“Not really.” I give him a smile.
“Oh, good.” His shoulders fall with relief. He sits beside me but leaves inches of leather between us, his back stiff as a board. This is how he’s been for months, like he has no idea how to be near me anymore. Like I’m unrecognizable to him. It makes me ache, a longing and equally irritated kind of ache. I’m pregnant, clearly he knew how to be around me five months ago.
“Steven, how are you doing?” Dr. Belo asks with the same calm she gave me. Pen down, arms blocking the notes. But Steven doesn’t seem interested in the notepad like I was. His eyes are on me.
“What’s wrong?” I murmur from the corner of my mouth.
“Hi.”
“Hi,” I echo and immediately feel the strange flutter in my chest.
“You look nice.” His voice lingers on the word, deliberate. I fight the laugh that wants to slip out. Nice? My hair is plastered to my neck, my cheeks are flushed, and my ankles are twice their normal size.
I thank him anyway, grateful for the kindness in his eyes. But it doesn’t stop him from studying me.
“Is there…something on my face?” I ask, swiping at my cheeks and forehead. Sweat is everywhere.
He lets out a sound, like a laugh but not a laugh. “No,” he says, and I don’t know what to think. He’s not frustrated or annoyed, but there’s an edge to his voice that I can’t figure out. I bite my lip, pretending not to notice, and turn to Dr. Belo. He does the same.
“I’m okay, thank you,” he finally tells her. “Work was busy. I apologize for being late.”
She nods, writes something, then, without looking up, she says, “Why don’t we start from the beginning. Steven, tell me, why are you here?”
He doesn’t waste any time. “Well, we aren’t doing great. Her and me.” He gestures to me for clarification. “I don’t know why, really, but we’re out of sync, and I’m hoping this can help.”
“Emma, do you agree?”
“Yes.”I exhale, feeling the weight press into my bones again.
More notes are written down as Steven fills her in on the last fourteen years of our relationship, as if he’s prepared it in advance. He’s methodic but cautious. He doesn’t falter when he tells her about his mom, or our rollercoaster of pregnancy circumstances. He presents it all as facts. As if none of it holds any weight at all. As if it hasn’t lodged itself under his skin like it’s done mine. And when he finishes, he nods once. That’s that.
“And how does it feel hearing that back?” she asks.
He hesitates before dropping his gaze to his hands. I see his jaw flex. His thumbs press together until the tendons in his arms stand out. His skin iswarm and rich against the pale-blue fabric of his scrubs, but his eyes aren’t. They’ve gone cold and distant. Hollow.
“I’m pissed,” he finally says.
“Interesting,” Dr. Belo murmurs, her eyes drifting to mine. “Emma, what about you?”
Steven’s gaze glides over to my hands clenched in my lap. My black shorts dig into my thighs, the leather squeaking under me as I shift. Uncomfortable. I’m feeling uncomfortable. Uncomfortable that I couldn’t tell Steven was feeling this way. Uncomfortable that we feel the same, yet we can’t communicate that without someone mediating. Uncomfortable that I am one of the reasons he has gotten to this point.
But I can’t say that. I can’t say any of it. Something in my brain is blocking the words, shoving them down my throat.
“I don’t know,” I whisper.
Dr. Belo clicks her tongue and writes this down. She’s probably writingbig fat liaracross the page, in all caps. She then goes into a slew of exercises for us to practice—using phrases likeI feelorI thinkand encouraging us to consider writing each other notes or emails if we can’t get the words out.
Then somehow, our time is up.
“This was a good start,” she says, standing. Steven follows. I, on the other hand, struggle, the couch trying to take me as hostage. When I can’t get up on my own, Steven wraps an arm around my waist, his other hand cradling my belly, and hauls me up effortlessly. The baby kicks hard at the movement, and I grimace as we’re ushered out with instructions to come back at the same time next week. I don’t miss the eyes Dr. Belo gives Steven:don’t be late.
“Are you hungry?” Steven asks once we’re in the car.
“Starving.”
“I might have a fewminutes, if you—”
His words, and whatever plans he was hoping for, are cut short when his pager shrieks in his pocket.
