34. Thirty-Four
Thirty-Four
LENA
I awake early Monday morning to black skies and Mrs. Moore’s words.
Be the woman he fell in love with. Be yourself.
Maybe it’s good advice, but the truth is, I’m no longer the woman Ben fell in love with, and I don’t want to be again.
That woman was sad, lonely, spastic, and lost. She barely functioned on a mental diet of anxiety and self-doubt.
And while those aren’t the parts that Ben fell for exactly, that was me back then.
I’m lucky he saw through my bullshit to love the real me.
Maybe that’s what I have to do for him now.
Being myself is better advice. I roll over in my empty bed, staring at lights through the woods.
Filming has started early today, and shadows cross the deck and bedroom ceiling.
Tears wet my pillow again. It’s been an on-and-off production all night—me waking and crying over missing him and feeling sorry for myself.
But present-day Lena can’t believe this is the end for us. Dot and the ladies gave me time to wallow, and that time is over. For now, anyway.
So, on my damp pillow, I ask myself, since Ben’s not here for me to worry about winning over or tiptoeing around, what would I like to do today?
It’s a selfish attempt at self-preservation, but necessary, because present-day Lena doesn’t sit around waiting for shit to happen. This Lena makes shit happen.
With the dogs at my heels, I take my coffee outside my bedroom, where set crews work to maneuver the eerie witches and emphasize the blood-stained trees.
The sun rises behind me, sending delicate bursts of orange light across the sleeping pond like soft touches, waking it up.
Mom’s tree gets the spotlight next and seems to wave good morning with its drooping Spanish moss.
I adore this place. It comforts me. Even now.
When Ruthie wakes, I’m in the kitchen decorating a dozen white and cream cupcakes for her preschool class with jellyfish, sea stars, and whales.
It’s ocean week. My skills aren’t quite the level I’m used to with my sore, injured left hand supporting my right, but it’ll do.
They’re bonus cupcakes anyway—I needed to bake something.
I went somewhat overboard on batches, trying to get them right—trays of cupcakes cover the enormous kitchen island. And though my decorating skills are off, the taste is on point. I went all out with the flavors, doing my best to recreate saltwater taffy—a distinctly beachy candy.
Ruthie’s ecstatic when she sees them—I love her no-holding-back excitement. It reminds me of Ben’s when he first sampled my bakes. He ate them in almost one bite. Ruthie nibbles the icing first when my phone alights beside her. It’s Ben, and she answers it herself.
“Dad, Mom made the best cupcakes,” she says, panning the phone around the room.
I expect a remark about cupcakes for breakfast, but he says, “She always does… Ready for school?”
Ruthie takes the phone around the room, sharing her to-do list. It’s a thing they do when getting ready. I wonder if this is how it will be now—co-parenting our daughter via FaceTime.
But that’s a worry for later.
It takes several bins to house the cupcakes, but I have them stacked and ready to go when Ruthie pushes the phone to me. I twist it around to me while telling her to get dressed.
“Hey,” I say.
“Good morning. Just wanted to remind you about ten o’clock.”
“Ben, I got it.”
“Will you let me know what Rob says?”
His concern should relieve me, but it doesn’t. Still, I assure him I will before ending the call.
I meet with Jaye and Elsie Todd while loading my cupcakes into the passenger seat of my new truck. Ruthie chases the dogs badly in rubber boots, her backpack flopping as she bounces.
Jaye puts her arm around my shoulders. “Doing okay?”
“One hundred percent,” I lie. “I’ll be gone most of the morning.”
“The paparazzi are back,” Elsie reports, “but the security team is controlling it. We’ll be filming in the main house most of the day.”
“Stop by when you get back,” Jaye says. “You won’t believe how freaking awesome the place looks inside. I’ll give you a tour.”
“Maybe,” I return, waving Ruthie to the truck. “Gotta go… Oh, here.”
I hand Jaye a bin of oceanic cupcakes. They gush with thanks before enthusiastically sharing them with their team.
The security guys and the paparazzi at the end of the driveway also receive cupcakes. Who knows? Maybe I can convince them to behave with sweets.
I drop Ruthie at preschool and make charitable rounds, leaving cupcakes with Myles Drake at the assisted living center, Olivia Jones at the group home, and Rowan Mackey-Graham at Coastal High.
I make my appointment with Dr. Rob Riley with a few minutes to spare. He isn’t as charming without Ben and isn’t with me long. He tells me what I already know—my arm is fine, just bruised.
I exit the building, mid-texting Ben with the update. But glancing up to see where I’m going, I see him. He leans against his Jeep, parked next to mine. A smile crosses my face—I can’t help it. It’s only been a day, but it feels like forever since I’ve seen him.
“Checking up on me?” I ask when I get closer.
He smirks. “What’d Rob say?”
