Chapter 8
8
Whit Bowman
M y palms sweat as I stare at my laptop. At the blank screen telling me the organizer will be joining soon. Heart in my throat, I consider slamming the screen shut and calling it a day, but in the end, I don’t do that. I’ve canceled my last few appointments with her from sheer cowardice. I haven’t been able to face her after what I’ve done, but the more time that passes, the more I need to get it off my chest. The secret is eating me alive, and if there’s anybody who I can tell, who won’t judge me—at least to my face—it’s her.
My therapist.
The video chat finally connects, and I’m met with the smiling, cheerful face of Dr. Smizor, the woman who I’ve seen on a bi-monthly basis since I was in my early twenties. Guilt racks my body as I force a smile onto my face, fighting back the nausea churning in my gut.
“Good afternoon, Whit,” she says softly. “It’s so nice to see you. How have you been?”
“I’ve been well, thank you.” I wonder if she knows that I’m full of shit. If she knows I’m, in fact, not well . “How are you?”
“I’m wonderful,” she replies like she always does when I ask. “It’s been a little bit since we’ve seen each other. What’s been going on? I assume you’ve been busy. Why don’t you catch me up to speed, and we can start there.”
I knew she was going to ask me about this, and I still feel entirely unprepared. In all the years I’ve been coming to her as a patient, I’ve never canceled on her without reason. Especially not twice in a row like I did this time.
“Yeah, I’m sorry about that.” I breathe out a sound that’s supposed to be a laugh, but it ends up coming out more like a grunt, and I wince at hearing it. “I have had a lot going on in my personal life, and I just wasn’t ready to talk about it yet, which is why I canceled my appointments.”
“And are you ready to talk about it now?”
“I’m not sure,” I reply honestly. “But I think I need to talk about it, ready or not, because it’s eating away at me.”
Dr. Smizor nods and smiles. “We can talk about as much or as little as you’re comfortable with, Whit.”
Rubbing the pads of my index finger and thumb together on either side of the laptop, I drag in a deep breath, holding it for a five count, before exhaling. My chest tightens. Constricted. I’m getting myself all worked up, and even though I know that, I still can’t seem to calm down. I swear, my head is my own worst enemy sometimes.
I sit back in my chair, letting my head fall back as I stare up at the ceiling. I can do this. This is what she’s here for. She’s not going to judge me or make fun of me or berate me for the awful choices I’ve made.
Dr. Smizor has the patience of a saint. She sits on the other side of the screen, waiting as I compose myself. Never once does she make me feel like I need to hurry up and say what I need to say, nor does she appear bothered even in the slightest. And I know that’s her job, but I don’t think she realizes how helpful it is for me. All my life, any time I got really worked up about something, or something angered or upset me, it would be hard for me to voice it. Like my hurt would be an inconvenience to those around me.
It wasn’t until I started seeing Dr. Smizor when I was younger that I truly learned it’s okay to express how I’m feeling. It’s something that really helped me when I got married, especially because Conrad was so terrible about communicating in general. One of us had to initiate the hard conversations, otherwise we’d never talk about anything. His inability to talk about his feelings comes from how he was raised, and I know that. Henrik Strauss was a man of few words. He worked hard, provided for his family, and didn’t believe in fussing over feelings and emotions. A trait he passed on to his son.
My inability comes from a mix of my neurodiversity and a trauma response that developed when I was a teenager, when I opened up to my parents about something huge, and they shut me down.
Realizing far too many seconds have passed in silence, I decide to spit it out in the best way I know how.
“About a month ago, something happened with Conrad,” I murmur, eyes cast downward onto my keyboard. My cheeks heat, and I’m sure they’re red as an apple right now. “We, uh…” Clearing my throat from the emotion bubbling up, I say, “We were intimate.”
“Well, first of all, I’m glad you felt safe to share that with me,” she murmurs softly, and when I glance up, I don’t see an ounce of judgement on her face. “That must be heavy holding on to that for you. Secondly, do you want to share more?”
I nod, my throat tight. “Yeah, I think so.”
“Okay. Why don’t you tell me about what led up to this happening.”
Heaving a sigh, I think about the question. Think about everything that led up to Conrad and I ending up alone in his house while a yard full of our closest friends mingled around outside, completely oblivious to the lines we were crossing inside.
Dr. Smizor knows about my dad and his health issues. She also is aware of how costly it all is, and how stressed I’ve been because of it. So, I decide to start there. “I was at work, and I’d just gotten another late notice from the bank regarding the mortgage for the clinic. It wasn’t my first, or even my second, late notice, and I knew I was going to lose the building if I didn’t do something.” Glancing up at her, her eyes are kind as they take me in. I breathe out a small laugh. “But you know me, when I get overwhelmed or stressed out, my first reaction is to bury my head in the sand and avoid it.”
She smiles sympathetically, but doesn’t say anything, letting me continue. I take another deep breath.
“Anyway, that night was my friend’s birthday party. It was at Conrad’s ranch, and for a moment, I strongly considered skipping it. I didn’t feel in the mood to celebrate or put on a happy face in front of Conrad, but in the end, I decided to go because I thought being around my friends may help my mood. May help me forget about my stress for a night.”
“You have a very strong circle of friends,” she says. “I can see why you would come to that conclusion. Did it help?”
