37. Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Seven
BEN
P ull it in. Drive on. Get small.
Four miles away, I pull into the dusty lane between cornfields. I clench the steering wheel until my hands pop and ache. My heart races, and fluttering palpitations make it difficult to catch my breath. I’m gasping and sweating, and my hands tremble with the surging energy.
A fucking panic attack.
I almost laugh at the damn irony. I’ve spent years gently staving off Lena’s panic, and providing a calming presence amid her worst storms. I’ve got it down to a science with her—I can see her anxiety rising and regulate her breathing in minutes.
I can’t do it for myself, though.
Just breathe. Breathe.
I exit the Jeep and inhale the earthy air, willing myself to slow down.
But the pressure built over the last months compounds, a rock heavy on my chest. I’m killing her. She loves me, and I’m killing her.
I can’t pinpoint what set me off exactly. Her words. How lovely and strong she looked. Missing her. That she’s changing for the better without me. My chronic need to avoid talking.
Or maybe it was Saddletree’s logo.
I couldn’t have imagined a more perfect visual.
Saddletree has always been Lena’s dream, successful because of her.
Her talent and warmth bring people in and keep them coming back.
She’s the heart of the business. Her mom’s tree represents its foundation.
And Ruthie’s future will be shaped by it, one way or another.
But it confirms what I know and fear—I don’t belong. I’m the guy in the background, unable to talk to people or smile or be warm and approachable. I’m on the outside looking in, a truth that will worsen as I do.
Lena and Saddletree are better off without me.
Falling sunlight flickers over the corn stalks, dancing in my eyes. I lean against the driver’s door, taking long breaths and massaging the pressure points in my wrists. One then the other. Easing myself down with tears specking my eyes.
My phone rumbles in my pocket, and with a still-shaking hand, I extract it. A text from Lauren.
Looking forward to tonight. What time will you be over?
I scoff. I’d completely forgotten the invitation that I neither accepted nor refused. I text back as fast as my jittery fingers will let me. I love my wife. That’ll never change. Not for you or anyone. Think about what you’re asking.
I don’t expect an answer. My response is terse, direct, and probably mean. But I know Lauren, the games she’s played, and I want to be clear.
The ellipsis engages immediately.
We aren’t kids anymore. I know what I’m asking, but I’ll clarify. One night, just between us. I want to right my wrong. Nothing more.
“Fuck me,” I blurt with irritation and disbelief. My panic upticks with her absurd suggestion, and I refocus on breathing.
But when my phone buzzes again, I can’t help but look.
I know you’re hurting. Disappear with me, Ben.
Tears spit from my eyes. I lean over, bracing my body against my knees.
She used to say it when I came home on leave whenever I had that faraway look on my face, lost in thoughts about the last deployment or the next one.
Disappear with me. And I would. Sweet and innocent in the early days, that meant diving into waves, off-roading to the furthest points on the island, camping, or hiking.
When we got older, that meant losing ourselves in each other.
She let me get small between battles, I realize now.
I don’t answer her text, but a wicked game ensues, daring me onward.
What if I leave this cornfield?
Then, I do.
What if I head toward her neighborhood?
And I turn in her direction.
What if I pull up to the gate outside her community and give my name?
And somehow, that happens, followed by them letting me in.
I bring the Jeep to a slow stop at the curb across the street from Lauren’s cape-side home.
It’s the same house she lived in when we were together—a small, three-bedroom craftsman.
I recall her excitement in purchasing it “on her own” and how I stopped myself from mentioning the sizable down payment her grandparents gifted her to make it possible.
It’s the house she hoped we’d share, and we did when I was on leave.
It’s also where we came to a crashing, devastating end.
Shattering glass echoes. My hands strangle the steering wheel.
But the agonizing panic I felt earlier has left me.
I’m killing her. She loves me, and I’m killing her.
My what-if game turns into a dare, sickening and tempting.
Walking into Lauren’s house means walking out on my marriage permanently.
Lauren says just between us , but I couldn’t live with that secret and Lena together.
Certain things can’t be forgiven, not that I’d ask or deserve it.
I wouldn’t forgive myself for it, either.
I’ll forever be small, protected from Lena’s larger-than-life life, and sentenced to handle my traumas and deficiencies alone.
But it’ll end the indecision for us both.
No more couples’ therapy.
Or confusion over where things stand.
This one decision will make them all.
Total destruction.
Then, reinvention. We’ll adjust to the new us.
Lena won’t be saddled with caring for me or obliged to accept my mistreatment.
I’ll never be her burden; she’ll never become jaded over my inadequacies or permanently stuck on Busy Lena to take care of me.
I won’t be weighed down by her pain— eventually .
She’ll recover. She’s a survivor. A warrior. Today proved it.
And this moment proves I don’t deserve her anyway.
I stare at the house, gripping the steering wheel until my fingers hurt.
I don’t love Lauren. But somehow, that makes this seem easy.
Only it isn’t.
I’ve responded to many domestic disturbance calls regarding infidelity. The guilty party always makes cheating seem par for the course, like a mess you fall into accidentally or an event attended unintentionally via a wrong turn or detour. For some, it just happens.
