38. Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Eight
LENA
B en meets me outside Becca’s two-story colonial when I drop off Ruthie for another sleepover. It’s Saturday afternoon, and Ruthie has been an adorable hive of excitement over their plans—movie night with the cousins, blueberry pancakes for breakfast, and Sunday at the beach.
He’s been diligent about spending time with her, going out of his way to be there for pick-ups, drop-offs, and downtimes—as he should.
The other night, he asked to stay and put her to bed for me—a good thing because that’s been the most difficult time of day.
She’s gotten teary in her bath when I can’t do her dad’s play-voices right with her toys.
And teary again when I tuck her into bed. Alone. I didn’t report this to Ben, but maybe Ruthie did. I didn’t want to make things worse, especially after Dr. Reese assured me he was working hard to “find his place again.”
His place is with us, I told her.
Now, Ruthie bobbles to him, barely managing her overstuffed backpack. “This is going to be epic, Dad.”
He chuckles, giving her a quick side hug, and she rushes into the house without looking back at me.
Our eyes meet after the front door slams, and an awkward beat passes. He looks unsure.
“You left before we could talk yesterday,” I say.
“Sorry, we should talk.” His eyes narrow. “I’d invite you in, but with everyone, it’s—”
“It’s okay. This is weird, so that’ll be even weirder,” I blurt with a sardonic laugh. I’m trying desperately not to cry—I love this man, and he’s treating me like his daughter’s chauffeur, not his wife. “It’s hard getting used to this. But I guess we have to, unless…”
I hesitate, knowing I need to stop asking. “Unless, are you ready to come home yet?”
His brow pinches, and I know the answer.
“That’s okay. Take your time. I know how hard you’re trying.” Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t fucking cry. “I just want you to be happy, Ben. Truly. Happy. I’m sorry for losing sight of what you needed. I wasn’t there, even when I was. By the time I realized it, it was probably too late.”
Every word is true—something I realized this morning when Mr. Wickers showed up at my door with a bin of badly executed homemade cupcakes—lemon with cream cheese frosting and purple smiley faces adorning their messy tops.
They reminded me of Millie Davis’s cupcakes that smeared my windshield in the accident.
I thought of her divorce, too. The sexless marriage she didn’t notice until it was too late.
Mr. Wickers’s cupcakes were delicious, regardless of their style. And I appreciated the gesture.
He handed them over and said, “You showed up for me, Lena, at one of the toughest times in my life. I’m here for you now.”
“I can always count on you, Mr. Wickers,” I cried.
“Yep, I learned long ago as a mailman. Consistency means everything. There’s nothing like a sunny day and hitting your usual route.”
I broke into tears then, remembering how Ben showed up for me at my worst time.
No matter my mood. No matter the awful state of me or my house.
No matter what we were doing—sometimes nothing at all.
Ben was there. He made me feel human again, worthy and capable, and after that, he made me feel so loved and safe that I thought I could do anything— and I did.
I did the impossible, all because of him.
Ben made everything better just by being present.
I failed to do the same for him. I remember after he found Adam—I knew something about it had cracked his typically rigid surface.
That event hurt him, made him question his future, and dredged up his past. And what’d I do?
I went to work, baked hundreds of cookies and cupcakes, and never pressed him to talk.
Or even spent time with him. I waited too long to be present—that’s all Ben really needed from me.
Hope drains now, and I’ll soon follow—turning into mush in my boots that Dot’ll have to suck up with her wet vac.
When I cared for Mom, I let tasks take priority. My quest to make one thing better helped my anxiety, but at a cost. Tasks don’t equal happiness. I kept myself busy when I should’ve spent more time with her… with him… Now, it’s too little, too late.
Now, Ben stares at me with what looks like sympathy and confusion—I don’t know anymore. His lips part as if he wants to speak, but nothing comes out.
I wave him off. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to…This is our new normal, right?”
I sling the tote from my shoulder and hand it to him. “Ruthie’s extra dresses, normal shoes, and sandcastle gear. Oh, and your vitamins, protein powder, and migraine prescription refill. I was at Publix, and it was ready, so…”
“Thanks.” He sets it by the porch. “I want you to be happy, too.”
I smile weakly. “Without you? No chance. But I’ll make do…
Oh, and we’re not going with the logo you saw.
I told Cherry it can’t represent Saddletree without you in it.
” I slide out my phone and show him a picture of her first version with him leaning beside me by the tree. “That’s the one we’re using.”
