“Hey,” Bill said.
“Hi, honey,” I said from behind an article on graceful aging. “How was work?”
All week had been that way—on the train, in my office, at the deli—I couldn’t stop the scorching memories from infiltrating my life. Between work and home, I hadn’t even been able to relieve myself, and I was feeling full to the brim with no outlet.
“Liv?” Bill asked, setting his keys on the coffee table.
“Yes?”
“I asked how your day was.”
“Oh, fine. I picked up our costumes for the masquerade ball this weekend. Thank goodness I ordered them a while back or I might’ve forgotten. Do you want to see your mask?”
“I don’t really care. Thanks for picking it out.” He plopped onto the couch next to me. “But listen. Jeanine has a couple houses she wants us to see. How’s Sunday?”
Shame. It was red and ugly and had to be written all over my face. No, I could not see houses with Bill, because I was gutless and afraid. How could I tell him that things were moving too fast when for him, they weren’t moving fast enough? When I’d chosen this life by running out on David months ago? Just because I’d given into David a second time didn’t change the reasons I’d left him before.
“Are you all right? You look pale,” Bill said, leaning in to hold the back of his hand against my forehead. He brushed some of my hair from my face. “I’m worried that you’re slipping away again. You’ve been quiet this week.”
“Oh. No,” I said softly. God, I wasn’t being fair to him. “I’m okay.”
“I think . . .” He paused and looked over at the coffee table. “I think it might be time to see someone.”
“Someone?”
“Therapy.”
I almost laughed. Us, in therapy? Bill had made fun of other couples for going that route.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said, “and yes, I still think it’s sort of bullshit. But I’m running out of ideas, Livs. I don’t know how to deal with this anymore.”
“This?” I asked. He said it as if I’d contracted some kind of disease. Glossy pages crinkled when I clenched the magazine. “You mean therapy for us or for me?”
“For you,” he said, drawing back. “Why would we need therapy?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Why would I?”
He hesitated. “One minute you’re up, the next you’re down. At this point I’m willing to try anything.”
Except couples therapy, apparently. “I—I . . .”
“I don’t know what else to give you,” he said, “and it’s messing with my head.”
You should see the inside of mine, I thought.
Therapy meant shining a light in those dark places. Admitting what I’d done—not once, but twice. Opening up about the reasons why I’d chosen Bill, and why questioning them had led to David . . . there had to be another way.
Someone else I could talk to.
Mack Donovan. His wife had died, and I’d been neglecting him out of my own selfish fear of how devastated he’d be without her. Without the love of his life, Davena. “I’ll go see Mack,” I blurted. “Maybe talking to him would help.”
“That’s a great idea, babe. Really great. I think talking about Davena’s death with him would be a good start.” Bill took my hand and kissed the back of it. “How about Saturday morning? I’ll take you.”
I nodded. “I’d like that.”
“Great,” he said again. “What should I tell Jeanine about the houses?”
“Actually,” I said, looking at him over the magazine, “I promised George I’d put in some time at the shelter on Sunday.”
