Chapter Forty-Five
Couple’s therapy, for me, had always conjured images of tissue boxes and broken coffee mugs and one partner glowering in the corner while the other cried for ninety minutes.
In reality, it was more like waiting for a flight you weren’t sure you wanted to board.
There were two chairs, a small side table, a clock with an aggressively loud second hand, and Cam beside me, legs crossed, eyes fixed on a potted fern like he was memorizing its genetic structure.
We sat in the waiting room for ten minutes, not speaking, until the receptionist announced that “Dr. Stiles is ready for you.” The therapist’s office was spare but not cold, heavy on the earth tones, full of soft lamps that didn’t quite reach the corners.
I wondered how many doomed relationships had dissolved on this exact couch.
Dr. Stiles herself was brisk and athletic-looking, with the kind of easy posture I envied in women who did yoga but didn’t talk about it. She greeted us both with a handshake and a slight smile, then slid into the armchair across from us, clipboard resting on one knee.
“I’m glad you could make it together,” she said, looking at me for a beat longer than felt strictly necessary. “Cam has told me a lot about you, Olivia.”
I managed a polite smile. “I hope only the good stuff.”
Cam snorted, a noise that came from deep in his chest, but didn’t elaborate.
Dr. Stiles adjusted her glasses and leaned forward, businesslike but not unfriendly.
“You know, most couples don’t come in together until the last possible minute.
Usually there’s already a lawyer on retainer.
So, I have to say—this is an encouraging sign.
You coming in even after filing means you still have hope. And hope is everything.”
I said nothing, hands locked in my lap. Cam just nodded, eyes never leaving the plant that was almost a replica to the one in the waiting room.
She continued, “Today isn’t about assigning blame or rehashing the past. It’s about figuring out if you can move forward in a way that’s healthy for both of you.” Her gaze flicked to Cam, then to me, then back again. “So, why don’t we start there? What are you hoping to get out of this, Olivia?”
I hadn’t expected to be put on the spot so quickly. I swallowed, stared at the stitching in the couch cushion, and said, “Honestly? I don’t know. Maybe I just want to know that if I give this another try, I won’t end up hating myself for it.”
Dr. Stiles nodded, making a note. “That’s a fair goal.” She turned to Cam. “And you?”
He hesitated, lips parting and closing twice before he found the words. “I want her to know I’m not the same person I was.” His voice was rough, not with anger but with the effort of making a confession. “I want to prove that I can be better. For her, but also for myself.”
I glanced at him, surprised. He looked tired, but not defeated.
Dr. Stiles scribbled something, then said, “You know, most people assume therapy is about fixing what’s broken.
But sometimes it’s about figuring out if there’s anything left worth fixing.
” She set her clipboard aside and crossed one ankle over her knee.
“Cam, we’ve talked a lot about your history—your family, your habits, your expectations.
Olivia, I’d like you to know that he’s made more progress than most clients in half the time. ”
Cam flushed, a muted pink at his neck.
I tried to smile, failed, and said, “That’s good to hear.”
She nodded. “It is. But as you both know, progress isn’t the same as perfection. Cam still has work to do. He’s acknowledged that. The question is: can you trust the version of himself he’s trying to build? And maybe more importantly, do you want to?”
She paused, let the words settle.
I looked at Cam. He was fidgeting with his hands, thumbs digging into his palm, but his jaw was set.
I answered honestly: “I want to. I just don’t know if I can. I don’t ever want to question if I’m good enough for someone again. I want to be enough. And know it.”
Dr. Stiles seemed to like this answer. She smiled, soft and a little sad.
“That’s honest. And it’s okay to not know.
The thing about relationships—any relationship—is that there’s always a leap of faith involved.
No one can guarantee the other person won’t hurt you again.
But if you’re both willing to work—really work—there’s a chance to beat the odds. ”
Cam nodded, but I could see the tension in his posture, the way he hunched forward like he was bracing for impact.
Stiles let a silence bloom, then said, “Olivia, is there something in particular you’re afraid of? Something that would help to get on the table today?”
I took a breath, exhaled. “I’m afraid of being stupid. Of trusting him and ending up right back where I started, or worse.”
