"It was just—" I start and catch myself, the justification on the tip of my tongue, the excuses crawling up my throat and trying to force their way out. I dig my palms into my eyes until it hurts, until my vision turns to stars. "Jesus Christ! I still keep trying to justify it! What the fuck is wrong with me?" The last word comes out in a yell that echoes off the walls. Dr. Forseti doesn't even flinch as I continue on, furious at myself.
"I tell myself I didn't know how to handle the pressure. That no one in my family had gone through this before. That I felt invisible, but that's bullshit.It's all fucking bullshit.Sophie was about to start fighting for her life, and I just wanted someone to pat me on the back and tell me, 'Poor Paul, this is so hard for you.'"
My mom's scolding after I came home like a kicked dog, with my tail between my legs, echoes in my head.
"You shortsighted, immature little boy..."
God, my mom was right.
Dr. Forseti lets my outburst hang in the air for a couple of moments, letting me sit in it before she tilts her head. "Have you always been impulsive?"
"I..." The question catches me off guard, and I shake my head. "No, I don't think so. It wasn't just a... mistake," I admit, hating the sound of my own voice. "It wasn't something that just happened. I didn't get drunk. I didn't slip. I thought about it, andI had multiple times where I told myself to stop. To go home. That I had Sophie. Then I did it anyway, and I kept going back to it. I kept choosing it. Choosing her."
She nods slowly. "When faced with trauma—like a loved one's illness—many people experience what we callacute maladaptive coping.Fight, flight, or escape. Some escape into substance abuse. Some fall into reckless behavior. And sometimes that escape becomes sex. Infidelity. People who are completely happy and in love with their partner suddenly cheat. There are many cases like yours—men and women who cheat on their partners after a cancer diagnosis."
The thought that I'm a statistic does nothing for me. That's not what I'm paying her for anyway, I don't want to feel better—well, I do, but I want to find out why. I want to be able to sleep again at night. I want to be a man worthy of forgiveness, I want...
God, I just want Sophie again.
"You said you kept going back, you kept choosing Elise. What did you feel with her?"
"It wasn't love," I say immediately, shaking my head in disgust. "It wasn't even real. I can see that now. It was all physical. Empty. I think... I think I was addicted to the way it made me feel—wanted, needed, powerful. But... it wasn't real. It was a high. Like trying to drown out the noise in my own head with someone else's body."
"Tell me about when you told Sophie."
I shift in the chair, guilt crawling over my skin like ants.
"When I told her, I felt this disgusting relief. The weight had been lifted from me, and now I realize—I'd just dumped it on her instead, like she didn't have enough to carry already. The look on her face... it'll haunt me to the day I die..." I trail off on a sob and dig my fingers into my eyes, "I told her that the mastectomy—that losing her breasts—was a problem."
"That’s quite hurtful. Was that true?" she asks, and I feel sickfrom replaying that conversation, those cruel words.
"Yes—no. I... yes, it mattered to me, but—" I clench and unclench my fists, frustrated, agitated, coming unglued. "I love her body, but I love Sophie more. God, I love her so much. I just want her back.Please, help me get her back..." I beg, a man stripped down to nothing. I'm seconds away from falling from my chair, begging on my knees for Dr. Forseti to help me, to fix me, to make me better so I can get Sophie back, so I can be the man she needs.
Her look pins me in place, simultaneously pitying and sharp.
"Paul, why are you in therapy right now?"
"I..." My voice dies in my throat, and she continues, placing her pen down on the notepad and folding her hands in her lap.
"Because, I'll tell you, if your only objective is to get her back, this process will not work. You are doomed to fail. You can't hinge therapy on trying to get your ex-fiancée back. If I do this, I'll get this. That's not how this works."
Her words are not the ones I want to hear... but they might be what Ineedto hear.
"Say if you do all of this, and she doesn't take you back, then what? You fall back into old patterns, you don't heal, and god forbid you do this to another person when life comes knocking. The only way you're going to make true, lasting change is by doing it for yourself. Funny enough, your selfish choices led you here. Now you need to be selfish again—focus on yourself—to find a better path forward."
???
I trudge up the stone walkway to the familiar front door, my heart pounding so hard it feels like it might crack through myribs. My palms are damp. I've already wiped them on my jeans three times, but it's useless.
It’s odd, being so anxious as I stand in front of a place that had once been my safe place.
With a shaky hand, I press the doorbell. The sound echoes inside the house, and I try to search for the right words that disappear the second I hear footsteps on the hardwood floor. When she pulls the door open, her face goes shocked for half a second, then it sharpens into something harder.
Disappointment.
She's standing in the foyer, wearing a soft Starling Cove High sweatshirt, jeans, and her slippers. Her arms cross over her chest like a shield, her eyes narrow, and she opens her mouth to speak.
"Ma, I'm sorry.” The apology falls from my mouth rapidly like word vomit. "I'm so sorry, you were right. I'm selfish and immature, and you were right to be ashamed of me. I hurt Sophie. I deliberately hurt her, and I hurt you and I... I'm so ashamed of myself."
