30. Thirty
Thirty
LENA
I t’s nearly eleven when my phone indicates an arrival through our new electronic gate, and my entire body sighs in relief. Perhaps it’s unwarranted tension. I witnessed the plans Ben made with Jack, so I knew where he was. But an undercurrent of anxiety has run through me since the comic-con.
He’s avoiding me. Again.
Stepping outside to the front deck, it’s not Ben’s Jeep pulling in beside my truck. It’s Jack’s Tesla. Barefoot, I race down the spiral staircase and reach the passenger door as Ben nearly spills out.
“Sorry, Lena. Too many whiskies,” Jack apologizes, rounding the car to help.
Ben laughs, red-faced. “Not enough whiskies.”
Jack edges his shoulder under Ben’s arm, supporting his bulky frame like a crutch.
“He didn’t want to come home,” Jack tells me, his brown eyes pinched in concern.
Shit, I pushed too hard. I tuck that pain away for later and position myself on his free side. “Ben, let’s go upstairs, huh?”
His feet move unsteadily beneath him, and he laughs again. “See, Jack? I’ve got a hot wife.”
“I know, bud.”
“A really amazing wife.” His voice almost sounds sad and apologetic. “Think she’ll be mad?”
“I’m not mad, Ben,” I say beside him.
He twists in surprise, as if seeing me for the first time. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
“Come on, Benny, ol’ boy. Use those tree trunks of yours,” Jack urges as we circle the spiral staircase, one step at a time.
A snorting chuckle spurts from him. “Tree trunks.”
He stumbles through the front door, ramming my casted arm into the doorjamb, fingers first. I wince but bite my lip to avoid cursing.
“You okay?” Jack asks.
“Yep.” Not okay. Definitely not okay.
Ben stares at me, confused.
We get him to the couch, where he plops down with a loud thud that makes him laugh again.
“Shh, Ruthie’s sleeping,” I say, leaning down to remove his shoes.
Jack grabs water from the fridge and hands it to him. “Drink up,” he orders.
I walk Jack to the door. “Sorry about this.”
“No apologies. It was nice that he finally let his guard down with me.” He hovers in the open doorway, running a hand through his shaggy brown hair. “Listen, Lena. You should know that he’s, um, not himself.”
I lean against the opposite side, folding my arms and fighting tears. “I know… How can I help him, Jack?”
“If this were a novel, I’d say…” He rubs his stubbled chin. “Give him a holy-shit moment that lifts him into a better perspective and shows him what’s right in front of him. In real life, though, that’s a lot of pressure and hard to do—”
“He gave me fireworks once. Surprised me with them after I’d had a terrible day, right out there, over the pond. That was the first time I thought this place could be… well, Saddletree.”
Jack’s eyes go wide with renewed admiration. “Ben Wright did that? A fucking grand romantic gesture? Ah, damn, that’s my boy. That’s what you need, Lena. Ben’s version of fireworks.”
“That’s what closing Saddletree was meant to be. Epic fail. It’s only made him angrier.”
“Yeah, he’s mentioned it… try something more subtle. It’s all change and indecision for him right now. He needs to feel secure. That’s all.”
“Secure. Okay. Thanks for bringing him home and for the advice.”
“No problem, but I’ll be stealing the fireworks thing for my next book. I took his keys. My neighbor Vern and I will bring his Jeep over in the morning.”
“I’ll have a batch of Rowan’s favorite double chocolate chip cookies waiting for you.”
“Hell, yes… Oh, and how ‘bout we take Ruthie for the day? We’re doing the Children’s Museum and Airlie Gardens—it’s free day. Might give you some time to create some fireworks, eh?”
I chuckle. “She’ll be ready. Thanks again.”
He tosses a wave before heading for the stairs.
Ben rests his head on the back of the couch, eyes closed, and I assume he’s asleep. But as my shadow crosses the room, he sits up.
“Lena.” He sounds somber again, as if sucked into whatever black hole he climbed into by tossing back whiskies.
I go to him, grabbing his thick hand in mine. “Feeling okay?”
“I’m okay.”
“How about a sandwich? You’ll feel better with—”
“I’m not hungry.”
I take a breath, trying to decipher his tone. It sounds like regret. “Ben, it’s okay. Everyone gets a little hammered occasionally, and I’m sure Jack made it easy. You’re off tomorrow. We’ll talk then.”
“I don’t want to talk.”
“Um, let’s go to bed,” I say, signing the words as I say them.
His hands shoot up in a rapid-fire response. “I don’t want to go to bed.”
“What do you want? Tell me, Ben.” I try to be soft and understanding, but his clear frustration is pooling and seeping over to me. What happened to the jovial drunk of a few minutes ago who laughed at Jack’s every word? He doesn’t even seem drunk anymore, just bothered and restless.
“I don’t want to talk,” he repeats, running his hands over his head in frustration. “I want… this rock in my gut and this fucking battle in my head to go away. It’s making me… second-guess everything.”
“Second-guess what, Ben?”
“The damn job. My fucking hearing. Hell, you.”
