Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
MIRA
H e’s definitely cheating on her.
Like without a shadow of a doubt, this man is banging any chick he can, left and right, and is sitting here in front of me, telling his girlfriend that he loves her and wants to be with her and her alone.
“You gotta think how it makes me feel,” he says, bringing a hand to his chest. As a therapist, I sit here and nod, taking it all in. As a woman, I want to gag and throw whatever the closest object is to me at his fucking face. I lean back, rolling my head side to side and take in a slow breath. This is my last session of the day, and I am more than ready to be done.
I’ve been going nonstop all day and went right home from the barn to shower, get dressed, and filmed a few videos for my social media. A year after I filed for divorce and left my own hell, I started recording my little “things I wished my own therapist told me” series on Instagram and TikTok. The series blew up and while I don’t have a million followers like Kat, I have a decent enough of a following that I profit off my channels, and more importantly, I get advice and wisdom out there for other women to see.
“You’re right, baby,” my client says and I take another deep breath, realizing I zoned out for a few seconds. I listen for a minute, catching back up with the conversation in no time.
“Let’s back up for a second,” I say, working hard to keep the gotcha, motherfucker grin off my face. “Zed, you mentioned how Sadie working the evening shifts on Mondays makes you feel alone and not important.”
“Yeah,” he says, really laying it on thick as he plays the victim.
“And that’s why you had to go out with the boys to Cash Bar. ”
“Yep. It’s our place.”
My eyes slightly narrow. “Are you aware Cash Bar is closed on Mondays?”
“Is it?” Panic flickers over his face for a second. “You know what, I think you’re mistaken, Doc.”
“I’m a therapist, not a doctor,” I remind him. “And all of our sessions are recorded so we can go back and check.”
“Wait a minute,” Sadie says, blinking a few times. I love and hate this moment…the moment she can’t deny that his story doesn’t add up. “You weren’t with Jeff. His girlfriend posted about having a Harry Potter movie night in.”
“He wasn’t there. T-the other guys were.”
Biting my tongue so hard it’s about to bleed, I don’t tell him exactly what I think but instead ask him to elaborate on this, and to no one's surprise, he can’t.
“I’m seeing a lot of holes in this story, Zed.” I mentally readjust my therapist hat, saying each word with practiced patience. “Which leads me to think it would be worth booking some one-on-one sessions to dig into why you feel like you need to lie for self preservation. How was your childhood?”
He gets to his feet, defensively holding up his hands. “You know what? I’m not gonna sit here and listen to this. Sadie, I forgive you for being suspicious.” His words give me a flashback to when I was the one sitting across from a therapist, listening to my own asshole ex tell me that he’d forgive me for calling the cops after he physically assaulted me.
“He’s cheating, isn’t he?” Sadie asks with tears in her eyes.
“Yeah. He is.”
“Maybe…maybe…he can change.”
“No,” I say gently. “He won’t change.”
“What if I just try harder? Tell him how much he means to me.”
“No,” I repeat. “You deserve a partner, not a project. He doesn’t respect you.” I run my fingers through my hair. “You know what’s across from Cash Bar that is open on Mondays?”
She shakes her head as a single tear rolls down her face. My heart hurts for her, remembering all too well how it feels to finally be unable to deny what you already knew.
“A strip club. One that is known for sparkly girls.”
“Glitter.” Another realization comes over her and I’m already reaching for the tissue box. Just last week she was questioning him about the glitter in the front seat of his car. He told her that he bought “that stupid sparkly reindeer she wanted for Christmas last year” and she fucking bought it.
It’s May. They live in an apartment. Where the hell is he storing a life-size light-up reindeer?
“I don’t want to live without him,” she cries.
“It’s going to be okay,” I start. “And I know how fucking awful it is to hear someone say those words right now. But I promise you, it will get better. I’ve been in your shoes more than once.”
“Really?” She looks up, grabbing another tissue to mop up the tears streaming down her face. “You’ve been cheated on?”
“Twice. That I know of. First time, it was my husband. We were married for eight years. Second time was a boyfriend. And I gave them both more than one second chance. They never changed.”
Sadie takes in a ragged breath. Out of all my clients, she’s one I can say with confidence will be okay. She came in here at the end of her rope, and I know there’s almost a sense of relief now that she can let go and try and move on.
“You just seem so…so…put together. I don’t know what I’m going to do. He…he pays the rent.”
