Chapter Eleven
Lorelie
“Absolutely not.”
Patrick throws his hands up. “You’re not even gonna think about it?”
“No,” I snap, louder this time. “I don’t have the fucking time, Patrick.”
I’m pacing the bedroom, already out of breath and exhausted.
“There are barely three months left until I have a baby,” I say, dragging a hand down my face.
“And I’m tired all the time. All the damn time.
Work has been the worst it’s ever been. I can’t even be the chaperone for Milo’s class anymore, so now I’m the one stuck bringing snacks, homemade snacks, because apparently every kid has a different allergy. ”
I throw my hands up. “And I haven’t even set up the nursery. Not one piece of furniture. Not one drawer organized. I’m supposed to be nesting, and instead I’m floundering.”
Patrick runs a hand over his head. “Lauren offered to throw the baby shower,” he says gently.
I snap before I can stop myself. “You know we can’t have it until Gen gets home.”
He blinks. “And when is that?”
I shrug, already annoyed and on the verge of tears. “Soonish.”
His brows lift. “Soonish? Lore-”
“I don’t know!” I explode. “I don’t know! Everything feels like it’s piling up and I can’t fix any of it and God, I’m so tired.”
I drag both hands through my hair.
“So no,” I say firmly. “I’m not spending the precious few hours I get off putting on a bra and driving to a therapist’s office.”
Patrick lets out a long, defeated breath.
“How about I take over the home front,” he says softly. “I know you wanna organize the nursery, but I’ll take over everything else. Milo, cooking, cleaning, laundry. Everything.”
I shake my head. “You have work.”
“So do you,” he says. “And I should’ve taken over already. I’m so stupid, I hadn’t even realized.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I whisper.
He takes my hand. “I do. And I’m not saying it to make you go to therapy, okay? I’ll cancel it. I’m sorry. I thought… I thought it’d be good for us.”
“Why?” I shoot back.
The second it leaves my mouth, I regret it. It’s stupid. I know exactly why.
He lets out a humorless laugh. “Why? Maybe because I’m sleeping in the guest room… and my wife flinches every time I touch her.”
My chest tightens so hard it knocks the air out of me. I open my mouth, but all that comes out is a tiny, broken, “Oh.”
He nods, like he expected that. He drops my hand and turns toward the door.
“Wait,” I say quickly.
He stops. Turns back. There’s this flicker of hope in his eyes that hurts to look at.
I swallow. “Maybe… maybe you shouldn’t cancel.”
His eyebrows lift, cautious but bright. “You’ll come?”
I shake my head. “Maybe you can go.”
He deadpans, “Go alone to our marriage counseling.”
I wince. “Okay, when you say it like that…”
“Because that’s what it is,” he says, eyebrows raised. “It’s marriage counseling. For both of us.”
I fold my arms, chewing the inside of my cheek. “I just… I don’t have the bandwidth right now, Patrick.”
“Why?” he asks gently. “Is work really that bad?”
“Work is… fine.” My voice shrinks. “I just don’t want to sit in a room with a stranger and talk about how broken we are.”
“We’re not broken,” he says quietly. “There’s some distance, but we’re not broken.”
My throat stings.
I take a shaky breath. I wasn’t lying, I’m dog-tired. Ever since I started showing, it feels like the entire nine months of pregnancy hit me all at once. With Milo, Patrick used to give me massages every night. Now I’m tossing and turning until I pass out from exhaustion.
One part of me wants to go to the guest room and fall asleep in my husband’s arms. The other part wants him to feel the consequences of what he did.
Actions have consequences, only somehow, I’m paying them too.
Maybe therapy is a way for both of us to stop paying.
“I can’t promise I’ll go every week,” I say finally.
Patrick’s eyes widen just slightly. “Okay.”
“And if the therapist is condescending or tells me to get over myself, I’m leaving.”
“Okay.”
“And I’m not talking about sex.”
“God, please don’t,” he mutters immediately.
Despite the situation, my lips twitch.
I sigh, long and heavy. “Fine. I’ll go.”
Patrick’s shoulders drop like I just solved his biggest problem. “Thank you,” he whispers.
Then, because he can’t help himself, he points at the spot on my back I’m rubbing. “I could do that for you.”
“Ha ha,” I deadpan. “Don’t push it.”
He grins and leaves the room.
I call after him, “I will talk about sex now!”
