Chapter 13
CHAPTER 13
I’ve just arrived at work, ten minutes until nine like always, when Joseph asks me for a moment in his office.
I settle across from him on the couch used by his patients. He’s bent at the waist, tying the stark white tennis shoes he favors. Every day he wears a variation of the same outfit: khakis, a cotton-blend mock neck sweatshirt over a long sleeve collared button up, and the shoes. I’ve fondly dubbed it ‘the uniform,’ and the joke has brought a smile to Joseph’s face on more than one occasion.
Joseph sits up straight, gaze falling to me at the same time his folded hands come to rest on his small paunch. Sunlight streams through his windows, making his bald head shine.
I’m positive I know why I’ve been called in here. I’m one month away from completing my hours, and soon I’ll be fully licensed. He needs another therapist so he can share the workload. As it is, he’s booking weeks out, and for some patients, that’s not helpful.
“I don’t want to take too many liberties here.” His measured tone fills the space. “But I think it’s safe to assume you enjoy working here, in this office. Yes?” He sits back in his chair, settling clasped hands over his midsection.
I nod. “Very much, yes.” My palms rub together. I knew it.
“For some time now I’ve been thinking about what’s next for this office. And me.” He glances fondly around the walls. “Would you consider taking over half the practice after you’re licensed? Ideally, I could eventually transition out. The place would become yours.”
Disbelief tumbles through me. “I’m…uh… Well—” My brain scrambles to form a real sentence. “I don’t know. It’s a lot to consider. I’m just starting out, and having my own practice, it’s?—”
“You’d be fine. Great, even. The clients respect and trust you. You have an easy way with them. I’ve spent the better part of two years supervising your sessions. I wouldn’t consider you to partner with me if I didn’t think you are capable.”
My mind races back and forth, from the enormity of his offer to the logistics. Me, in charge of a business? The leader, the keeper of successes and failures?
“I’m honored you would ask me, Joseph. Really. Would you mind if I took the weekend to think about it?”
He gestures with an arm. “Take whatever time you need. It’s not like you say yes and then it happens”—he snaps his fingers—“like that. We’d have to get a lawyer and all that jazz.”
Just the thought of ‘a lawyer and all that jazz’ overwhelms me.
When I get home that night, Gabriel is waiting for me. He’s sitting on the couch, head bent to the open book on his lap. In the past year, Gabriel has become a reader. Mystery, mostly, and a thriller here or there. He jokes that in another life, he wants to be Hercule Poirot.
I walk up behind him, and his head tips back. His gaze sinks into me, and my fingertips roam over his neck.
“How’s your book?” I plant a kiss on his forehead.
He drops the book and holds my face in place, adjusting himself so our lips meet. “Good,” he answers. “You taste like chocolate.”
I straighten and round the couch, going to sit beside him. “I swiped a piece from work.” My stomach growls audibly. “Still starving though.”
“Dinner reservations are in an hour.”
I bite my lip. Gabriel smirks. “You forgot, didn’t you?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
“I forgot,” I admit.
“Ryan and Carrie? Oyster bar?” His eyebrows lift as he attempts to jog my memory.
I wrinkle my nose. “Do we have to go there? I hate oysters.”
Gabriel raises his palms, proclaiming his innocence. “Ryan and Carrie’s pick. Not mine. Want me to smuggle in a ham sandwich for you?”
“Um, yeah?”
He laughs and wraps his arms around me. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
It’s awful. This whole situation is awkward and awful.
Gabriel asked Ryan how he plans to use his vacation days this year, and it was like opening Pandora’s box. Every couple argues, and most have a handful of hot-button topics, but this level of fighting doesn’t bode well for the future of the relationship. Ryan and Carrie have only been married three months longer than me and Gabriel.
“Mexico isn’t safe right now.” Ryan’s tone teeters on the verge of breaking. “The cartels aren’t staying away from tourist towns like they used to. Don’t you watch the news?”
Carrie rolls her eyes. “Do you ever get sick of being afraid of things?”
He gives her a tired look. “I run into burning buildings. You make it sound like I hide in a safe space and suck my thumb.”
She blows out a loud, disgusted breath. When I first met Carrie, I thought she was gorgeous with her curly blonde hair and hazel eyes. The more I got to know her, the less I saw her as conventionally attractive.
Gabriel’s hand finds my thigh under the table, and he squeezes gently. My gaze meets his, and the corners of his mouth turn up ever so slightly. ‘ They’re not ok, but we are great .’ I know that’s what he’s saying to me. The benign smugness we share is like a shield, a notion that reinforces a truth I already know. Gabriel and I will go on when others fail. Like natural selection, but for marriage. I turn my head in his direction, my nose brushing his upper arm.
Gabriel’s hand stays on my thigh after I straighten up. The air on the opposite side of the table is taut, needing only a moderate gust to snap. I’m fearful of the scene that will ensue if that happens.
“Carrie, how is work?” I ask, to steer her attention from Ryan.
“Good.” She stirs the straw in her pink drink. She hesitates, then admits, “It’s actually a shit show. I’m knee-deep in a tax fraud case and I just had a paralegal quit on me.” Her eyes find Ryan, then skitter back to me. “I’m exhausted,” she says under her breath.
I’m not sure why she’s whispering. Is she trying to hide her exhaustion from Ryan? Why would she do that? He’s her husband. They may be at odds on some things, but he should be the person she goes to with all her woes. Then again, considering what I just witnessed, maybe not.
I shake my head. “It must be physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausting being a defense attorney.”