The word runs like a dagger through me— you —then it twists and deepens, splintering my core, with his glassy-eyed glare. But I think of what he’s been through, what he’s still going through, and dredge a secret strength from some dark reserve and bury my feelings. Again. I have to.
I take a breath and manage a smile, thinking of that day Ben showed up as I created my first garden, affectionately called my Middle Finger Garden .
I tried to get rid of him, warned him that I was all anxiety and bullshit, not worth his trouble—a sentiment I replayed often in our early days.
He stayed anyway and kept showing up. My inner struggles made more sense to Ben than they did to me then.
That’s what he needs now—someone who gets it.
This is anger, anxiety, and alcohol talking—not Ben Wright.
“Second guess, if you want. But I love you no matter what. Cop or not. Hurting or not. Hearing or not. That won’t change,” I say, slow and clear. “Whatever our reality, remember?”
He softens, but I can’t predict him—his expression lands somewhere between crying and screaming. The starbursts around his eyes melt into gentle lines as he takes me in. His hand goes to my face, almost roughly, and cups my cheek before pulling me to him.
Then, his lips take mine, desperate and sudden.
“I… want… you.” The words straddle kisses and come out like a command—to me or himself, I don’t know. But he repeats it in a sad whisper that he probably can’t hear, but we both feel.
I think to say it back to him, more surely, but I nearly slip from the couch edge as his strong kisses push me against it. “Ben…”
His lips curve over my chin and down my neck, clumsy but determined.
Hands grip my back, tugging me closer as he lowers onto me.
My legs circle his midsection to keep my balance and draw him closer.
I’ve missed this. He fumbles with the straps of my cami when one tangles with his watch—a mishap that’d usually have us giggling.
But he isn’t even smiling like the joy is lost. He seems bothered and hurried.
“Ben,” I say louder this time. He stops, hovering with concern as he watches my lips. “Are you sure you’re up for this? You’re, um, okay?”
He whips us both upright, me straddling his lap. The kitchen light illuminates our faces as we consider each other.
“I’m fine,” he says softly. “Truly. Are you okay with this?”
A vigorous, automatic nod hides my hesitation. I want him, but I’m unsure I want him like this . The whiskies have worn off enough—he’s lucid and serious. And we both need the connection. But it feels more like a diversion than the sexy, fun times we’re used to.
Still, I deliver a quick, “Yeah, okay,” desperate for this not to turn out like the morning of my accident, when this nightmare started with a stupid glance at the clock.
Besides, he’s second-guessing me? Like a product, he’s considering returning to Amazon? I don’t want to disappoint him. I can’t deny him this. Or anything. Or miss a chance for him to feel close and secure.
He gives me a tender kiss like he reads my mind and wants to offer reassurance. “Hold on to me.”
I lock my arms around his neck, and he lifts us both, taking my breath away at how easily he does it. There’s no drunkenness in his manner as he carries me down the hall, either. His eyes laser to mine, even when he kisses me, as if afraid to look away.
He gently eases me onto the bed, disrobing me in seconds. Then, he takes me in. Slowly. One curve at a time, like he’s mapping a trail through the wilderness. I want to joke— you’ve seen it all before, hon —but his expression stops me.
He’s locking me into his memory like I’m a phone number he never wants to forget. Worries start to crowd me. Then, he collides with me. Full on. Heavy. Handsome and all-consuming.
I barely get his clothes off—a push-and-pull tug-of-war, like his body is an afterthought. And when we’re both there, naked, I shift on top of him, letting him see me fully because he seems to want to, and easing him into me like we’re in slow motion.
He cries out, closing his eyes. But only for a second.
Hands grip my ass hard, guiding me to the perfect rhythm. Despite his eagerness to do this, he wants me slowly, savoring each thrust.
His hand finds me, touching me as I move over him, but his accuracy is off.
It’s an awkward, hit-or-miss endeavor. I go with it anyway—this is for him, not me—but I can’t fool him.
Soon, he flips me on my back and crams his mouth between my legs like he has something to prove.
It’s rough, almost frustrating, but wild enough to make me come quickly.
He groans when he enters me again, deep and fast, and I cry out this time. He hits the end of me with a vigor I’m not used to. Fun and gentle lovemaking is replaced by rough, hard, and determined sex. I wonder if this is the real Ben—aggressive and strong—and what else he’s held back from me.
He pins my hands over my head, regardless of my cast. As he rams against me, my eyes devour him like a feast. And the part of me that worries, that thinks too much, disintegrates into aching, loving, sweet pleasure.
“Holy shit, I’m going to come again,” I spit out because I can’t help it.
“Hold on,” he says against my lips. Watching me. Waiting. Steadily moving into me until his eyes close, and I can’t hold on anymore. My contractions pull him into me, and he breathily moans my name as he finishes.
We stay there, suspended, foreheads pressed against each other. I smile up at him, kiss his lips, then his chin, and plant soft pecks over his cheeks and scar, needing him to feel loved and secure. Needing the same myself.
But the comfort I need isn’t there. And I don’t want to be tricked into believing anything’s different.
He soon shifts away, lying on his back and staring at the ceiling.
I leave him for the bathroom and cry silently on the toilet.