I wince. “Okay, when you say it like that…”
“Because that’s what it is,” he says, eyebrows raised. “It’s marriage counseling. For both of us.”
I fold my arms, chewing the inside of my cheek. “I just… I don’t have the bandwidth right now, Patrick.”
“Why?” he asks gently. “Is work really that bad?”
“Work is… fine.” My voice shrinks. “I just don’t want to sit in a room with a stranger and talk about how broken we are.”
“We’re not broken,” he says quietly. “There’s some distance, but we’re not broken.”
My throat stings.
I take a shaky breath. I wasn’t lying, I’m dog-tired. Ever since I started showing, it feels like the entire nine months of pregnancy hit me all at once. With Milo, Patrick used to give me massages every night. Now I’m tossing and turning until I pass out from exhaustion.
One part of me wants to go to the guest room and fall asleep in my husband’s arms. The other part wants him to feel the consequences of what he did.
Actions have consequences, only somehow, I’m paying them too.
Maybe therapy is a way for both of us to stop paying.
“I can’t promise I’ll go every week,” I say finally.
Patrick’s eyes widen just slightly. “Okay.”
“And if the therapist is condescending or tells me to get over myself, I’m leaving.”
“Okay.”
“And I’m not talking about sex.”
“God, please don’t,” he mutters immediately.
Despite the situation, my lips twitch.
I sigh, long and heavy. “Fine. I’ll go.”
Patrick’s shoulders drop like I just solved his biggest problem. “Thank you,” he whispers.
Then, because he can’t help himself, he points at the spot on my back I’m rubbing. “I could do that for you.”
“Ha ha,” I deadpan. “Don’t push it.”
He grins and leaves the room.
I call after him, “Iwilltalk about sex now!”
He doesn’t reply, just chuckles from the hallway.
I stretch my back and exhale slowly.
God, I miss sex.
Not just the act, though, yes,thattoo, but the way my entire body relaxes after I’ve had a decent orgasm or two. The way every tight muscle unwinds at once.
Self-care would be enough if I didn’t have a partner like Patrick, because that man may have screwed up spectacularly, but he knows what he’s doing in bed. And that somehow makes everything worse.
I close my eyes, pressing a hand to my hip.
