Good.
Afterward, it’s time for our therapy session. It’s just us again, and by the time we get back to camp, they’ve already gotten Destyny’s pink couch hauled out of her tent and Monroe is perched on her cushioned chair, flipping through what I initially think are notes about our previous sessions, but no.
“Don’t mind me, dears,” she coos as soon as Jason and I settle in on the couch. “I’m just working on my next book:Monroe Coco: Classy is Better than Sassy.”
Jason slumps back, possibly realizing all over again that this is the woman who is acting as our therapist.
She sets the notebook aside, next to the little cushioned bedTiberius is sitting on, wearing a purple silk cape and matching booties. “I noticed yesterday that you didn’t have the anger lamp with you during the . . . incident.” She eyes us with arch disappointment.
I shift uncomfortably. “We’ve got it now,” I say, patting the lamp sitting next to me on the couch. I remembered to bring it with us climbing, though it stayed safely on the ground.
“Good. Perhaps yesterday’s troubles could have been avoided if you’d had that to express your anger.”
That alone makes me press the button, and the lamp lights up. “Yesterday’s troubles could have been avoided if your fellow Not-Wives hadn’t been treating Jason like—”
“Oh, no need for another lecture,” Monroe says, dismissively waving her hand. “Though I think we should talk about your anger, Emily. Specifically as it relates to your relationship.”
“I wasn’t angry at Jason,” I snap. He was angry at me, but I’m not about to bring that up.That, at least, I’m pretty sure we resolved. “I was angry at the people harassing him.” I can’t help but be hyperaware of the cameras on us as I am once again letting my anger get the best of me.
I’m never going to get hired to run anyone’s marketing again after this thing airs. No business wants theirTwitter account run by someone with the anger management capabilities of a jilted Not-Wife.
Up until this week, I wouldn’t have imagined this would be a problem for me.
“Well, then,” Monroe says. “Assuming this is true—”
“It’s true,” Jason cuts in, an edge to his own voice. “And Emily wasn’t the only one. I was pissed at them, too.”
I give him a grateful look.
“Of course.” Monroe smiles tightly. “Which makes sense, given howinappropriatethese women were acting. It was shameful.”
She’s right, but I can’t help wincing at the thought of her poor pool boy, who I am very certain shared the same fate.
“But,” she continues, “it is understandable if you have further negative feelings about the situation, Emily. After all, your boyfriend—a young, virile man in his prime, not that I notice these things—was surrounded by beautiful, sexually confident women in lingerie. Some of which was less than tasteful.” She sniffs her disdain.
My throat squeezes. “I had feelings about not wanting them to harass him.”
Monroe arches a red, sculpted eyebrow. “So you felt no jealousy at the thought of the lust-filled imaginings your boyfriend might have at this sight?”
“I didn’t have—” Jason jumps in the same time that I say, “Oh my god, he wasn’t—”
“Now, now, lets not speak over one another,” Monroe says, doing that exact thing. “Perhaps we need Dinokins.” She reaches for her tote bag andTiberius whines, clearly excited at the mere mention of his special friend.
Jason looks as grossed-out as I feel.
“We don’t need Dinokins,” I say quickly. “We can take turns. And no, I wasn’t jealous.”
“And I didn’t have any lust-filled imaginings,” Jason insists.
I’m weirdly irked, even though it’s not like I activelywanthim lusting after Not-Wives. I generally don’t have jealousy issues about him thinking other women are attractive—obviously he does sometimes, and it’s not like I can’t appreciate the sight of a hot guy. I trust him never to cheat on me or even toe that line.
But for him to say “Who would want to see that?” like he can’t imagine how anyone could be attracted to an older woman, even one who keeps herself fit and well-groomed and—
It hits me then, right in the middle of Monroe’s condescending speech about how I of course shouldn’t be jealous and that I’m not “an uggo, as they so crassly put it” and am actually quite lovely, even if I could use “a touch of plumping in the lips and a good facial peel.”
“Emily is gorgeous just as she is,” Jason says. He squeezes my hand to punctuate that, and while I appreciate it, I realize this isn’t about the Not-Wives at all, not really.
If Jason can’t find anything attractive about the physical appearance of these women, what will happen when I’m their age? When my boobs are saggier, because I’m not the plastic surgery type, and I’m wrinklier, because I’m also not about to inject toxins in my face, and maybe I’ve gained weight and—