He doesn’t reply, just chuckles from the hallway.
I stretch my back and exhale slowly.
God, I miss sex.
Not just the act, though, yes, that too, but the way my entire body relaxes after I’ve had a decent orgasm or two. The way every tight muscle unwinds at once.
Self-care would be enough if I didn’t have a partner like Patrick, because that man may have screwed up spectacularly, but he knows what he’s doing in bed. And that somehow makes everything worse.
I close my eyes, pressing a hand to my hip.
Alas, I’m not a man. I refuse to let sex or the lack of it, steer my decisions, no matter how badly I crave him, his touch, or our connection.
I open my eyes and whisper to no one, “Therapy better work.”
Because I may not be a man, but I’m still human. And I swear Patrick knows.
Every time he kisses me in front of Milo… every time he brushes my waist in passing… I have to remind myself, force myself to remember he broke my heart.
The thing is… lately that reminder is getting harder and harder to hold onto.
Am I crazy to hold a grudge this long? I don’t want to, but I feel like I have to. So, I do.
Only… I’m not mad anymore. Not like before. He gave up drinking. He’s trying. He hasn’t pushed me. He hasn’t demanded forgiveness. He hasn’t guilt-tripped me or acted like I owe him anything. He’s been… good. Patient.
And everything is done. It’s over.
So why the hell am I making this such a big deal?
Why does the anger feel like a coat I can’t take off even though I’m sweating underneath it?
I sigh, rubbing the small of my back again. I’m going to have to figure out why. Maybe it’s hormones. Maybe it’s fear.
Thankfully, I have therapy to figure that out.
So… yay.
Patrick
“So… when was the last time you had sex?”
Lorelie bursts out laughing.
I stare at our therapist with my jaw on the floor. This is definitely not the first question I expected out of a licensed professional’s mouth. Well… not the first, but it’s damn close.
Lore is slapping her knee beside me, laughing so hard she’s wheezing.
I give her a glare. She knows how much sex-talk freaks me out. I’m not a prude, I just prefer to keep what I do with my wife between me and my wife.
She gasps between giggles, wiping at her eyes. “I’m sorry-I’m sorry, I swear I’m not laughing at you.”
Dr. Kendall just waits politely, hands folded.
I clear my throat. “I, uh… don’t really see what that has to do with our marriage.”
“Well,” Dr. Kendall says mildly, “a marriage without sex is just roommates with kids.”
“Well, we’re fine in that department,” I say.
Lore snorts.
Dr. Kendall turns. “Mrs. Boise, do you have something to add?”
Lore sees the look on my face, my don’t you dare face and shakes her head quickly.
“Therapy isn’t about biting your tongue,” Dr. Kendall says, not missing a beat.
Lore studies me and I know she remembers one of the hard limits I set early on: I don’t discuss our sex life with other people. Judge me if you want, I don’t care. I think the marital bed is sacred, not something to be dissected over coffee.
But I promised her I’d try in therapy. So…I nod.
Lore places a hand on mine. I squeeze it. Then she turns to the therapist and says, clear as day:
“It’s been a month and three days.”
My eyebrows shoot up. Didn’t know she was counting too.
“And?” Dr. Kendall asks.
Lore shrugs. “I miss it.”
Then the therapist looks at me. “Are you… holding out?”
I let out an offended noise. “God, no.”
She blinks. “Then…?”
I look at Lore because this one’s hers.
She takes a breath. “You know how when you’re raising little kids, you set rules? And if they break the rules, they get punished? Because if you don’t, you end up with an entitled asshole who never learns accountability?”
Dr. Kendall nods.
Lore points her thumb at me. “Well, he broke a rule. A pretty big one. So if I don’t hold him accountable, he’s liable to repeat it.”
My mouth drops open. “You put me in a time-out because of that?!”
“Well it wasn’t because you’re bad in bed,” Lore adds quickly.
Dr. Kendall raises an eyebrow.
Lore gestures toward me. “He’s really not.”
I ignore that part entirely. My ears are burning enough as it is.
“I know what I did,” I force out, meeting Dr. Kendall’s eyes even though it makes my skin crawl. “And I regret it. And I’m definitely not gonna repeat it.”
Lore shakes her head, unimpressed. “Doesn’t matter. You did the crime, you do the time.” She groans and rubs her face. “Even if it’s hard on all of us.”
My jaw drops. “So how long have I been sentenced?”