Not for me. It’s a decision. A difficult one. Certainly not a fly-by-my-dick whim. It’s premeditated destruction. A Molotov cocktail thrown into a relationship, rendering a painful but quick death.
Lena and I need a quick death because the suffering has become unbearable. In that way, this’ll be a mercy.
My shoulders jerk when my phone rings. My heart races as if the caller knows where I am and what I’m about to do. I take a deep breath, attempting to exhale my fucking guilt.
I answer Alice Harvey’s call with, “Yes, ma’am?”
“Don’t yes ma’am me, Benjamin Allan Wright,” she snaps. “What do you think you’re doing?”
My free hand rakes through my hair as I assess the empty street, half-expecting her to peek out from behind a palm tree. Can she see me? “Nothing. My middle name isn’t Allan.”
She guffaws. “I don’t care. I needed a full name to scold you properly. How can you do this to Lena?”
I twist around, but again, I don’t see her. “Do what?”
“Leave her! You saw her today—she’s devastated.”
That’s partly why I’m here, not that I care to explain that to Alice. Lena amazed me earlier. Watching her lay out her plans for Saddletree reminded me of the confident, intelligent, hopeful woman I married. I’ve always loved her ingenuity and creativity.
Lena shines best in her worst darkness.
That makes her my hero because it’s so unlike me. The last five years, I’ve put up a good front for her, but the truth is, hard times bring me to my fucking knees.
This moment is a good example.
“We’re both devastated,” I say after a pause.
“But you’re causing the devastation. Is it the seven-year-itch come early?
A mid-life crisis thing? What’s the meaning of all this, huh?
I’ve never seen Lena so broken, and I was there after her mom died…
with her excessive wine boxes lining the counter and mice running over the floor.
For goodness’ sake, Benjamin Alexander Wright, the other day, Jack caught her bawling her fanny off on a tree stump—not sitting on the stump, leaning against it on the ground, like she done fell out.
She didn’t even stop when he approached her, like a wild animal in a fit.
Is that what you want for her? Feral tree stump crying in the woods? ”
I take a breath, unhappy with this information.
“No. I don’t. But it’s temporary—”
“Temporary? Do you know Lena? If crying were an Olympic sport—”
“It’s… none of your business, Alice.”
“Lena is my business. So are you. I’m worried about her, and if you have any heart, young man, you would be, too. She can’t take much more of this.”
“I know. But she seemed fine today,” I say, though it’s untrue. She put on a face. That’s what she does. Ruthie revealed that she’s having nightmares again. Her hurt and disappointment are wrecking me. “It’ll pass.”
“She’s far from fine, and you know it. Look, Ben,” Alice says. “Tell me how we can help. Whatever you’re going through—”
“Take care of Lena,” I say quickly before telling her I must go and hang up.
A cleansing breath alleviates some irritation. It’s not the first time Alice has called. I’ve also received numerous calls and texts from Dot, Cherry, Jack Harvey, Mr. Wickers, Jack Graham, Mrs. Moore, and Lena’s brother, Lucas.
Everyone thinks they have a say in us, but no one gets it. Pressure mounts from all sides. I need to breathe again.
To disappear.
As the sun vanishes, the streetlights blink to life, and I take in Lauren’s house. I glimpse her moving across the front room window, preparing for my arrival. I take another breath, my anxiety rising.
Lena thinks I’m pulling the fire alarm on us—an accurate assessment. But it’s what I must do, if only to end her obligation to me.
“Are you telling me you left her because you love her?” Dr. Reese asked during our last private session. “You understand the faulty logic there, right, Ben? Why deliberately hurt someone you care so much about?”
“Because I don’t want to keep hurting her. She deserves better.”
“Better than you? She’d disagree… and isn’t that what she once said to you?”
“Yes. This is different. Lena could improve her circumstances. I can’t. I don’t want to be her burden.”
“Burdens are unwanted , Ben. Lena wants you, no matter what your hearing number is.” She leaned forward and stared me down so her words would resonate. “Lena will never do to you what Lauren did.”
My throat constricted uncomfortably. I shook my head at Dr. Reese. “I know. I won’t let her.”
“Martyring your marriage won’t change your hearing loss. It’ll make it harder and hurt everyone involved.”
“Only in the short term.”
“That’s erroneous, too. You think her heartbreak will be easy for her to get over?”
“No, but being angry will help.”
I shut my eyes, ending the memory.
Once it’s done, it’s done. This will end our unbearable limbo.
Tasks will fall into place after tonight.
Me officially moving out and starting procedures—all before the inevitable bullshit happens with my hearing.
Lena will stop hoping for us; her anger will subside into resignation and even contentment when, six or so months from now, she realizes that she dodged a fucking bullet.
It’s hard enough to communicate now. When we’re reduced to sign language only, it’ll be harder.
Combined with the appointments and adjustments—it’s better not to put her through it.
I can’t handle the pressure, anyway. I want to be the man before the IED. Before my life fucking exploded. But since I can’t, I’ll get small and disappear.
All I have to do is walk through that door, and Lena will never ask if I’m ready to come home again.