I look for Lena’s green romper and catch a glimpse before she moves behind a food truck.
Several minutes later, I find Lena and Ruthie sitting under a sprawling magnolia on the far west side of the party, opposite the Rileys’ camp.
Ruthie munches on a hot dog while Lena stares off, pensive and bothered.
I don’t know if she saw me dancing with Lauren— God, I hope she didn’t.
But she’s upset. Shit, she probably did.
She doesn’t look at me when I sit beside her.
Ruthie holds up her hot dog. “Dogs are pretty good, Dad. You should get one.”
“Maybe later.”
“Well, you can’t have cotton candy without having real food first,” Ruthie reasons. “Then, I’m going on some rides.”
“That’s our plan.” Lena stays even-toned and refuses eye contact. “You should mingle. We’re fine on our own.”
She’s telling me to fuck off. Her supportive enthusiasm has vacated the premises. This is Pissed-Off Lena.
She wipes ketchup from Ruthie’s lips and brushes the crumbs off her dress. They stand, and Lena tells Ruthie to toss her garbage in the nearest receptacle. I rise, too, the magnolia leaves brushing my shoulders as I slump underneath them.
Lena huffs when I don’t take off. “You should rejoin the Rileys. We’ll be fine.”