Cam’s face pinched, but he said nothing.
She said, “What would it look like, to you, if Cam really changed? What would you need to see?”
I thought about it. “I’d need to know he wasn’t just putting on an act. That he wouldn’t turn into a different person the minute he felt insecure, or alone, or… angry at me.”
Stiles nodded, then turned to Cam. “Do you think that’s possible?”
He didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was so soft I almost missed it. “I don’t know if I’ll ever stop being insecure. Or angry at myself. But I don’t want to take it out on her anymore. I’m trying to learn how to be… enough. Even if I never have everything I thought I wanted.”
He looked at me then, really looked, and in that moment I saw the old Cam—the one who’d driven three hours to see me in college, who once learned to bake sourdough just because I’d mentioned it in passing, who’d held my hand through the worst nights of our life together.
Stiles watched us, silent for a few seconds, then said, “One thing I’ve found helpful is letting your partner read your process—literally. Cam, would you be willing to let Olivia read some of the journal entries you wrote during our sessions? If she’s comfortable?”
Cam blanched, as if she’d asked him to read a diary entry aloud in front of Congress. “All of them?”
“Maybe just the ones that feel important. The ones about your relationship. You’ve worked hard to articulate your thoughts in writing—maybe it would help her to see it, unfiltered.”
He glanced at me, as if to ask whether I wanted this. I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
“Yeah,” he said, after a long pause. “Okay. I can do that.”
Stiles smiled, genuine now. “Good. We’ll set that as a goal.”
She checked her watch, then said, “We’re almost out of time. Any last thoughts?”
I shook my head. Cam shook his, too.
She stood, and we followed. She didn’t offer a hug, but she did shake both our hands at the door.
As we walked back to the car, Cam said nothing, and neither did I. It wasn’t awkward, just heavy with the weight of everything unspoken.
He drove us home in silence, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his knee. I watched the city slide by and wondered whether I’d ever really know him, or if all relationships were just elaborate guesses.
When we got home, he offered me the journal—a slim, navy-blue leather with the corners already curling up from use.
“I’ll leave it in the bedroom,” he said, not looking at me. “Whenever you’re ready.”
I watched him go, wondering whether to be angry or grateful or just scared.
I decided on all three.
∞∞∞
Three days passed before Cam brought up the journal again.
I thought he might have forgotten—part of me hoped he had—but on a gray Thursday morning, as I sat at the kitchen table pouring over invoices for the bookstore, he set a mug of coffee next to me and said, “You should read it. When you’re ready, I mean. I want you to.”
I could have said I’d already looked at it. Could have lied, or laughed it off, or played it cool. Instead, I stared at the cup, at the swirl of cream I always told him was too much, and said, “Okay.”
That evening, after Cam went for a run and the house settled into its new, careful silence, I picked up the leather-bound book.
It was heavier than it looked, as if the sum total of Cam’s guilt and hope had increased the gravitational pull of the thing.
I set it on the bed, turned on the reading lamp, and curled against the headboard, my knees drawn up as if I were hiding from the words inside.
I hesitated, fingers tracing the ridges of the cover, then flipped to the first page. His handwriting was small and precise, nothing like the rush of his emails or the scrawl of grocery lists. Each entry was dated. Some had underlined titles, as if he wanted to warn himself what was coming.
I started with the first, because there was nowhere else to start.
**JULY 1**
Dr. Stiles says I need to write what I’m afraid to say out loud.
So here it is. I’m afraid of being alone.
Always have been. Not just alone in the sense of empty rooms, but alone in the way of no one really seeing you, ever.
My parents were present, but never close.
My mother cried a lot, even when she was happy.
My father never hugged me after I turned nine. I never figured out what I did wrong.
I kept reading, line after line, entry after entry.
**JULY 14**
I met Olivia at an ice cream shop in college.
She was wearing yellow and looked like she was holding herself together with nothing but willpower.
I liked her immediately, because she didn’t pretend to be okay.
I don’t think I ever stopped loving her after that first night.
She called me out for being a showoff on our first date, but laughed when she said it. That was everything.
The entries telescoped forward: their first months together, Cam’s proposal, the easy optimism that characterized their early marriage.
**AUGUST 11**