She nods slowly, lifting her drink. “I’m tired of a lot of things these days.” Her statement tumbles out around the rocks glass poised at her mouth.
“Uh-huh,” I mimic her slow nod. I like Carrie enough, but she and I have never hit it off. She’s too busy to have real friends, and I don’t think our personalities mesh.
“You think we need couples therapy, don’t you?”
I feel my mask slipping into place, the one I wear when I’m in the middle of a session. “I think therapy is a good choice when couples are struggling to communicate effectively. An objective third party can be helpful in bridging the gap.”
Carrie maintains eye contact with me for a full three seconds, then blinks and says, “Right.”
She drains the rest of her mixed drink and leans forward, the table pressing into her stomach. A tiny sparkle lights her eyes, and she asks, “If you could go anywhere, where would you go?”
I glance at Gabriel, deep in conversation with Ryan. Sometimes, late at night, we lie awake and imagine our dream vacation. We describe breakfast (exotic tropical fruit) and our activities for the day (snorkeling or lying on a beach chair). Gabriel has supported both of us while I’ve been completing my hours, and there hasn’t been money for luxury vacations. Our only trips over the past two years have been to Palm Springs. I don’t feel like I’ve missed out. Some of our best sex, and even better conversations, have happened there. No exotic fruit plates, though.
To Carrie, I say, “We want to go somewhere in the Virgin Islands. British or US, any island will do. I’m not picky.”
The sparkle in her eyes fades. My reply has fallen short.
“How about you?” I ask quickly, trying to resurrect it.
“Brazil,” she answers immediately. “And I’d go alone.”
I step out of my heels and use the side of my foot to slide them over on the wood floor. I bend over, rubbing at my instep, and wobble.
Gabriel steadies me, and I hold on to his hip while I finish massaging my aching foot. “This is a good reminder that heels are the devil's work.”
“Your calves look good in them.”
I stand up straight. “Is that your way of asking me not to chuck them into the desert?”
He nods vigorously. I follow him into our bathroom, where I change out of my clothes.
“What a weird night,” Gabriel remarks, toothbrush hanging from the side of his mouth.
“Can we not make that double date a regular thing?” I ask, taking the toothpaste Gabriel offers.
“He’s my best friend,” Gabriel reminds me, as if I need the reminder.
“I know, but”—I stick my toothbrush in my mouth—“he and Carrie have serious issues. And I spend all day listening to couples argue.”
Gabriel spits and rinses. He wipes a hand towel across his mouth and turns, leaning a hip against the counter. “Ryan is going to ask Carrie for a divorce.”
I’m not shocked. I’m not even the least bit surprised. The contempt coming from both individuals was enough to predict this outcome.
I finish brushing my teeth and say, “Only if he beats Carrie to it.”
Gabriel’s eyebrows draw together. “Did she say something?”
“No. I can tell, though. There are signs for this sort of thing.”
Gabriel slips an arm around my lower back and pulls me flush with him. “Oh yeah? Do we have any of those signs?”
My arms go around his shoulders, one hand snaking up into his dark hair as I shake my head. “You and I are part of the precious few.”
There’s a rumble in his chest, almost like a pleased purr. Whatever has touched Ryan and Carrie, will not reach us. I spend enough time listening to couples to know how the implosion begins. There will be no such occurrences with me and Gabriel, because I will always be vigilant. I will be the watchdog of our relationship, the guard.
Speaking of my job. “Joseph asked me to join him in the practice. Make it half mine. Eventually, he’d phase out and retire.”
Gabriel’s mouth drops open. “I can’t believe you waited all night to tell me this.”
“I was processing. It’s a big deal.”
Now he’s grinning widely. “And you said?”
“I said I need to think about it.”
Gabriel tips my chin up, forcing my gaze onto his. “You should take it.”
“What about us? Our plans for a family? I know we wanted to have a few years to ourselves, but it’s been two years already. How can I take on an enormous responsibility like that, knowing I might have to pull back soon? And the money? Where will we get the money? That’s a huge loan. Transition is a prime time to lose patients. Those who were already thinking about stopping their therapy have the perfect excuse. And then what? I went to school to help people, not be a businesswoman. How do I run a business? How do I make enough to pay business-related expenses? What if the business doesn’t make enough? When are you going to get to do what you want to do? You don’t want to be a firefighter anymore, and you shouldn’t have to do something you don’t want to do. And?—”
“Take a breath, baby. It’s all going to be ok.”
“You don’t know that for certain.”
Gabriel backs away, and my arms fall to my sides. He holds up one finger, and I watch him walk into our bedroom. He picks up his phone from his nightstand and thumbs around on the screen as he walks back to me. Sliding the phone onto the counter, he taps it once and pulls me into his arms again.
A song fills the air. The Beach Boys. Don’t Worry, Baby.
He holds me, and I fold my head into his chest. He hums, and I experience it twice, both when his voice falls down around me and his chest vibrates my cheek.
Gabriel’s hands ghost my back, traveling lower. He lifts my oversized T-shirt, an old one of his that shrunk in the dryer, until it gathers at my waist.
His humming ceases, replaced by the sound of his kisses feathering my neck.
He lifts me, placing me on the counter. I tug his shorts down over his hips, using my foot to push them all the way to the ground. He hauls me to the counters’ edge. I bite into his shoulder when he enters me, loving every second of him. My sweet husband. My Gabriel.
“Look at me,” Gabriel says.
I open my eyes. He leans his forehead against mine, his arms keeping me steady on the counter. He is tender, but rough. I soak it up like the desiccated desert surrounding us.
The song ends.
But Gabriel and me? We keep going.