Chapter Thirty-Three
Wendy
February
I keep my eyes on Atlas as our lawyers speak to each other, discussing the spousal support amount, the child support, and the logistics of this separation that I've almost called off about five times now.
We sit in this conference room in Imani's office, a large, glass table separating Atlas and me as we sit next to our lawyers, who speak for us.
Atlas insisted on keeping the separation—for now, which almost made my heart stop dead in my chest when his lawyer responded to Imani. Then he explained it to me.
He wants to earn me back, but he hasn't earned it yet.
My trust and faith in him have grown exponentially, a whole explosion in the last month from his steadfast presence in our lives.
Atlas has begun joining us for our family therapy appointments.
Every single one, he arrives right on time, sits on the small loveseat with Noah, while Liam sits next to me.
Dr. Stone smiled kindly when she first met Atlas, shaking his hand and welcoming him in.
When I saw him across the parking lot, sitting by his truck waiting for us, his shoulders were almost up to his ears.
His face was a stone mask that melted when he saw my car pull into the parking lot. Noah saw him walking over to us when he got out of my car and called out for him.
His shoulders dropped, then they dropped even more when he got a smile and a fist bump from Liam.
Then he completely relaxed when I smiled at him.
"You're here," I said, because apparently that's the only phrase I'm capable of saying now.
But it's true. He's here.
"No place I'd rather be than here," Atlas murmured, glancing at our sons before locking his eyes to mine. We walked into that therapist's office as a family.
We've done so every time since, and every time we walk out as a family, I feel a hole in my chest stitch itself together again.
Family therapy has been interesting.
Dr. Stone easily folded him into our appointments, but at the first appointment, she said she would have us speak to Atlas about our feelings, and then he would be able to respond.
Noah went first, speaking about how sad he felt during that year, when Atlas would walk by him like he didn't exist. When he would ignore his art. When he wouldn't show up for family movie nights. When he wouldn't come to family dinners anymore.
Atlas' eyes remained completely focused on Noah, absorbing his words as silent tears tracked down his face.
Liam went next, speaking about the growing anger he felt during that year, when Atlas would miss his basketball games. His anger was also focused on Atlas' treatment of me, seeing him ignore or walk away when I tried to speak to him. He said he felt helpless, which made him feel angry.
Atlas' face was completely wrecked at this, sniffing and exhaling shakily as he took in our son's words. Liam kept his tone and face even, but there were a couple of tears that escaped his eyes. I wrapped an arm around his shoulders and squeezed, and he leaned into me for support.
Then I went. I kept it in relation to the boys, not our marriage, because that's what I want to focus on first—restoring our family.
"I want you boys to know that what happened between me and your dad had nothing to do with you," I started, looking at Liam next to me and then Noah, under his dad's arm.
"That year was lonely, and confusing, and painful. You both felt it, but you both kept shining—Liam becoming a star basketball player," I nudged him, and he smiled, glancing down to his lap as if he's shy. "And my little Picasso, winning that magazine feature," I smiled at Noah, who giggled.
"You both did exactly what you were supposed to. Liam, I'm sorry that I made you feel you needed to protect me—I'm supposed to protect you both. But I appreciate and love you so much—both of you."
Liam leaned his head on my shoulder, and Noah gave me a small smile, "I love you too, Mama."
Atlas' arm tightened around Noah, who leaned into his side.
My husband's eyes were wet, but he was smiling.
"None of this is your fault. Not any of it," I told my sons, who both nodded.
"And I've learned that it's okay to ask for help, and it's okay to talk about feelings instead of holding them inside until they hurt.
It's okay to admit when we need help, when we need to change something.
That's what we're learning to do now—as a family. Okay?"
"Okay," Liam whispered.
"Okay!" Noah chirped.
Atlas dropped a kiss on Noah's head and smiled at Liam and me. "Okay."
"Okay," Dr. Stone laughed with a bright smile. "Let's start then."
Imani's voice interrupts my happy memory.
"My client will retain the house, while your client will continue to make the mortgage payments."
Atlas’ lawyer, Jonas, nods. He's a friend of Diane's who's been incredibly agreeable and not arguing with Atlas wanting to keep me in the house and continue to pay. "Agreed."
Atlas flashes me a funny look, and I stick my tongue out at him. Atlas smirks and uses his hand to cover his smile, before crossing his eyes. I snort and try to cover it up with a cough.
Our lawyers stop talking and glance at us, bemused, that we're giggling through our mediation. Atlas and I both look around the room, like we weren't doing anything, just like we used to in high school.
The easy camaraderie that Atlas and I always shared, from the moment we met, has been slowly shifting back into place.
We text every day. I used to keep it strictly to the kids, but when he texts me a funny picture or a snowy sunset, it makes me smile.
And the late-night calls come, more sporadic now, but I'm always there to answer when he has a nightmare and needs to hear my voice.
I stay on the line with him until he falls asleep or I do. We've even started FaceTiming instead of just phone calls, with him saying that seeing my face will help, but I think he just wants to see me in general.
I don't mind, because sleep-rumpled Atlas is one of my favorite versions of him. I can practically smell him sometimes, that distinct, slightly spicy Atlas scent coming from his chest that I used to want to burrow myself in.
