“I don’t need any morehelp, Tate.” It came out in a rush, her neck heating, moving up her cheeks all the way to the tips of her ears. “I appreciate everything you’ve been doing. It’s been incredibly appreciated. But I don’t want you tohelpus. I feel like you’re making us a project. And don’t pretend you don’t love a project.”
“Oh, I absolutely do.”
She laughed in frustration, stepping into the circle of his space. He didn’t move back. “I know you do. Youneeda project. You need to do something to take your mind off the fact that you’re not at your bar or your restaurant. But I don’t wantusto be that project. I want us—” she broke off, swallowing back the tears that were trying to burn their way into existence. She needed to make her choice.Are you family? We could be. “I want us to be a family. Ifyoustill want that.”
His hand rose, covering her face, his thumb gently tracing over her cheek, but the laugh he choked out was anything but warm.
“Silva, you can’t stand the sight of me right now. Don’t deny it. Don’t tell me what you want and then do the opposite. I’ll do whateveryouwant, dove, but I already told you —I’mnot making this choice for you.”
She huffed and stamped her foot in the driveway. The corner of his mouth twitched.
“Well, let’s see, I think we’re up to six weeks now? Six weeks since I’ve seen a foot-stomping Silva tantrum. I missed it.”
She whined, leaning into him further. “Don’t be mean. I’m serious. I don’t wantyouto be here out of obligation, either. Remember how that felt? I want you to be here with us, but not because it’s part of the chore checklist you made.”
“And I want to be here with you as well . . . if youwantme here, Silva.”
She did. Didn’t she?Yes. You do.
“Will you stay for dinner next week? She’s been asking for it.”
He didn’t answer right away, giving her an inscrutable look. “And what doyouwant, dove?”
And what are they after they bloom? They become obligations. Are you family? We could be. “I want us to start therapy this week,” she answered honestly. “You’re right. I’ve not been clear . . . about anything. It-it’s hard sharing her now, when I’ve never had to. But I want us to fix what’s broken. And I want you to stay for dinner.”
“Then I’ll see you for dinner next week, dove.”
Her eyes fluttered shut when he brushed his lips against her cheek, searing her like a brand.
Now they were in their third week of therapy.
And Tate was winning.
Zola took off her glasses, cleaning them with a cloth from the pocket of her dress, clearing her throat. “I think we need to do a bit of level-setting today. Now, I don’t want either of you to get the idea thatthisis what our sessions will look like. My telling you whatIthink is a one-time gift. You each need to be committed to doing the work after this.”
That felt ominous. Silva fought the instinct to shift closer to Tate on the loveseat. Despite being a work in progress, she thought it was telling that they sat together. There were two chairs in the room as well, plenty of options, distance either could have chosen . . . but week after week, they sat together.
“Silva, you have an anxious attachment style. You need Tate to give you validation to feel secure in the relationship, and when he doesn’t, you lean in to seek it. Tate, you’re the avoidant half of this constellation. When Silva leans in, you lean out. And when shedoesn’tseek her validation from you, you feel unwanted and retreat. It creates a constant loop of insecurity, locking you into the roles of pursuer and distancer. Do we think that’s a fair assessment of your early relationship?”
Silva nodded unwillingly, her hand creeping across the upholstery, relieved when he met hers in the middle.
“Now, here’s where things get complicated.”
“Morecomplicated,” he muttered. Silva squeezed his hand in response.
“Yes, indeed. Because I think I’mverycomfortable at this point saying that talk therapy is not going to be helpful for you, Tate.”
Silva gasped dramatically, yanking her hand back.Betrayed! Utterly betrayed!
Zola laughed, waving her hands at both of them. “Thisappointment, we’re going to continue on with, because I think you’re both making the right choice to be better parents to your daughter. And the work we’ll do in this room will give you the tools you need to co-parent.”
“Then why doesn’t he need his own appointment?!” she cried indignantly. It had been discussed just the previous week.
Zola slipped her glasses back on. “Well, let’s not mince words. Because I think you’re a bullshitter, Tate,” she said bluntly.
Silva gasped again, this time in mild vindication, her head whipping around to see his narrowed eyes. Her hand quickly sought his out once more, no longer feeling attacked.
“You’re very good at talking. You told me as much already. You learned at a young age to tell your mother whatever she wanted to hear to avoid discord at home. Talking is an easy thing for you to compartmentalize away. You’ve experienced a great deal of trauma throughout your life, and talking about it isnotgoing to help you. And I think from what we’ve discussed and based on the self-report survey you completed, complex post-traumatic stress disorder is the most likely root cause of the way you handle emotional vulnerability.”
