She’s not the least bit threatening, but Cora is trembling beside me.
“So, Maddoxes, I was under the impression that I would be meeting with just Cora today. May I call you Cora?” Cora jerks a nod. She’s clammed up tighter than a drum. I’ve become very familiar with the look. “Were you interested in couples counseling?”
I glance at Cora. She stares straight ahead, giving away nothing.
“Maybe. Eventually. But first, uh—” I didn’t plan for this. I figured once I got Cora here, my job would be done. I should have known better. If I’ve learned anything about my wife, it’s that she’s stubborn as hell. She’s not going to warm up; she’s going to wait Dr. Hoffman out.
How do youmakesomeone do therapy?
How do you get anyone to do anything? Go first, I guess. Show them the way.
Fuck.
“I, uh, I’m going to go first.” I tug my slacks straight, leanforward, and blow out a breath. We’re doing this. “I’m your patient today.”
“That’s, rather, ah, unconventional. In general, individual therapy is conducted—well, individually.”
Dr. Hoffman’s gaze sharpens. I meet it steadily. In some ways, I did come prepared. Dr. Hoffman and I have already had a conversation. She understands what she stands to gain by working with the Maddoxes—and she has a sense of the consequences of crossing us. I didn’t come down too heavy. I don’t want her resentful when she works with Cora.
Dr. Hoffman raises a thin eyebrow and settles back in her chair. “All right, then. We’ll be unconventional.” She offers Cora a smile. Cora stares stonily back at her like Wednesday Addams.
Without batting an eyelash, Dr. Hoffman turns to me. “So, Adrian. I may call you Adrian?”
“Of course.”
“Please, both of you, do call me Deborah. Is it all right if I jot down notes while we speak?” She grabs a yellow legal pad from the table beside her. “To help me remember from session to session?”
“That’s fine,” I say. Logan can have someone destroy her notes easily enough when we’re done with this.
“So, Adrian, why don’t you tell me what brings you in today?”
I glance over at Cora. She’s still staring at the doctor like a mouse cornered by a cat. I can’t bring up the car or the breaking shit. Cora would probably make a run for it. I don’t want to bring up Delaney. I don’t need Deborah thinking I brought my wife to a shrink so she can make her forgive me.
That’s not the root of all this, anyway. Our marriage—the one I set up—was always going to collapse. I get that now. I just sped up the breakdown when I did what I did.
I clear my throat. “Well, uh, I guess I have issues.”
Deborah’s pen is poised over her pad. She blinks like she expects me to go on. What am I supposed to say? I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. She’s the expert.
“Can you tell me more?” she asks.
What else do I have besides issues? What is she asking? The clock on the wall ticks. Beside me, Cora stares at the Moroccan rug.
Deborah sets down her pen. “Do you have a sense of where these issues are coming from?”
They’re coming from my head. That feels like the wrong answer, though. Damn. This is harder than I would’ve expected. It’s like talking to a stoner. Where do issues come from? This is therapy. Isn’t the answer always your childhood? “I guess, um, maybe from things that happened when I was young?”
“Can you talk about that?”
Why does this lady pose every instruction as a question? It’s likeJeopardy, but even more painful.
“I—uh—well, I was kidnapped.”
Deborah’s forehead furrows in a show of empathy. Cora glances up from the rug.
“I’m so sorry that happened to you,” Deborah says in a practiced way. “That must’ve been very traumatic.”
I nod, wet my dry lips, and wait for the next question. Deborah studies me, expectant. Cora’s gaze flicks between us.
