Page 23 of The Unfluencer

“No,” I lie, choosing healing over hardening.

Like everyone else, she wants me to talk nonstop about my feelings to unburden my emotions. She wants me to be angry, and at the same time surround myself with a small, trusted circle of loved ones… who’ll inevitably just ask me how I’m doing a zillion times and look at me like I might break.

It’s a delicate balance.

On the screen, Dr. Bellamy nods, encouraging me like she can somehow hear my spiraling thoughts—including the silent annoyance with family and friends, this process, and her. But it’s my time, right? Patient-therapist confidentiality is what I’m paying a pretty penny for.

“Let’s dig a little deeper into how this all makes you feel,” Dr. Bellamy posits. “Losing your sense of privacy.”

Jesus, I hate this.

“Well, let’s see. Not great,” I say, chuckling. “Would I love to take out my trash without worrying someone’s digging through my Q-tips and banana peels ten minutes later? Sure. It’d be amazing to drop by my barber without paparazzi psychoanalyzing the taper of my fade. Or just to get dressed for work without decision paralysis over whether to wear a tie. Heaven forbid I maintain my hygiene and grooming without the world calling me cold for leaving the house without tear tracks running down my cheeks. But again…” I drag in a long breath, willing it to cool my insides. “I’m fine. It’s just taking some getting used to, is all.”

“Mm-hmm,” Dr. Bellamy says, her tone soothing as she grabs a spray bottle and spritzes a huge, leafy green plant beside her on her desk. “First and foremost, you’re human. It’s okay to be hurt, frustrated, even angry.”

Exhaustion hijacks my laugh. You don’t say!

She purses her lips, refocusing on me. “Warner, this is a private space to say what you can’t publicly… Use it. It’s okay not to be okay.”

Under my desk, my knee bounces.

I lean forward, elbows gliding over my desk’s cool glass surface, fingertips tapping to the rhythm of my thinning patience.

“Look, I don’t know what you want me to say. Everything else is gone. Packed away or sold. All that’s left are Sherry’s paintings and the Clover Cay estate, which—as the headlines have dutifully noted—are set to be offloaded. Sooner rather than later, preferably.”

“Good.”

That’s it? Good?

Already anticipating her follow-up questions, I add, “Last week, I made a private appointment with a gallery, the Heartery, over in Harrington, which…” Seems was a mistake. I ruffle the newspaper into the frame. “But it’s done. And next month, my realtor and I are flying out to Clover Cay. He’ll take some photos, get the listing up, and hopefully, by summer, no one will care about the paintings or the island and”—I flex my fingers, curling them into a fist—“I can just be normal, I guess.”

Just me.

Is that really so much to ask?

“And you’ll be fine?” Dr. Bellamy asks. Except it’s not you’ll be fine and live a life free of public speculation. No, it’s more a sarcastic you’ll be fine, fucked up, insecure, neurotic, and emotionally inept judgment.

My therapist is judging me.

“Yes,” I say, defiantly.

She nods, going mute again, and I don’t know why it burns me up, but it does.

“Right, I guess I’m the bad guy for not wanting to keep my wife’s paintings, for refusing to memorialize the faces of the same women who helped drive her to the edge long before she died.” Fire blazes inside me. “What a terrible person I am, selling the island. The last place I remember her truly happy. The place where we agreed we’d go our separate ways.”

I’m so tired of that Luxe Ladies franchise and its fanbase, these random people on social media slapping labels on me. Dictating how I’m perceived, thinking they get a say when I get to move on. If I’m grieving the “right way.”

Screw them.

“Suddenly, everyone’s an expert, replaying, dissecting reunions where I sat silently behind Sherry.” I chuckle. “Do they think I wanted to be there? No, but I showed up for her. And now that somehow entitles them to comment on the Luxe Husband? They get to count my tears, track my whereabouts, and act like they know me? No, trust me.” A humorless laugh tumbles out of me. “I’m good.”

“It’s okay to move on at your own pace. There’s no timeline.” Dr. Bellamy nods, reassuringly, annoyingly.

Every muscle in my body tenses.

I know what she’ll say next. Grief is something I’m somehow supposed to not only live with, but manage. Be strong under a magnifying glass while losing my privacy and any sense of normalcy. Honor Sherry’s memory, and somehow still give myself grace.

It’s such bullshit.