His Adam’s apple bobs in a heavy swallow. “The one with you and Ruthie is better, Lena.”
I shake my head. Don’t cry. “No, it’s not. Saddletree wouldn’t exist without you. It’s where you belong. I’ll never stop hoping you’ll come home to us. When you’re ready…”
“Lena.” My name hooks on his tongue like it doesn’t want to come out. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
When he pauses, I flash my usual smile of encouragement, hoping to help his words come easier.
But the longer he takes, the more my anxiety grows.
His tough-guy stoicism is gone, replaced by what looks like exhaustion and devastation.
Ben suddenly looks like a man who hasn’t slept in days—and can’t, like he’s tormented by Jaye’s witches whenever he closes his eyes.
Or something worse.
“You can tell me anything,” I say softly when the silence feels stifling. I step closer and think to run my hand over his arm like I’ve done a million times. But I stop myself, unsure.
His arms fold, creating a muscular barrier between us.
Suddenly, I realize that whatever he wants to say is not what I want to hear. He knows it, too—that’s why he hesitates. He’s afraid to tell me.
“Go ahead. Say it.” My voice is stern but not unkind, despite how my anxiety bitches launch their attack.
He’s ending it once and for all. He’s going to say the d-word.
Divorced again. Nothing ever works out for you.
Every good thing I’ve worked for comes at a price.
My first marriage. Mom. Now him. My life is a monkey’s paw, cursed.
A tear slips down his cheek.
I nod, and tears escape me, too. “Is this the final push?”
“What?”
“The final push that gets rid of me? Is this it?”
He looks stunned. “I’ll never want to be rid of you.”
“Just not married to me anymore, right? Or is it that you don’t want me married to the deaf guy?”
I step closer, scraping tiny bits of strength together and staring up at him with nothing but love and sadness in my eyes. “Tell me the truth, Ben. That’s what we’re about, remember? Whatever you’ve planned to hurt me with… tell me.”
His voice cracks when he says, “I went to Lauren’s house last night.”
Everything inside me shatters like his words are bricks through a window. Still, I conjure his famous calm from some deep reserve of strength I didn’t know I had. “The woman who rejected you because of your scars? Who took one look at you and turned the fuck away? You went to her ?”
He pushes his shoulders back, maybe surprised that I don’t believe him. “Yes.”
“And what, Ben?” I push, anger rising despite my best efforts. I lock eyes, studying him. “You what? Kissed her? Fucked her? Pledged your love to her? What?”
“I’m telling you, I went to Lauren’s last night. What does the rest matter?” He stumbles over the words like his tongue is too big.
“You’ve made it this far. Why not tell me all the fucking details, so I’ll believe it? Rip our marriage to pieces in one quick pull, like a band-aid.”
“I’m not—I can’t do that.” He swipes at tears like annoying flies landing on his face. “I won’t.”
“Why not? Have too much integrity to cheat and tell?” I scoff. “Tell me how you laid naked in her bed, her fingers strumming the scars on your chest that once repulsed her while you discussed ending things with me. Did she make you promise to do it today?”
“Stop it. It’s done. It’s over.”
“I don’t believe you,” I say with more confidence than I should have. “I don’t believe it.”
“Fine,” he snaps. “Yes. I kissed her, fucked her, conspired against you. It’s true. Is that what you want to hear?”
His emerald eyes look like cold stones, twisting into my soft places.
My heart stops in his iciness. Is he telling the truth?
Holy fuck. It is true. My eyes close in acute agony—I can’t look at him.
My hands fist. One of them, anyway. Nails dig into my palms. Panic surges with anger like a surfer riding the perfect wave.
I hear Mom’s voice. You deserve better than this.
I don’t even realize I’m hitting him at first. His chest becomes a punching bag—my emotions have nowhere else to go. Fists and forearms. My cast whacking against him with whatever force I can. Anything to hurt him, though it’s nothing compared to how he’s hurt me.
He doesn’t fight back or try to stop me. He stands, tall and strong, before me, hands at his sides as he accepts the blows.
“You’re a fucking liar,” I breathe out finally—a truth, either way. “How could you do that to us? To me? To Ruthie? That’s not who you are, Ben.”
He doesn’t answer but turns his eyes to the ground between us. His coldness hits me with a new truth— I don’t know this man.
About to hyperventilate, I back-step. I glance at Becca’s house, hopeful that no one has witnessed my anger. This isn’t me . Seeing no faces peering through the windows, I take a deep breath, determined to regain some semblance of control.