Chapter 11 #2
“I made way more than my share. I was young and stupid but that’s absolutely no excuse for being a pompous, selfish prick who believed I was entitled to sex outside my marriage.
” His jaw clenches tight and his eyes remain shut.
“I believed myself to be so skilled at deceit that my wife would never find out.”
“But she did.”
“She did. Not once, but many times.” The ache in his voice hurts my heart. Not just for Ash, but for his poor late wife. Whatever sort of relationship these two had, they must have loved one another on some level.
My fingers curl into his chest. His hand’s still on mine when Ash opens his eyes and looks at our fingers like he’s seeing them for the first time.
No. Not at our fingers.
He’s looking at the scar on his chest.
Slowly, so very gently, I trail a fingertip over that thin, raised, white line. I don’t speak a word. Just this silent acknowledgment that this scar is a part of him. That I see Ashton Holyfield, all of him. The visible scars and the unseen ones.
“There’s a story behind that scar,” he says softly.
I swallow the swell in my throat. “You mean besides a minor accident in your twenties that involved drinking?” I suspected that wasn’t the full story.
“I was drinking,” he says. “Coffee. Brigitte had just found out about my latest affair and snatched the mug from my hand. She smashed it on the table and the handle flew off.” He touches the mark like it burns.
“Took six stitches to close it. She said she was sorry. But not nearly as sorry as I was.”
“Oh, Ash.” I glide my hand over it, warming the spot with my palm. “I know it hurts.” I don’t mean the physical pain.
“I deserve every bit of pain and then some.” His jaw clenches again. “You said earlier that we all make mistakes.”
“We do.”
“But I kept making mine. At a certain point, it’s no longer a mistake. It’s a deliberate choice to hurt someone else. That’s who I was. What I’m capable of.”
My therapist brain fights to engage. I force those thoughts back and make myself talk like a regular person. “People change, Ash.” I hesitate. “Do you think you’ve changed?”
Ash doesn’t answer the question. He draws another long breath and closes his eyes again.
“That was the turning point. The point where I tried to repair my marriage. Maybe there was already too much damage. Before that moment, I don’t know how many times I cheated and got caught.
Too many to count. Maybe some sick, twisted part of me wanted to get caught. ”
That’s a very distinct possibility. “I’m going to ask a question, but please don’t feel like you need to reply.”
He gives a nod of assent, but I pause anyway. Once I ask it, I can’t unknow the answer. But part of me needs to know.
If there’s one thing my career has taught me, it’s that people who punish themselves find ways for the punishment to fit their perceived crime.
I once had a client who had an affair with his husband’s best friend from Italy.
To punish himself, he vowed he would never speak Italian again, even though it was his native tongue.
In a roundabout way, that’s where my question is coming from.
“Do you blame your infidelity for your wife’s death?” I might not have asked that right. “That is, do you believe your quest for sexual fulfillment led to her passing?”
His eyes are still shut, and I watch as his forehead furrows. Emotion plays over his face—pain, regret, shame—as I lie here caressing the scar.
“I don’t believe it,” he says roughly. “I know it.”
I wait for Ash to continue. For him to fill in whatever blanks he’s willing to.
The hand on his chest starts to rise as Ash draws a shuddery breath.
“I swore I was done betraying my wife, and I meant it. We’d gone through three months of couples’ therapy, and I was in a good place.
We were in a good place. Grayson was four and just starting preschool.
Brigitte agreed to a second chance. But there was a catch. ”
I hold my breath, waiting in silence. I already know this story won’t have a happy ending.
“Brigitte had a desire to even the score. It’s something we talked through in therapy, and believe it or not, our therapist agreed.”
“How do you mean?”
“She wanted to sleep with her old high school sweetheart. A man she once dated and never had sex with. She thought—” His voice breaks off as he pulls in a breath.
“She thought maybe if she did that—if she got it out of her system—it would somehow make things feel fair. That we could start with a clean slate after that.”
Oh, God.
I’ve proposed my share of unconventional therapies, but that isn’t something I’d ever suggest. I won’t say so out loud, but good lord.
“I was fine with it,” he says, and I relax just a little.
“Anything to help Brigitte forgive me. If I’m being honest, I’ve always been aroused by the idea of my partner with somebody else.
