35. Thirty-Five
Thirty-Five
BEN
T he three-story beach house looks the same as I remember. I can’t believe I’m here. The meeting with Larry and John ended with John extending a dinner invitation. “You, me, and the grill tonight. How ‘bout it?”
When I hesitated, he said, “Bring the family. Seven o’clock. I won’t take no for an answer.”
Not only have I shown up against my better judgment, but I haven’t brought the family.
I didn’t even log the event into the family calendar.
I tell myself that my omission is out of respect for Lena, but it’s cowardice.
Dot reports that it’s been a difficult week for Lena and that I need to “get my head out of my ass ASAP.” But our separation has given me room to breathe.
To think. To consider. And kept me from continuing the torturous cycle of giving her hope only to dash it again.
It’s better this way. I think.
The Rileys are here in full force, judging by the driveway full of Land Rovers, Teslas, BMWs, and a…
McLaren. Who the hell drives one of those?
Then I notice the license plate, DRROB , and shake my head.
I park off-shoulder by the road to ensure a quick exit.
I grab the expensive cabernet I bought at Publix—a favorite of Jillian’s—and go inside.
They greet me with the same joyful enthusiasm as they did in the concert booth.
“Where’s Lena and Ruthie?” Jillian asks.
“Other plans.” I hand her the bottle.
“Oh, well.” She reads the wine’s label. “Ah, Ben. You remembered. Come help me get this open.”
She doesn’t need my help, but latches onto my arm and takes me to the kitchen anyway.
The interior decor has changed over the years—stark-lined sofas and chairs have replaced the cushy sectional I remember. New artwork and knickknacks have been added, but the bright, casual atmosphere remains unchanged.
I assist Jillian with the wine, make small talk, and joke with Rob. It feels normal. No pressure. It’s always been that way with them.
Lauren and I once studied at the same rustic table in the dining room. She sits there now, reviewing a file. Her smile when she looks up at me makes my heart quicken with pleasant memories.
She closes the file and holds it up. “Ben, I have the paperwork for your health insurance options and deduction options for the Lauren Project. I know you like taking your time with paperwork, so I thought I’d give it to you early.
That way, when you’re ready to say yes to Riley Trust, you’ll already have it done. ”
“That’s considerate. Thank you.”
“Take your time with it,” she says, rising to meet me. “I’ll set it by the door to grab on your way out.”
“Thanks.”
I follow to see where she puts it on the entryway table.
She wears a soft sundress today, and I see the ties of her bikini top at the base of her neck.
Lauren lived in a swimsuit as a teenager.
“Always ready for a swim,” she’d say. I joined her on multiple occasions.
There was something beautifully freeing about stripping down on a whim and diving into a wave.
I never do that anymore.
Our spontaneous swims mimicked the feeling of my homecomings. Losing myself in her was a full-bodied relief. Easy. Familiar. Uncomplicated. A way of getting small, I realize now. It was called leave for a reason—I left every difficulty behind.
I take a sip of wine—too sweet for my taste—and catch a picture collage on the high wall near the front door. The family portraits have always been here, but many new pictures have been added. I scan them, hunting for Lauren.
Her standing proudly in front of scenic mountainscapes.
Surrounded by children in what looks like schools and orphanages.
With doctors in makeshift hospitals. The pictures change in the subtle ways she has over the years, revealing that she returns to these places frequently, committing herself to bettering others.
But in the pictures of her and her boys, she is most happy. Camping. At the beach. At school events. Basketball games. Her between them in Eagle Scout uniforms, both kissing her cheeks on either side.
She breathes a soft sigh beside me. “They’re my life.”
“I misjudged you.” The words emerge like heavy weights hitting the ground when my arms are too tired. “I was angry then. I said things I didn’t mean. I’m sorry.”
She nods, tears glassing her gray eyes. “We both messed up. I’m sorry, too.”
“If I’d been a better man, I would’ve… done things differently.”
She shrugs, and a tear slips out. She motions to the pictures. “I’m glad you didn’t. We were needed elsewhere.”
“Agreed.” I nod to the images again. “You should be on your father’s wall in his office. Not me. Your service is equally commendable.”
She pushes into my arms with an emotional surge. I don’t initiate it. I don’t know what to do at first. But hearing her soft “Thank you” in my ear, I accept her affection.
As she slowly pulls away, we understand each other. Her reaction to my scars no longer carries the pain it used to. Her expression makes me think she feels better, too, like the dark cloud of our breakup has finally dispersed.
She lingers in the inches between us, meeting my eyes with a hopeful question in hers.
Her hands rest on my chest while mine slips over her back.
It’s familiar but strange, too. It’s like hearing the instrumental of an old song and not being able to put a title to it. Not that I want to remember it.
She’s not Lena.
I step away so abruptly that she pitches forward in my absence. Then, I lose myself in the crowded living room.
At eight, I retreat to the beachside deck to call Ruthie and say goodnight. No one is out here, but inside enjoying dinner. I use the ocean as a background for the FaceTime call.
“Where are you, Daddy?” Ruthie asks, eyeballing the screen.
“The beach. I went for a walk.”
“When are you coming home? I don’t like it when you’re not here for bedtime.”
“I don’t know.”
“Mom says you’re figuring things out,” she continues. “But I don’t understand. You’re not lost. You know how to get home, right?”
“Yes. That’s not it.”
With a weepy voice, she says, “You can’t stay at Becca’s forever. We miss you.”
My hand rakes through my hair in frustration. I glance up from the phone, trying to find words.
Lauren stands on the open threshold of the sliding glass door, aghast over what she’s clearly overheard—my daughter in tears over my absence. She retreats inside with the refreshed wine glass she probably meant to hand me, mouthing an apology.
Fuck.
“Ruthie…”
“Dad, it’s not fair.”
I almost tell her that life isn’t fair.
“I know. I’m sorry, but I’m proud of you for being brave and patient with me. I’ll try to be there for tomorrow’s bedtime, okay?”
“Okay,” she returns grumpily.
“Start thinking about what you want to do on your sleepover this week. I love you. Be good for your mom.”
I don’t wait for Lena to get on the phone but hang up as soon as she says, “Okay, Dad. Love you. Bye.”
Avoidance isn’t the answer. But it’s the only thing I have right now.
The call with Ruthie tightens my chest. I return to the gathering for an acceptable amount before claiming the need to leave for an early shift tomorrow.
That’s a fucking joke. My new assignment puts me to sleep. I’ve been assigned to the desk unit, answering phones and managing walk-ins.
Lauren walks me to the door.
“Everything okay?”
“Yes.”
“If you need to talk…” Her voice trails off. She hands me the file folder, pushing it softly into my chest. “Why don’t you bring these by my place Friday night? We can go over them together.”
Her body language tells me that meeting her there would mean more than paperwork, and I feel uneasiness rise in my stomach at the invitation.
Mainly because I don’t say no.