“You’ll figure it out. I did,” I go on. “It’s going to be hard and it’s going to be scary and you’re going to have to make some changes, but you’ll recover and be even stronger in the end. It doesn’t seem like it and I’m not going to try and convince you to walk out of here feeling like it is. But I am here for you, and I do want to ensure that you will walk out of here knowing you won’t go back.”
“I won’t.” She pitches forward and I get up, going around the desk, taking a seat next to her on the couch. “I’m going to see if I can stay with my mom for a few weeks while I figure things out.”
“See? You’re already figuring things out.”
“Thank you,” she whispers and puts her head on my shoulder.
“Of course, Sadie.” My heart breaks right along with hers, but this is exactly why I do what I do. No bullshitting, no trying to work out how to build that trust back again.
Because once a cheater, always a cheater.
“We just walked three miles,” I tell Violet, my golden retriever, taking the leash from her before she whips it back and forth and hits me in the face with the metal clip. She’s done it before. I’m sitting on the floor, stretching at the same time I go over my schedule for the rest of the week. I have a busy day tomorrow, making me think I should text the girls and tell them I won’t be able to meet for our lunch date, though I really don’t want to. I live for dates with my friends.
“I have reels set for tomorrow and the next day,” I tell Violet, as if she cares. She happily accepted the trade of a tennis ball for her leash and is now shoving it in my face but not letting me take it to throw. This apartment complex has the best dog-friendly courtyard, and a girl down the hall pet sits for me when I’m out of town, which reminds me that I need to track her down and pay her cash tomorrow.
Mentally adding it to my growing list of things to do, I finish stretching and get up, going into my little kitchen to make a cup of coffee. It’s late and I shouldn’t have caffeine past eight PM, I know, but it’s one of the few “bad things” I consume. I sit at the kitchen table as my water heats up to make coffee in the French press and get a text. It’s from my client who has an early morning appointment with me tomorrow. Her daughter has a fever and she has to cancel. I quickly reply, telling her it’s okay and we can reschedule.
“We get to sleep in a bit,” I tell Violet. My next appointment isn’t until eleven-thirty. Once my coffee is ready, I take it into my room, sitting in bed to do a bit of research, aka internet stalking potential cheaters.
It’s not uncommon for a therapist to find a niche, and after I’ve been cheated on, lied to, gaslit, and manipulated for years, it’s really not surprising that I’d go this route. I log into one of my fake Instagram accounts, first doing my due diligence of posting, scrolling, and interacting with others to make sure this account is active and seems legit.
Then I pull up Target Number One’s profile, cross referencing my Excel spreadsheet of who he follows, adding in three new girls since yesterday. They’re all pale with dark hair and two of the three have very scantily clad profile pictures. No hate to them; it’s all business. But this particular guy has been in my office next to his wife, telling her he’s not going to like and follow so many “models” anymore.
I’m getting deep down in the rabbit hole of follows, screenshotting pictures he’s liked, when my phone rings, startling me a bit. I almost don’t answer, since I don’t recognize the number, but something inside of me says to pick up the phone.
“Hello?” I answer a little apprehensively.
“Hi, is this Mira Martin?”
“Who’s calling?”
“Sorry, I’m Whitney. Um. Sera Novak told me to call.”
“Oh, um, are you wanting to schedule an appointment?” I ask, knowing Sera has been coming to see me for years and has referred a number of her friends.
“Well, yeah, but I’m hoping to hire you for your other services?”
I mentally pause, biting my lip. “Give me the details.”
“I just started dating this guy and something feels off, but he’s been so amazing, spoiling me like no other. And I don’t want to be that idiot but I don’t want to write him off yet.”
“Okay,” I say, waiting for her to go on.
“Really, something is off and I can’t shake it. And I want proof. We were supposed to meet at the Palmer House for drinks in like an hour, but I’m stuck at the office. Sera came up with the idea that someone should go and flirt with him to see if he engages. We just last week said we’re exclusive.”
“You don’t have any friends who could fill in?”
“Not that he wouldn’t recognize. I’m willing to pay double what you normally charge and I can Venmo you now. I’ll even cover the cost of a new dress if you want to stop somewhere on the way. Would five hundred be enough?”
My eyes widen. It would be more than enough. It’s only seven-fifteen and getting paid double my fee plus getting a new dress isn’t something I want to pass up.
“There’s a work party next week,” she goes on. “I work in finance with all men and I just cannot risk showing up with this guy if he’s doing something shady.”
“I got you,” I say, nodding even though she can’t see me. “Send me a picture of him and I’ll be there.”