I push back from the desk. “Lunch sounds safer.” We hit the bar down the block. The place is packed at this time of day. I guess happy hour just started. It smells like whiskey and food. Heaven basically. We slide into barstools and order. A double for me, perks of being my own boss. I can drink in happy hour if I want to.
She narrows her eyes like she already knows why. “So,is this about your wife or the other woman you’re emotionally combusting over?” she says, looking at my drink. I snort. “Both.”
She sips her beer, waiting. She’s always been patient with me. We met in our first year of college after a sorority party I was forced to go to. She was the first woman I slept with after Olivia. And let’s say that the sex was bad enough to never make us try again. Don’t get me wrong, she is a beautiful woman, with the confidence of a pageant queen, and the attitude of a truck driver, in the best way possible. But we quickly discovered we were better as friends.
“Hannah keeps bringing up Olivia. Asking questions, like she knows something’s off.”
“Is she wrong?” She’s staring at my soul. So, I keep drinking without looking at her. “No”
“You going to tell her?” I swirl my drink, still avoiding eye contact. “Eventually, I guess.”
“You guess?” I glare. “It’s complicated.”
“Is it? Or you just fucked it up and now don’t know how to deal with it?” I grin, because yeah, that’s more accurate. “She doesn’t know we slept together,” I say. “But she knows what I feel about her.”
“And the other one?” I catch myself smiling at the thought of her. “She’s trying to pretend we can be friends. I’m trying to pretend I agree with her.” Agnes nods, like she gets it. And maybe she does.
“I saw her the minute I got to Tacoon,” I say. “It was like getting hit by a truck.”
“Yeah, you look like that happened to you,” she saysdryly. “So, is she a truck you ran into willingly until you fell between her legs?”
“Fuck you,” I mutter to her, laughing.
“Been there, done that, no thanks,” she smirks. “But in all seriousness, don’t be so hard on yourself, Ethan. You love them both, and that’s okay. What’s not okay is you cheating on your wife with your girlfriend.”
“Okay, seriously fuck off.” We laugh it out and keep talking about other things, because at this point, there’s nothing left to do.
I take a sip of my drink. “It wasn’t just sex, Agnes. I can’t even call it cheating. I love her, I’m in love with her. What we had never stopped, you know? I told Hannah long ago what I felt for Olivia, and I’ve always known I had love for her, but this was, is, something more.” It just slipped out of my mouth, like I’ve been holding it for so long, because I have.
She exhales, long and low. “Jesus, Ethan.”
Then she asks the worst question ever, “Are you still in love with Hannah?”
I stare at my glass. “I… I don’t know. I know that I care about her, I respect her, I fucking love that woman. She’s the mother of my kids. But, I don’t know if I’m still in love with her. But I guess that even if I am, it’s not in the same way I am with Liv.”
Agnes leans back. “That’s the thing, Ethan. You can absolutely love two people at the same time. But you can only be in love with one.”
I stare at her and nod.
“You’ve been in love with Olivia sinceyou were ten years old. You almost didn’t marry Hannah because of her. And now, here you are—married with kids, still looking at Olivia like she hung the damn moon for you.”
“That obvious, huh?”
“Painfully.” We laugh again, but this time it isn’t as real. I sigh. “We agreed to take space. Focus on our families.” Agnes gives me a look. “And how’s that going?” I ignore her and finish my drink. We talk about other things, like her love life, for once.
We joke around and go back to work.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
OLIVIA
The sanest thingI could do was schedule a therapy session.
I already see Dr. Kamari once a month, preventative maintenance, emotional oil change, whatever you want to call it. And it’s been good. Manageable. But this? This wasn’t a “see you next month” kind of crisis. This was an emergency. The office smells like leather and depression. Which feels fitting, considering I’m wearing both.
Leather pants, leather jacket, and what I can only describe as my best “barely keeping it together” perfume, equal parts heartbreak, dry shampoo, and existential dread. I sink into the couch, the same soft brown leather that’s seen me through every version of myself for the last three years. It groans under my weight, like it already knows what kind of session this is going to be.
Dr. Kamari sits across from me, calm as ever, legs crossed, notebook balanced on her lap. Her presencealone is unnervingly steady, like she was built in a lab for people whose lives are falling apart.
