16. CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 16
Gray
M y nerves were shot to hell. I was flying blind, clueless about what I was doing. Rose's reaction to seeing me after a month apart – and just two weeks after that gut-wrenching phone call – was anyone's guess. I hadn't called her again; I didn't want to risk fucking up like I had.
I needed help.
I sat across from Dr. Dennis Ogle, a therapist recommended by Dr. Mercer. I had made an appointment two days before Jude and I would be heading to Angel Island for Christmas without giving my wife a head's up.
Dr. Ogle was a stern-looking man with a gaze that felt like it could peel back the layers of your soul, but his voice was unexpectedly tender.
"Gray, I see in the forms you filled out you've never had therapy before," Dr. Ogle began.
"Not unless a thirty-minute introductory session with Dr. Mercer counts." I was sitting on a couch and felt fucking foolish. Was I supposed to lie down and talk about my feelings? Shit! I was being such a Southern male cliché. We didn't do therapy. We were men; we believed in staying stoic through it all.
Dr. Ogle smiled. "In the forms you filled out, you say that your wife left you, and that's why you're seeking therapy."
"Yes… and for me…my growth as well," I added. "Her leaving has left me with more questions about myself than I have answers."
We talked a while and I told him what was happening with Rose and me, as well as just me. He hung on every word as I spilled the ugly truth: to the world, Rose was the long-suffering wife, and I was the clueless bastard who didn't know how good he had it.
Finally, we then landed on the homework Dr. Mercer had given me, which I told Dr. Ogle about.
“Okay, then let's talk about why you started sleeping in the guest room,” he urged, his tone flat but not without empathy.
I nodded, the familiar excuse rolling off my tongue. “I'd come home late or work late in the study. She'd already be asleep, and I just slept in the guestroom, so I didn't disturb her.”
Dr. Ogle leaned forward slightly, his fingers intertwined. “Is that something you did throughout your marriage?"
I shook my head. The room felt suddenly tighter, the air thicker. "No. Just the past several months…maybe a year or so, I think."
"Is there a specific event that happened?"
I hesitated, my voice merely a whisper when I finally spoke. "I’ve been thinking a lot about this, and I'm not sure, or maybe I am. Something did happen that didn't register right away but does now."
He nodded, waiting.
I'd come home late…again. Rose was asleep, but she'd left a note on the small table where I dropped my keys.
My darling Gray, there's food in the fridge on a plate for you if you haven't eaten. You just need to give it a minute in the microwave. There's pecan pie as well. –Rose
Guilt gnawed at me. Why did she have to be so fucking thoughtful? I'd eaten with Aimee and a couple of other colleagues after working late. We'd actually had a nice dinner at Marcel with a bottle of wine. I'd taken an Uber home, leaving my car at work. I never bothered to tell Rose when my plans changed, even though she asked about dinner every damn morning. Sure, I'd give her a heads-up then, but if shit hit the fan during the day? Radio silence. Today was no different, my dinner plans went sideways, and Rose had been at home with a plate of homemade food waiting for a husband who wouldn't show.
That was a lousy thing to do to the wife who loved me and took care of me. Fuck, Rose did everything I needed for me. My suits were dry-cleaned. My shirts were ironed. My shoes were polished. If I invited people home for dinner, she'd cook a fine meal and serve it with the right wine. Everyone was impressed with Rose's hostess skills. If I needed to talk, she'd be there. Whatever I needed or wanted, Rose gave.
I wearily went into the bedroom, hoping Rose was asleep so I wouldn't have to face my thoughtless behavior. But she was awake in a nightshirt and shorts, reading. The blue silk of her nightwear shimmered against her skin, making her glow. My wife was fucking gorgeous.
She set her iPad aside and smiled at me. "You looked tired, honey. Have you eaten?"
As she was about to get out of bed, I waved a hand at her. "I ate. Some of us went to Marcel."
As soon as the name of the restaurant was out, I could see the tightness on her face—it lasted an instant and was then gone, replaced by her genuine smile.
