And how do you argue against that?
I felt bad about Agnes’ first Christmas not being celebrated the way Milo’s was, but everyone compensated with guilt presents and promises.
So many promises.
We’ll be here next year, Lorelie.Come hell or high water.
And I fully intend to hold them to that.
The house was warm, peaceful, a little empty without Patrick but also… not painful.
That might have something to do with the little dates we’ve been having. Family dates. Couple dates.
No one knows except Gen, because she caught him sneaking out of my bedroom one morning.
No, we did not have sex. We talked. Which, apparently, is a requirement.
And it’s not like we can “get to know each other” again, we already know everything. So, it’s been feelings all day, every day, yet somehow, we still had so much to say that he ended up falling asleep in my room.
We only went in there because Colter and Eloise took the kids for the weekend to make up for leaving for Christmas, and they’d come back to pick up Milo’s night light, with permission, of course.
I get that we need to rebuild trust before anything physical happens, but come on. We’ve been married for years.
But Dr. Kendall is right about pacing ourselves.
Oh… yeah. Therapy. I didn’t feel comfortable going alone, but Patrick practically jumped at the chance to go with me to couples counseling again. It was weird at first, we practically ghosted her after the whole debacle with the tape and allegation came up, thankfully she didn’t hold it against us. And somehow, every single session, we end up talking aboutme.
It’s bizarre. The man who used to act allergic to feelings is suddenly fluent in them. He sits there, legs spread, hands clasped, voice steady, talking about childhood pressure and identity and insecurity and accountability like he voluntarily reads self-help books.
He is trying. Really trying.
And that’s what’s making all of this harder.
Because if he were still the guy from last year, drunk, defensive, reckless, hurting me without caring, I wouldn’t be sitting here wondering if I can trust him again.
I wouldn’t be lying awake replaying every date, every smile, every accidental brush of his hand against mine.
I wouldn’t be remembering the way he looked at me in that gazebo when he asked,Can you learn to trust me?
Because the truth, the inconvenient, terrifying truth is that I do trust him.
And that’s so fucking scary.
It’s notno, don’t do it. It’s notonce a cheater, always a cheateranymore.
Somewhere between the dates and the therapy sessions and the way he’s suddenly patient and present and there…
I’m in.
Completely. Hopelessly. In.
I’ve fallen all the way down into his stupid strong arms, and I don’t even remember when the drop started. I just know I hit the bottom and found him there, waiting, sober, steady, finally ready to catch me.
And now I have to decide whether I’m brave enough to stay in his arms… or terrified enough to let go.
“So… that’s my story,” I finish, looking around at the circle of mismatched chairs and equally mismatched women whose opinion, right now, I trust more than my own family’s.
Jackie tilts her head. “So, you’re back together?”
