“Emma, do you believe he wants to help you?”
“Of course I do,” I retort, mildly offended she would even ask that. But as I look between her and Steven, it’s clear neither of them believes me. “I do!” I say, irritation souring my gut.
“It doesn’t feel like you do,” Steven whispers, now looking down at his hands.
“Of course I want your help. I would love your help. I’m just too tired to ask.” I cross my arms. Creating distance between his skin and mine feels like the right move, but the absence of him is a cold shock to my nerves. “I know it’s ridiculous, butI want you to figure it out.”
He groans, the weight of this conversation pulling his shoulders down into a hunched position, looking like he would be fine caving in on himself instead of being here enduring this with me. “I can’t read your mind, Emma.”
“I’m not asking you to. But I do think some things are pretty obvious, and it’s frustrating when I have to point them out.”
“Can you give us an example?” Dr. Belo asks.
“Like making the kids’ lunches. It’s simple. They want the same thing every day, but I’m always staying up late to make them.”
Steven sits back quietly, mulling this over. His face moves through an array of emotions that I can’t decipher, but he doesn’t respond. Dr. Belo pulls off her spectacles, letting them hang around her neck, and informs us that our session is over.
“Same time next week?” she asks.
“Yes—”
“No,” I interject. “We will be out of town next week.” I give a weak smile.
“Two weeks, then. You have my number if you need anything. Please call during clinic hours if you do. If not, we will talk soon.”
“Thank you,” I say, shaking her hand as we go to leave. Steven just nods and rushes out of the office, down the hall, and jumps into the car.
I hurry to my side, in a way that allows me to ready myself for whatever might come on the drive home. But once I’m buckled, instead of starting the car, Steven jumps out.
Pressing his hands on the hood in front of me, he looks at me so intensely that heat ripples down my spine.
“What’s wrong?” I ask from inside the car.
He doesn’t speak at first. He watches me for a beat, then he backs away and paces back and forth, mumbling words under his breath. He looks unruly, like he’s at the end of his rope, and it could snap at any moment. Thesound of his steps against the pavement sound louder than they probably are, each step more frantic than the first. Picking up speed, he comes closer to my window then backs away again.
“Steven,” I hiss, rolling down the window. “You look like a crazy person right now.”
I look around to make sure no one sees the exhausted dad stalking outside of a psychiatrist office. Not that I should care what anyone thinks, but the image of Steven this way, unstable and fragile, makes me ache for him. He’s usually the one keeping it together for us.
His pacing stops, and suddenly, he’s heaving breaths and pressing his palms into his eyes.
“Hey, hey.” I jump out of the car and reach for him. “What is happening right now?” I tug at his hands, but they don’t budge as they cover the majority of his face. “Steven, what are you doing?”
When he still doesn’t look at me, I yank his hands away. His face is pinched and raw, eyes red-rimmed and wild. Wild with a million thoughts swimming through them, thoughts he’s bottling up instead of sharing.
“Talk to me.” My words sound so desperate and pleading he softens.
You’re not alone,I think. His eyes skitter up and down my face and neck before they settle on something behind me. I try to meet his eyes, but he’s focused on something else.
“Why won’t you look at me?” I ask weakly, feeling suddenly abandoned by him in the middle of this parking lot. Even with him two feet away from me, I feel like I’m losing him.
I fight back the tears that sting my eyes. Holding myself together is the only option. I can’t crumble around him. I need him to fight for us without a sense of obligation forcing him to do so. I will myself to stay in one piece, to not let him see the fractures growing undermy skin. But a pathetic whimper escapes me, and his eyes flash toward me. Everything about him changes at the sound, his posture more upright, his eyes more attentive, his hands reaching for me on instinct. Doctor mode activated as he searches every part of me for whatever he can fix. Like it’s his job, not his desire.
“Don’t.” I move away from his outstretched arms, knowing full well I would allow myself to crumble right into him, letting him hold me together like I have been for the last fifteen years. “You don’t get to fix me when you can’t even talk to me.”
His hands fall to his sides as he whispers, “I don’t know what to say.”
A sharp laugh slips out of me. It’s unkind, but I can’t help it.