“Bruised. I’m supposed to ice it, take ibuprofen when needed, and continue my exercises,” I report, showing him the text I was composing before putting my phone away. “The cast comes off in two weeks.”
He nods, relieved. “Thanks for keeping the appointment.”
A weak smile precedes a wave of sadness.
I want to cry for the strange tension between us.
Then it hits me. Holy shit, we’re estranged .
I always thought it was such a weird word, but now I get it.
Neither of us knows how to be around each other in this situation.
At least, I don’t. What’s allowed? What does he need?
What’s the best way to handle my husband, who’s left me, when he shows up at my doctor’s appointment?
Finally, I push my anxiety bitches aside and decide to be myself.
I shrug, catch his eyes, and ask, “Ready to come home yet?”
A crease forms between his brow. “I can’t,” he says, sounding regretful. “I’m meeting with John Riley and Larry Tenor Friday to discuss their proposal to support my recovery. I’m close to accepting the position. It’s the most viable solution to support my family.”
I nod, though the knot inside me tightens. “ I can support our family… but I understand.”
“Is that okay with you?” He looks unsure, asking the question.
That he cares about what’s okay with me feels confusing. His leaving certainly wasn’t. “It’s always been okay with me, Ben, if it’s what you want.”
The confused crease on his brow reappears. “I’ll add it to the family calendar, along with my schedule and other appointments. Perhaps we can discuss time with Ruthie… when you’re ready.”
“Yeah, sure.” Estranged. That’s what estranged couples do.
“Our appointment with Dr. Reese is Wednesday,” he says.
“I’ll be there.”
He nods.
“Oh, Ben… I have something for you.” I unlock the truck and hand him my final bin. “I went a little cupcake crazy this morning. I thought your coworkers might enjoy them.”
A real smile stretches over his tight mouth. “Like the old days.”
“Yes, like the old days. It’s a new recipe I’m considering, so let me know what everyone thinks.”
“Will do. Thank you, Lena.”
It’s good he has his hands full—it prevents me from trying our usual goodbye. Instead of a quick hug and kiss, I offer a timid wave and leave him.
At home, Jaye waves me to the main house as I exit the truck.
I half-wonder if Dot has asked her to keep an eye on me today.
Cameras and other equipment nearly block the path through the sliding glass doors.
She leads me inside the café, where the serving counter and coffee stations lie dormant and dim.
Seeing the display case empty is strange when it’s usually filled with colorful cakes and treats. It makes me sad to see it like this.
If it’s possible to feel even sadder.
My dining room of eclectic chairs and tables salvaged from my parents’ hoard of hand-me-downs is gone and replaced by an average-looking living room, like a set-up one might see at a furniture store.
Except for the Ouija board on the coffee table.
And the pale-faced, black-eyed child mannequin with tar-like ooze around his mouth perched on the ceiling beams. I gasp when I spot him.
Jaye chuckles. “Sorry, I should’ve warned you. That’s Edgar.”
“It’s like walking through a haunted house.”
“That’s the idea.” She elaborates on the story and how the elements fit together, but I zone out. I once had a massive roof leak where Edgar hangs, like he’s the ghost of my former life here, when I was broke, alone, and trying to make do with duct tape and Flex Seal.
God, why don’t they make Flex Seal for people? I could affix Ben to me and make us divorce-proof.
Focus, Lena. Breathe.
They’ve transformed the sitting area in the middle of the house into a study. A large wooden desk houses a lawyer’s green desk lamp and stacks of books and papers. It sits facing the large double window, once the location of the ancient couch that comprised my makeshift bedroom.
“Dr. Hunter discovers that the man of the house, Mr. Bonner, has become obsessed with local history. His jaded curiosity incites the evil coven,” Jaye explains. “Some history is better forgotten.”
Remembering the nightmares I used to have in this room, I agree.
They haven’t changed Mom’s room much; just added creepy elements and mood lighting and used different bedding than my hotel-style linens. It’s a beautiful bedroom with a fireplace, plenty of windows, and sliding glass doors leading to the wraparound porch.
But being here today fills me with sadness, remembering those last few weeks with Mom. Her frequent bouts of dementia. Not being able to wake her. Waiting for ambulances and trying to calm us both when they arrived. Living here then was one trial after another—I felt so scared and alone.
Ben’s left and those feelings penetrate me as sharply as ever. I’m scared and alone and frustratingly powerless. Then. Now.
No surprise—I wake up screaming later that night. Heart racing. Body flushed with sweat. Hand reaching for the phone to call for help, like I once did over nightmares after Mom died.
I come to my senses when Ruthie appears in my open doorway, rubbing her eyes. “Mom? You okay?”
Not okay. “Sorry, baby. I’m fine. Just a bad dream.”
She climbs into bed with me and does exactly what we do with her when she has a bad dream. “Go back to sleep, sweet girl. I’ll keep you safe.”