"Always will," I finish for him with a tearful whisper.
He turns his head to press a kiss to my palm.
The answer flies out of my mouth.
"Yes."
He jerks in surprise and blinks, "...yes?"
"Yes, Atlas," I let out a watery laugh, brushing the tears from my cheeks. "Therapy first, but I want to try again."
He closes his eyes and leans down, pressing a kiss to the back of my hands.
"Thank you," he whispers, his eyes squeezing closed. “Thank you.”
When he glances back up, I tentatively ask, "Do... do you want me to schedule—"
"No," Atlas shakes his head, his voice firm. "You did all of that last time.Iwill find a therapist. I'll send you their information if you want to vet them first, but I will arrange everything, baby. You're off on Thursdays now, right?"
I nod.
"I'll schedule it for Thursday. I'll take off work."
Blinking, I whisper, "You're serious."
"It's you, baby," Atlas shrugs. "Of course, I'm serious."
???
It's a miracle I'm able to walk into this office with how my body is shaking.
The night after mediation, I was folding laundry when I received a text from Atlas—a therapy appointment for Thursday morning. He's asked if that time worked, and he'd reschedule if needed.
I smiled as I replied that it was perfect, a dizzy mix of hope and fear swirling in my gut. I looked up the therapist andrealized that I had recognized the name.
They are top-rated in our area, but I didn't schedule them before because they were pricey. Not pricey enough for Atlas, though, and that thought settles me.
He's serious.
The hope outweighs the fear, but I still can't stop my pounding heart as I walk up to the door to the office. I can’t see his truck in this busy parking lot, and that sends my anxiety up.
He said he would come. He said he would. He said.
With shaky hands, I pull open the door to the therapist's office and freeze.
Atlas is sitting in the small waiting room, two cups of coffee in his hands.
His eyes light up when he sees me, and I notice how he's dressed. My husband’s hair is combed neatly, he’s wearing a crisp white button-down, his nice gray dress pants, and—oh my God—his nice shoes.
I didn't wear sloppy clothes, but I still felt underdressed in my jeans, a dark green sweater, and brown boots. At least I did my hair and makeup, secretly wanting to look nice for my husband.
Atlas smiles at me, a little shy.
I walk to him, feeling as though I'm in a daze, like seeing a mirage, that’ll disappear if I get too close.
He hands me the cup in his left hand, and that's when I see the gold of his wedding ring glint in the light, right over the tattoo.
My own bare finger suddenly feels empty, my ring still in my jewelry box.