His chest would rumble with laughter when I'd rub my face into his chest, right over the tattoo of my name, and he'd wrap his big arms around me. He'd squeeze me tight and bury his face in my hair and just hum in pleasure like a big bear.
I loved it. I love him so much.
"Okay, well, then, that's it for today," Jonas says, going to stand, but Atlas clears his throat.
"Actually," Atlas says. "Could I speak to my wife alone?"
Imani glances at me, and I nod, trying to tone down my eagerness—especially since the way he emphasized my wife made my stomach flutter.
Imani shares a look with Jonas, then they stand and walk out of the room, leaving us in privacy.
"Hi," Atlas whispers from across the table.
I laugh, "Hi."
"I—uh—I got a new diagnosis from Dr. Newman.
I wanted to talk to you about it," Atlas says, his voice quiet and a little unsure.
I lean forward, eyes on him, letting him know I'm listening.
"OCD. Uh—Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. She said that's where the intrusive thoughts came from.
Of you dying. Fixating on the worst things I could imagine. "
I soften, my husband is being so incredibly vulnerable in front of me.
"I'm on some new meds, I think they're really helping... I uh... sometimes when I call, I don't have nightmares, but it just... helps to hear your voice. It blocks out the… bad voice."
"You can just call me, honey,” I huff a laugh at the redness of his cheeks at that admission. “You know you can."
His eyes light up at the term of endearment, and he grins, almost boyish. Then, he stands up from the table and walks all the way around, keeping his eyes on me the entire time.
I turn in my chair and am shocked when he kneels on one knee in front of me. He holds his left hand out to me, and I don't hesitate to place my hands in it.
Atlas looks at our joined hands for a long moment with a soft smile, before he looks back up to me, eyes locked on mine.
"Last time I kneeled like this, I was... well, no, I was actually kneeling because you were against the bathroom door and I was eating your delicious pus—"
"Atlas!" I scold, glancing back to the door, though I'm laughing. And it feels really fucking good to laugh with my husband.
"Sorry," Atlas smirks, though he sounds anything but.
"But the last time I kneeled like this for you, I was asking you to marry me.
Now, I'm... I'm asking you for another chance—to prove that I can be the husband you deserve.
I have no right to ask, not after I left you sitting in that therapist's office alone, but. .."
His voice breaks, and I do too, reaching out to lay my hand on his cheek. He exhales and closes his eyes, leaning into my touch as my thumb brushes against his beard.
With that, his eyes snap open, and the intensity in them makes me glad that I'm still sitting.
"I only want you, baby. Only you and I will never stop apologizing for treating you so awfully. But I'm selfish, and more than anything, I want another chance. I love you, Wendy. Always have—"
"Always will," I finish for him with a tearful whisper.
He turns his head to press a kiss to my palm.
The answer flies out of my mouth.
"Yes."
He jerks in surprise and blinks, "...yes?"
"Yes, Atlas," I let out a watery laugh, brushing the tears from my cheeks. "Therapy first, but I want to try again."
He closes his eyes and leans down, pressing a kiss to the back of my hands.
"Thank you," he whispers, his eyes squeezing closed. “Thank you.”
When he glances back up, I tentatively ask, "Do... do you want me to schedule—"
"No," Atlas shakes his head, his voice firm. "You did all of that last time. I will find a therapist. I'll send you their information if you want to vet them first, but I will arrange everything, baby. You're off on Thursdays now, right?"
I nod.
"I'll schedule it for Thursday. I'll take off work."
Blinking, I whisper, "You're serious."
"It's you, baby," Atlas shrugs. "Of course, I'm serious."
◆◆◆
It's a miracle I'm able to walk into this office with how my body is shaking.
The night after mediation, I was folding laundry when I received a text from Atlas—a therapy appointment for Thursday morning. He's asked if that time worked, and he'd reschedule if needed.
I smiled as I replied that it was perfect, a dizzy mix of hope and fear swirling in my gut. I looked up the therapist and realized that I had recognized the name.
They are top-rated in our area, but I didn't schedule them before because they were pricey. Not pricey enough for Atlas, though, and that thought settles me.
He's serious.
The hope outweighs the fear, but I still can't stop my pounding heart as I walk up to the door to the office. I can’t see his truck in this busy parking lot, and that sends my anxiety up.
He said he would come. He said he would. He said.
With shaky hands, I pull open the door to the therapist's office and freeze.
Atlas is sitting in the small waiting room, two cups of coffee in his hands.
His eyes light up when he sees me, and I notice how he's dressed. My husband’s hair is combed neatly, he’s wearing a crisp white button-down, his nice gray dress pants, and—oh my God—his nice shoes.
I didn't wear sloppy clothes, but I still felt underdressed in my jeans, a dark green sweater, and brown boots. At least I did my hair and makeup, secretly wanting to look nice for my husband.
Atlas smiles at me, a little shy.
I walk to him, feeling as though I'm in a daze, like seeing a mirage, that’ll disappear if I get too close.
He hands me the cup in his left hand, and that's when I see the gold of his wedding ring glint in the light, right over the tattoo.
My own bare finger suddenly feels empty, my ring still in my jewelry box.
"Hi, baby," Atlas says when I sit down by his side.
I can't stop staring at him.
"You're here."
He smiles.
"No place I'd rather be."