Knowing it helps me envision things, I allow my eyes to fall shut and breathe, listening for the honest answer to her question. “Normal things like if I’m doing a good job and settinga good example. If I’m too hard on them or too impatient. If they know that I only want what’s best for them. If the love we give them will be enough to heal whatever has been broken in them.”
“Good,” she says, voice soft. “And beyond that? Are there any concerns about worthiness? Any doubts about whether you deserve this life with your partners and the girls?”
If I would have followed my original desire to try and map the conversation, I would have known that we were going to end up here. Because I didn’t, I’m a little caught off guard. I shouldn’t be, though. We’ve been doing this work since I returned to therapy, following the thread that started with my belief that I am a monster all the way back to being given up by my birth parents. Apparently, I’d internalized that early trauma, allowing it and the neglect and abuse that followed to make me believe I was unlovable. Some bad, broken, monstrous thing that was rotten from the start.
From that point on, every loss, every hurt, everything I did and even the things that were done to me became proof of that fact. I’ve held tight to that belief for so long, allowing it to send me into spirals of shame and feelings of unworthiness. Once we unpacked that, Dr. Pike introduced EMDR into our sessions, walking me through reprocessing specific memories related to the negative belief so we could install new, positive ones. I reach for that belief now, holding tight to the affirming words that tell me I deserve good things.
“Some,” I admit, knowing better than to lie and pretend I’m fully healed. “But those thoughts aren’t louder than the love.”
A smile curves my lips, and I open my eyes, watching Dr. Pike watch me. “Diana used to say that,” I tell her. “She’d get mad at me for something and still want to hold my hand or cook dinner together. I could never understand it. When I asked her why, she’d just smile and say ‘the anger isn’t louder than the love’.”
I rub at my chest as a pang of fondness hits me. “God, I miss that woman.”
“Do you find yourself thinking of her and Cameron more or less often now?”
“I think of them every day. They never leave me.”
“That’s not in question. I asked if you think of them more now that you’re on the verge of building this new life with your partners and, potentially, these young ladies you’ve all grown to care for.” She crosses her legs, assessing me. I’m sure she sees the discomfort knotting my muscles. “There’s no right or wrong answer here, Lance.”
“So, it would be okay if I said it’s less?”
“As long as it’s true,” she says.
“It is.” I swallow, feeling sick to my stomach. “That doesn’t feel right, though.”
“Why not?”
“Because it feels like I’m forgetting, and I don’t get to do that.”
“Isthat what you’re doing? In the last few minutes, you’ve shared something of your wife that I’m going to take into my own marriage and told me that you think of her and your son every day. That doesn’t sound like forgetting to me.”
“But it’s not like it was before,” I protest. “I used to spend hours lost in memories of Dianna or daydreams of Cameron. Now, I get so caught up in Cal and Sel—” I follow the rest of the syllables in Selene’s name and start again. “In Cal and our other partner, the challenges we’re facing and the life we want to have together. It feels like forgetting.”
“Or maybe it’s simply moving on.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?”
“No, Lance, it’s not. Forgetting would mean wiping them from your mind. It would mean you don’t think of them at all, and you’ve just told me that isn’t true. What you’re doing iscrafting a life for yourself that honors new love while holding space for the love that’s been lost. That is a beautiful, brave thing to do, and you shouldn’t feel guilty about that, only proud.”
An hour later,I’m standing shoulder-to-shoulder in the packed deli Selene is currently obsessed with to pick up the lunch order I called in for me, her, Cal and MoniquebeforeI made the thirty minute drive across town from Dr. Pike’s office. I was hoping to beat the lunch hour rush, but apparently it started early today. It was packed when I walked in here, but I was lucky enough to grab a spot right by the door, which is where I’ve been for the last thirty minutes, turning the pearl of wisdom the good doctor gave me before the session ended over in my mind. Her even tone and genuine expression left me with no choice but to believe she was being sincere, but I’m still having trouble accepting her assessment.
“Order for Beckham!”
Eager to get out of the crowded space, I rush to the counter, grab the food and drop a tip in the jar at the register for the clearly overworked staff. I push through the crowd, sorting through the bodies that stepped into the space I cleared when I approached, and find myself face-to-face with Mason Woodard and Patrick Garrison. I only know their first names because Agent Shaw sent us the internal memo that went out about their ‘promotion’ just before her access to her email was revoked.
They’re dressed for work, but Aubrey would never come this far out for lunch, and if he was around the entire block would be shut down. Neither of them seem to recognize me at first, so for a second, we’re just staring at each other. Me, seething and murderous. Them, entitled, mediocre and confused.
“Can we help you?” Garrison asks. He’s taller than his counterpart with blonde hair that hugs his scalp.
Woodard sizes me up and then grins, bumping Garrison with his elbow. “It’s one of the boys we had to throw out of the White House on their ass. Which one are you? Beckham or Drake?”
“I’m the one who’ll put his foot up your ass if you keep talking.”
Garrison whoops loudly, drawing the attention of the other customers. “You hear that, Woody? Fucker thinks he can handle us both all on his own. You couldn’t even take us when your sorry ass partner was around.”
“Let’s step outside and see.”
He balks, clearly expecting me to be intimidated by being outnumbered. Cal being here would certainly make it easier to lay them both out, but his absence doesn’t impact my confidence nor my ability to do so. Garrison tries to step forward, but Woodard stops him with an arm across his chest, shaking his head in warning.