I didn't have to think too hard about why she looked hurt for that moment she allowed me to see.
Was it last Friday that Rose had made reservations at Marcel, telling me not to forget dinner? Yes, it was last Friday. Just four days ago, I'd bluntly told her I didn't have time for dinner or whatever. I was exhausted after a long week and just wanted to head to bed.
She smiled and nodded understandingly, telling me that she wanted to go because the chef had invited her. She'd met him when she volunteered at a shelter, and they'd hit it off.
How could I have been so careless? So, fucking callous? But I had.
"We'll go sometime soon," I cleared my throat. "Ah…I need a shower."
I escaped into the bathroom. When I came to bed, she lay on her side, facing mine. Her eyes were closed, but I knew she was awake.
I got in beside her and immediately wanted her. Bad! Like always. I was hungry for her. I lay on my back and outstretched one arm. She snuggled in and lay her head on my shoulder, her small, delicate hands on my chest.
I stroked the silk of her sleep tank, sliding beneath it to feel her even smoother skin.
I kissed her then. Unable to resist her. I wanted to fill myself with her taste, with her. I couldn't wait to be inside her. I never could.
I got her naked and pleaded, "Babe, I want inside you."
She held out her arms and spread her legs. "Yes, my darling Gray."
Fuck, she was so giving, so soft, so warm. I didn't have the patience to make her come first, which I almost always did. Not this time. I had had a long and stressful day, and she was my reward—my fucking salvation.
I slipped into her and felt her wet and ready for me. "Fuck, Rose." My nose nuzzled her neck.
I began to move inside her. I had no control. I was slamming into her, and she raised her hips each time.
"Get there, Rose," I mumbled, "I can't hold on."
She stroked my back and hitched a thigh up, welcoming me further in. That's all the invitation I needed. I began to hammer into her and came quickly, faster than I normally did.
"You didn't come," I whispered, guilt layering over guilt.
She smiled and kissed my mouth. "I love having you inside me, feeling you so close to me."
"But I always make you come."
Her eyes shifted, and I blinked. "Rose?"
"Yes, you do," she said, but I knew she was lying.
I kissed her. I'd make it up to her; I promised myself, as soon as I wasn't so tired. I'd make her come again and again like I used to.
"So, your wife didn't orgasm, and you felt guilty," Dr. Ogle deduced.
I licked my lips. "And I realized the way she said it that it wasn't the first time I hadn't taken care of her. I felt like an ass."
"Did you talk to her about it?"
I laughed in self-deprecation. "Come on, Doc, I'm a Southern man, we don't talk about shit like the female orgasm."
He nodded gravely.
"I didn't talk to her about it," I said somberly. "I felt like she'd just told me I was a shitty lover, and so…I started sleeping in the guestroom."
He frowned. "Did she actually say that?"
"No," I cried out. "No. Rose is…fucking sweet. This was all on me. I felt guilty, and I knew if I got into bed with her, I'd fuck her. I can't resist her. You know, my friends complain about how their wives don't turn them on, and they want some stranger on the side. I don't get them at all. I look at Rose, and I'm hard."
Dr. Ogle leaned back as if waiting for me to say more and there unfortunately was more . Fucked up shit that I brought upon myself.
"I suspected she wasn't happy, and maybe that's why she didn't come. I could feel it, sense the distance growing between us. Sleeping apart seemed easier than facing that .”
"Where have you been sleeping since Rose left?"
I felt tears prick my eyes. "On her side of the bed."
“Why?” Dr. Ogle prompted, his tone sympathetic yet probing.
"Because I can smell her there, and I feel less lonely and more safe."
I had told the housekeeper not to change the sheets. I wanted to hold on to my Rose for as long as I could.
"Gray, it's obvious you love your wife."
"Very much," I said hoarsely. "So, fucking much."
"Why do you think you've been treating her in a way that everyone around you thinks was designed to drive her away?"
I’d been thinking about this a lot for the past weeks, my wife gone.
At first, I decided she was being dramatic. Then I convinced myself that she was going to come back, any day now. But, finally, I was honest with myself about who I had been as a husband and a man.
