I wanted to give a derisive laugh at how hypocritical that statement sounded. If I had handled things better, I wouldn't be in Dr. Grant's office, staring a hole into the college degrees hanging on her wall.
"Have you responded to her messages?"
"No. I think we need a little space from each other." Time for tempers to cool; for harsh words that were on the tip of tongues to die down in the cold light of day when we could both think rationally.
Dr. Grant nodded. I was unsure if she agreed, but she tended to let me free-talk my feelings without judgment or taking sides. I could really use her advice, though. I didn't come here just to jabber on without feedback.
"Let's circle back to what you mentioned before." Dr. Grant punctuated her remark with a pen tap on the words written on her pad. "About being disgusted at yourself. We touched on this briefly at our first session. Would you like to delve into that now?"
My chest hollowed out, and I released a strangled breath. Still, I nodded in agreement.
At our last session—once we determined that we were a good fit and I wanted to continue meeting—Dr. Grant had asked me about the topics I wanted to focus on in our next appointment. My face had flamed as I briefly described my habit for female company. A need I picked up not long after Hannah died and continued to entertain, despite how discontent it left me.
Now that I was confronted with the topic, I felt exposed and wary of how Dr. Grant would see me.
I attempted to rush over in my mind how I wanted to broach the confession. How I could swing it so that I didn't end up looking like a perverted, unfaithful douche.
But no matter what angle I looked at it, it all just sounded like a bunch of bullshit excuses. If I wanted this to work, I needed to be honest. There was just no way to pretty up my actions.
"About two months after Hannah died, I slept with another woman." I paused to swallow the thick lump that gathered in my throat.
I allowed myself to remember the pain of waking that following morning—and it had nothing to do with the drinks I had knocked back the previous night. As usual, my mind felt heavy with mourning, so when I turned my head and spied a nude woman sleeping where my wife should be, I promptly emptied the contents of my stomach over the side of the bed.
"It was a one-night stand," I rasped, avoiding Dr. Grant's examining gaze. "I was lonely, depressed, sad, you name it." I gave a harsh laugh as one leg bounced up and down. "I walked into a bar, met some out-of-towner, and then went back to her motel."
Dr. Grant leaned forward; her brow pulled in concern. "You were drunk?"
Not drunk enough.
"Yeah," I croaked. I dug the heel of my palm into my knee to stop it from shaking.
"And it was consensual?"
I scrubbed a hand down my face. How easy would it be to plead insanity by way of drunkenness? "It was definitely consensual. She initiated it, and I agreed. I knew what I was doing."
"Okay," she nodded, her expression clearing. "It's important to establish that consent was given. I've seen many cases where irreversible decisions were made in the thick of grief. Usually, it's financial decisions, but personal relationships fall into this category, too."
"Yeah," I grunted. "That makes sense." I ran another hand down my weary face as I forced myself to continue.
"Unfortunately, I kept making terrible decisions. Even though I regretted sleeping with that woman, a month later, I took another woman to bed. And then another." I swallowed thickly. "And another."
My face flamed, and I chanced a glance at the good doctor, waiting for her judgment; for her pierced nose to twist in disgust.
Instead, she observed me silently, giving me space to continue my confessions. So spill I did.
"It was just one-night stands at first. Until I had an STI scare. You would think that would wake me up to what I was doing, but instead, I decided to play it safe and only take one woman to bed at a time. Just casual sex," I insisted, although it sounded like my excuses were becoming worse.
"They all knew the score from the start and agreed to a casual fling. Once our arrangement came to its natural conclusion, we parted ways."
God, I sounded like a shithead. Sex had become a chore for me at times, so why I continued an act that served me no purpose and made me feel guilt and shame afterward made zero sense to me.
And to make it worse, the one woman who I did feel something more than casual for—someone I hadn't even slept with—I had to go and fuck it up.
Probably irreversibly.
I rubbed my hands down my thighs in annoyance.
Seeing my agitation, Dr. Grant leaned forward with an earnest expression.