Swishing my mouth to the side, thumb and index fingers still rubbing together, I shake my head. “Not really, no. I felt so disconnected. Like I was underwater, watching everybody celebrate and socialize above me. Away from me. I drank a couple of beers, hoping maybe that would snap me out of it, but it didn’t. If anything, all it did was make it worse. And then… And then I went into the house to catch my breath,” I go on. “To try to calm down. I splashed some cold water on my face, did some breathing exercises, but when I came out of the bathroom, Conrad was there.”
The memory of coming out and finding Conrad there waiting for me is crystal clear. Like it’s permanently burned into my brain. The look of concern etched onto his handsome face. The way I froze in place when I spotted him. But most of all, the way my shoulders relaxed and it felt like I was finally able to take a deep breath easily for the first time all day.
“What happened from there?” Dr. Smizor asks.
The scene plays out in my mind. Vividly. “He asked me what was wrong. I lied and said I was fine.” Huffing out a laugh, I say, “I wasn’t fine. He knew it. But something about him being there felt like exactly what I needed in that moment. It felt like if I could confide in anyone about the weight on my shoulders, it would be him. But I don’t understand why. I have Reggie…my boyfriend.” The label tastes bitter on my tongue. “I cheated on my boyfriend with my ex-husband, and I don’t understand why I would do that.”
My pulse roars in my ears as I get all of that out, my chest feeling like it’s going to cave in.
“As I hope you know, this is a judgement-free space. My role here isn’t to judge anything that you do or don’t do. All of this must be a lot to process. How are you feeling about this?”
Another small laugh bubbles up, even though I don’t find anything funny. How am I feeling? “I’m feeling disappointed in myself,” I reply. “For letting myself find comfort in Conrad, knowing it could never go anywhere. For not finding comfort in my boyfriend. And for doing this to him.”
“Be fair to yourself, Whit. It sounds like you were lonely and looking for a connection, and Conrad was there and able to provide that to you. I know from speaking with you about him back when you two were married that he used to be someone you were able to find that connection with in the past before the divorce, so it would make sense that you turned to him again. How did it feel at the time?”
Looking off to the side, unable to face her as I remember exactly how it felt. “It felt like I could breathe,” I say, pressure building behind my eyes. I blink it away. “Like I was going to be okay, even if temporarily.”
“And now, you said you feel disappointed in yourself. Can you elaborate on that?”
Looking down in my lap where my hands are fidgeting with one another, I give myself a moment. “It’s been years, Dr. Smizor. It’s been nearly four years since we’ve gotten a divorce, and even longer than that since we’ve been intimate. I really thought I was past all of this. I’ve moved on. I’m with Reggie now. I’m supposed to love Reggie now. That part of my life is over, yet one crappy day and I’m falling back into Conrad’s arms.”
Dr. Smizor nods, her expression empathetic as she regards me. “It sounds like you were experiencing some big feelings, and that must have been hard, and this was an avenue you took to find that comfort you were seeking. Have you talked to Conrad about what happened that night?” she asks, even though I’m sure she knows the answer.
I shake my head. “No.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“Because Conrad wouldn’t want to talk about it.”
“Is that what he said?”
I huff, remembering going out to the ranch and him confronting me. “No, actually, he tried to talk about it.”
“And you didn’t want to?”
My chest heaves as I remember how it felt standing before him in the field. “I spent so long trying to get him to talk, to open up to me, and he never wanted to. And now that I’ve moved on, he wants to talk? Well, it’s too late.”
“It sounds like you may still have some anger about his inability to talk about things in the past. Does that seem fair to say?”
Frustration surges through my veins like poison. Nodding, I say, “Yes, I think so. I’m angry with him for shutting me out for so long when we were still married, only to suddenly want to communicate now. But I’m also disappointed in myself for even going there with him.”
She nods. “Why do you think you turned to Conrad for comfort and connection instead of Reggie?”
The question stings. Even though I know it doesn’t come from a place of judgement, I’m judging me.
“Because Conrad was there and Reggie wasn’t?” I reply, knowing it’s a lie.
“Is that really all it was?” she asks. “Convenience? Do you think if it were somebody else who would’ve approached you, the outcome would’ve been the same?”
“Well, of course not.”
My skin is crawling.
Breathe, Whit. Deep breaths. Breathe in.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Breathe out.
“Why not?”
“Because… Because he’s Conrad.” It takes me aback at how quickly that answer came. How simple it is. “We have history, which I don’t have with anybody else.”
“Do you feel like you could have your needs met regarding the stress you’re dealing with, with Reggie?”
My heart stalls, a realization dawning on me like a lightbulb turning on. “I don’t think so,” I say quietly.
“Why do you think that is?”
Lifting one shoulder lazily into a shrug, I glance up, looking at Dr. Smizor, feeling pressure building behind my eyes again. I won’t cry. “I don’t know.”
Three words that are probably the most honest I’ve been all day, yet somehow feel like a punch to the gut.
Nodding, she glances down at her wrist in a way that lets me know our time for today is up. Urging me to think about that last question, we end the call, and somehow, I feel equal parts better and worse than when I started. Better, because I’ve gotten it off my chest, but worse, because it just proved my relationship is more surface level than I wanted to believe.
That’s just lovely. Truly, the last thing I need, on top of all my other stuff, is this.
Love that for me.