I’ve already learned my lesson with the Zeke thing, the lies, the secrets, and I’ve been transparent since then. I told her about my job, about my mom, about everything in my life.
But apparently, that isn’t the same as respect.
What else can I do?
Because the thing is, love isn’t the problem. I love her, God, I love her more than anything. But she’s right. Somewhere along the way, I stopped treating her like a partner and started treating her like… someone I had toprotect.
And maybe that’s the problem.
But how is that a problem?
I run a hand down my face, frustration and confusion knotted so tight I can barely breathe through it. I mean… don’t womenwantto be protected? Don’t they want someone who’ll stand up for them? That’s what I’ve been doing. That’s what IthoughtI was doing.
Isn’t that what a good man is supposed to be?
My phone buzzes on the coffee table, cutting through my spiral. I glance down.
Dr. Bart Sands.
B.S. Figures.
I huff out a dry laugh. I don’t have anything against therapy. For the people whoneedit.
But me?
I blow out a long breath. Brooke must’ve booked the appointment herself, 1 p.m. tomorrow. Probably figured I could slip out during my lunch break.
I could still go to work tomorrow.
But I don’t want to.
The thought of walking into that office feels about as appealing as a colonoscopy. Everything about that place just feels toxic. From the draining management to the enabling employees.
I’m just so fuckingtired.
Brooke was all talk about being partners yet here I sit all fucking alone.
Again.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Matthew
I look at the rhythmictick…tick…tickas the moving ball hits the ones at rest, the motion bouncing back and forth in a smooth, endless loop. It’s weirdly soothing.
I don’t know what it’s called, just that it’s one of those therapy or hypnotic devices, like a pendulum but with more than one ball.
“It’s called a Newton's cradle,” Dr. Sands says, his voice calm.
We haven’t really spoken since I came in, just sat in the silence together. Me on the couch, him in the chair across from me.
His office isn’t much. More shoebox than sanctuary. The walls are bare except for one framed degree and a plant I’m sure is plastic, on the window ledge.
But there’s something about him… I don’t know. He’s got that air of someone who knows what they’re doing. Like a mechanic. You can always tell who’s going to fix your engine and who’s going to take you for a ride.
I might not have a car, but this guy? He knows what he’s doing.
I nod toward the cradle. “It’s nice. Soothing.”
