“I’ve been going to therapy.”
“I heard,” I say simply. He doesn’t ask how.
I don’t tell him about the disgusting phone call I received from my father the same day he called to cuss me out.
My nod is enough. I’m done carrying his words for him.
“I’m… I’m sorry, Tori,” he says.
A blank stare from me. “For what?”
“Everything,” he says. His voice cracks.
“All of it.”
I shake my head, half laugh, half disbelief.
How many times have I wanted to hear those words? And how hollow do they sound now, echoing back after all this time?
“I’m serious, okay?” He leans forward, urgency creeping into his tone.
“I’m sorry. I’ve been an asshole. I’ve been selfish. I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol since October?—”
“Bullshit,” I snap.
“I’m serious.” His hands flatten on the table.
“That’s when I started therapy. Real therapy. Not that ‘pray harder, read your Bible more’ crap at church. An actual therapist who knows what they’re talking about.”
That makes me look up. That catches my attention.
I don’t bring up the fact that I spent years begging him to go. Literalyearstrying to explain how badly he needed professional help.
He rushes on. “I knew that if I just said it, you wouldn’t believe me. And you’d never come home. I had to show you I was serious. And I am serious. About this. About us.”
A waiter delivers our food to the table.
“Enjoy.”
Then he’s gone, and Chase doesn’t even glance at the pizza. He keeps his eyes locked on me, like if he blinks I’ll vanish.
“I’ve been going every week since the beginning of October,” he says. “And I haven’t touched alcohol—I swear I haven’t. Not even when you had those fucking divorce papers served.”
His hand curls into a fist on the table.
I brace myself for the eruption, the old familiar shouting match. But it doesn’t come.
He inhales sharply, unclenches, and exhales.
Different. Almost unrecognizable.
“I shouldn’t have yelled at you,” he says.
“No, you shouldn’t have.”
“But you shouldn’t have served me divorce papers without talking to me first.”
I scoff. “I tried, Chase.”