At the time, I thought it made me a sick, twisted fuck.
” His face contorts in a grimace. “It took meeting Sybil and Kora to see that’s not always unhealthy.
That it can work in a loving, consensual relationship. ”
“It’s a common proclivity,” I say, not sharing the formal terminology for that particular kink. That’s not what he needs now. “Did Brigitte go through with it?”
Ashton releases a long, shaky breath. “She made plans to meet him one weekend. We agreed I would fly her back to her hometown where the man still lived. I owned a small plane and had my pilot’s license.” His throat rolls as he swallows. “But something came up at work.”
“Oh.”
“Oh,” he repeats, a dark cloud falling over his face. The pain in his eyes steals my breath.
“She decided to drive,” he continues. “It was only four hours, and she chose to take Grayson along.”
I gulp back an urge to pass judgment. “To visit her lover?”
“Her parents.” He wets his dry lips and continues. “Grayson adored his grandma and grandpa. Brigitte arranged to spend two nights with the man in a hotel just outside town. Her mom and dad would watch Grayson, under the pretense of giving her a much-needed weekend with friends.”
A sour slick of dread pools in my gut. “What happened?”
There’s another long pause and I sense that he’s gathering courage. That we’ve reached the most gut-wrenching part of the story.
“They were less than an hour from Brigitte’s parents’ home when a drunk driver slammed into them. Ran a stop sign and just kept going.” His throat makes an audible click. “Brigitte died instantly.”
“Oh, Ash.” I already know his young son hung on in a coma for weeks. “Honey, I’m so fucking sorry.” I stroke my hand over his breastbone, fingertips grazing the scar. “It’s a sick, horrible tragedy and there’s absolutely nothing I can say to make it any better.”
He doesn’t respond to that. “I gave up flying for pleasure after that. I don’t deserve the privilege of piloting a plane, since I couldn’t be bothered to do it for Brigitte.”
“Oh, sweetie.” I’m truly at a loss for words.
“And I started the Jilted Brides Honeymoon Club as a form of redemption for Brigitte. She was never granted the marriage she deserved. The life she deserved. I betrayed her in the worst possible way, and she never got to even the score. To seek the satisfaction that was owed to her—to every woman…” He trails off there, shaking his head.
“I can’t ever make up for what I did. But I want to believe the women who come here can find some of what Brigitte was seeking. ”
I hold back the urge to tell him that’s noble. Saying so didn’t go well the last time I said it.
But I can’t let this go without offering something.
“You made mistakes,” I say softly. “I won’t try to pretend that you didn’t. But it sounds to me like you’ve owned them. Owned them and learned from them and tried to make up for your sins.”
His steely jaw clenches, but he doesn’t respond. Some little voice implores me to keep going.
“I’ve counseled a fuck-ton of people who won’t ever do that, Ash.
Who don’t have it in themselves to acknowledge they’ve done the wrong thing.
It’s so very human to find other people to blame, to point fingers anywhere else but themselves, but that’s not what you’ve done, Ash.
Not once since I’ve met you have you tried to pin your failures on anyone else. ”
If anything, the man beats himself up for things outside his control. Can he hear what I’m telling him? Does Ashton believe me?
He studies my face, then shakes his head slowly. “You will never, ever hear me suggest that any force besides my own selfishness and my greedy libido caused me to betray my wife. To destroy my family.”
There’s something behind that greedy libido remark that Ash would be wise to explore on his own in therapy. But I’m not the clinician to do that. All I can do is be here for him right now.
“You won’t let me pay you a compliment,” I say.
“So I’m not going to tell you that what you’ve done—the way you’ve owned your mistakes and atoned for your failings—is a rare act of bravery.
But I will say, Ashton, I see you . I see a good man who made mistakes and learned from them.
I’m not sure you realize how uncommon that is. ”
He closes his eyes, and this time I know it’s a signal he’s done. That Ashton Holyfield is finished telling the terribly tragic story of his lost wife and son. That what he’s just shared is a gift.
So I give him the gift of my silence. Planting a kiss on his temple, I curl up beside him. With a hand on his chest, I stroke the small scar over his heart until he falls asleep in my arms.