"I was afraid when we got married that she was the wrong wife. I hoped she'd miscarry, and I'd divorce her." Remembering this always made me hate myself. "I didn't want to divorce her, Doc. I loved her, even then. But…."
"But?"
I sighed. "But, Rose is from the wrong side of the tracks, and I'm a fuckin' Rutherford."
He nodded but didn't say anything, and knew I had a lot more to get out of my system.
"My mother was hateful toward her. The first two years were rough, but then Rose started to," I could barely get the word out, " conform ."
I'd left my sweet, innocent, loving wife in the hands of my mother who even I was afraid of then—because I was a coward. For all that Southern strong-man talk and bullshit, I was a loser who'd let his wife deal with his mother, who didn't know how to love or even care for another human.
"Tell me what's going through you right now?" Dr. Ogle demanded.
I looked up at him, my cheeks wet with tears. "I hate myself."
"Why?"
"Because I abandoned my wife. Because I forced her to fit in, meet my needs but never ever asked her, even once what she needed."
Whenever we argued, I’d snap at her, “I married you, didn't I? What the hell else more could you want?” Like I had done her the ultimate favor by making her my wife.
"Why, Gray? You're a decent man. You love your children, and you care for them. You have a genuine and authentic relationship with them. You have one with your brother. What was it about Rose that prevented you from—"
"I feel guilty," I burst out. "Okay? And I am guilty. I knew what was happening to her, but I felt she deserved it. She got pregnant and married me; this was the price to pay."
"Did you pay a price?"
I shook my head. "I fell into gold. I had the best wife a man could ask for. My kids had a supportive mother who pushed them to do better but never by hurting them or insulting them like my parents had. She was there for me . Not just in bed but everywhere . She's my best friend, Doc, but I'm not hers."
Dr. Ogle pushed the box of tissues toward me and the cliché of it all—of crying in a therapist's office made me want to laugh. I didn't feel embarrassed. No, I felt…fucking hell, I felt lighter.
"I left her to take care of herself because I didn't know how to make her happy, and I didn't want to learn either. It was easier to avoid her, avoid our problems than to admit I had failed her as a husband," I admitted, the weight of the words sinking like stones in my stomach.
Dr. Ogle wrote something down in his notes before looking up again. "Avoidance, that's your go-to move when shit gets real. You did it with your folks, you're doing it with Rose, and I bet it's how you dance around every relationship in your life. But here's the rub—dodge enough bullets and you'll find yourself alone in a war zone. If you want any shot at saving things with Rose, you've got to flip the script. Face the music, spill your guts, and for once, shut up and really listen to what she's saying. No more running, no more hiding. It's time to show up."
“How do I make her happy again?” I asked, the desperation clear in my voice. “How do I win her back?”
"Now, Gray, it’s obvious that you're a goal-oriented man, and you want to get to your destination and win your woman back," he said with a small smile. "But you have to change your mindset. You cannot make Rose happy. Only she can make herself happy—you have to make sure you're not causing her any pain so she can get there. There is no quick fix."
"I was afraid of that," I joked sadly.
"Gray, it's not like all twenty years of your marriage have been bad. Have they?"
I shook my head, and then shrugged. "Not for me but for Rose? I don't know."
"From what I can see, and granted this is our first session, there've been good times and bad. More good than bad until, I suspect, your children left. You became empty nesters and didn't do the work needed to maintain your relationship. Your children instinctively saw the rift between you two and took sides."
I crushed the used tissues in my hand. What had taken years to break wouldn't be repaired in a few days. I knew that. I didn't like it, but for this to work, Rose and I both needed to truly want to fix our marriage. I didn't know what I'd do if she didn't.
"It starts with understanding her needs, her desires, and her wants," Dr. Ogle continued. "It's about rebuilding trust and showing her that you're committed. The truth is, you can't make your wife happy, and she can't make you happy. Happiness comes from within us. What you need to focus on is learning to listen to each other, to truly hear and understand each other's needs, and work together to meet them."