She shrugs like this is the most reasonable thing on earth. “Don’t know yet.”
Dr. Kendall nods slowly. “That’s definitely an… interesting approach. But you don’t seem very sure about it, Lorelie.”
So, it’s Lorelie now. I guess if she’s asking about the intimate parts of our life, she can use our first names.
Lore sighs, staring at the table in front of us. “I don’t know. I mean-” she glances at me and immediately looks away “I miss him. It’s not like I don’t trust him. It’s just…” She trails off.
“Just what?” I ask quietly.
Her teeth catch her lip. “I’m scared.”
My stomach drops. “Of what?”
She finally meets my eyes, hers are already wet. “I’m scared that something will happen, or I’ll do something wrong, and you’ll decide to punish me again with…” she gestures vaguely, embarrassed, “with that.”
My chest physically squeezes. “I didn’t punish you. You’re the one who sentenced me.”
Dr. Kendall lifts a hand, stopping us. “That’s a different point. Mr. Boise, you said you were angry when you drank. Were you… trying to punish her? Consciously or not?”
My throat closes. “No. I went to the bar so I wouldn’t yell in front of Milo or at her. Not because I was planning to…”
“Really?” Lore says softly.
I nod immediately. “I went there to calm down because the rational part of me knew I was overreacting, but-” My throat tightens and I force the words out. “It hurt.”
Lore’s face crumples, heartbreak written in every line. She opens her mouth, then closes it again, like she doesn’t know what to say.
Dr. Kendall clears her throat gently. “Okay. I think it’s time to step back a little.” She glances down at our hands, white-knuckled and locked together, and smiles softly. “It’s clear you two love each other. But there are hurt feelings on both sides.”
She sits back in her chair. “There’s a saying: ‘The heart has its reasons, which reason knows nothing of.’ Basically, it doesn’t hurt any less just because you can explain why you did it,” she looks pointedly at me, then turns to Lore, “or because of when it happened.”
Her voice stays calm. “The point is… it hurts.”
She folds her hands in her lap. “And how the two of you navigate that hurt is going to determine whether your marriage survives down the road or not.”
I nod. She’s serious now.
“Patrick,” she says, “be completely honest. Do you still have unresolved feelings about what Lorelie did?”
I sit back, thinking. Then I look at Lore’s hand in mine.
“Yes,” I answer. I don’t look at Dr. Kendall. I look straight at my wife.
“Lorelie,” Dr. Kendall asks gently, “do you feel like what you did was wrong?”
Lore takes a moment. Then she says quietly, “I didn’t then. I do now.”
“Can you elaborate?” the therapist asks.
Lore exhales a small, humorless laugh. “At the time, I thought… why not? I thought he was doing it, so why shouldn’t I?” She glances at me, eyes shimmering. “Only it turns out he wasn’t. You waited for me… and I didn’t.” Her voice breaks at the end.
Dr. Kendall nods, then opens the file on her lap and jots something down.
“Lorelie,” she says, “do you still have unresolved feelings about what Patrick did?”
Lore doesn’t even hesitate. “Yes.”
“Patrick,” she prompts gently.
I take a breath. I knew this question was coming.
“At the time,” I admit, “I also felt justified.” A beat.
“Now?” I roll my eyes at myself. “Now I wanna drag my drunken ass to the alley behind O’Riley’s and beat the crap out of him.”
Dr. Kendall smiles a little. “Well, you can’t do that.”
She leans forward slightly. “But there is something you can do.”
We both look at her.
“I want the two of you to write letters,” Dr. Kendall says. “To your past selves, right before the moment you regret. Tell that version of yourself what you needed. What you should’ve said. What you wish you’d understood.”
Lore and I look at each other. I’ve heard of this exercise before, usually from people who drink herbal tea and post quotes on WhatsApp.
“Do we read them out loud?” Lore asks.
“No,” Dr. Kendall says. “They’re just for you.”
She takes two a4 sheets of paper from her file and hands one to each of us.
“Right now?” I ask, because, honestly, I’d need a minute or week.
Dr. Kendall checks the slim silver watch on her wrist. “We have ten minutes left.”
We both make identical skeptical faces.
“It doesn’t have to be long,” she assures us. “Just… honest.”
Lore sighs and uncaps her pen.
I stare down at the blank page, my stomach twisting.
Honest.
Yeah.
This is going to suck.