Chapter Twenty-Five
Matthew
I look at the rhythmic tick…tick…tick as the moving ball hits the ones at rest, the motion bouncing back and forth in a smooth, endless loop. It’s weirdly soothing.
I don’t know what it’s called, just that it’s one of those therapy or hypnotic devices, like a pendulum but with more than one ball.
“It’s called a Newton's cradle,” Dr. Sands says, his voice calm.
We haven’t really spoken since I came in, just sat in the silence together. Me on the couch, him in the chair across from me.
His office isn’t much. More shoebox than sanctuary. The walls are bare except for one framed degree and a plant I’m sure is plastic, on the window ledge.
But there’s something about him… I don’t know. He’s got that air of someone who knows what they’re doing. Like a mechanic. You can always tell who’s going to fix your engine and who’s going to take you for a ride.
I might not have a car, but this guy? He knows what he’s doing.
I nod toward the cradle. “It’s nice. Soothing.”
Bart smiles faintly. “So, what brings you here today?”
I smirk, leaning back a little. I won the stalemate. “My wife.”
He keeps watching me, waiting for more.
“She thinks I don’t respect her,” I say finally.
“And you think you do?” he asks evenly.
“I know I do,” I answer without hesitation. “She’s my wife. The mother of my child. I wouldn’t have married her if I didn’t respect her.”
Bart leans back in his chair; fingers crossed over a diary on his lap. “Men have been marrying women they believed were beneath them for centuries, Matthew. Respect isn’t a prerequisite for marriage.”
“Well, Brooke is definitely not beneath me,” I say quickly. “She’s better than me, if anything.”
“Better how?” he asks gently.
I shrug, staring down at my hands. “She just… is. She’s survived a lot. She figured out her weaknesses and still managed to build a life for herself. That takes courage I don’t have.”
Dr. Sands studies me for a beat, then says quietly, “The way you talk about her, it’s almost as if you revere her.”
“I guess,” I shrug. “What’s the problem with that?”
He leans forward slightly. “Tell me this, why did you marry her?”
The answer comes out instantly. “Because I love her.”
He nods slowly. “And how long after meeting each other did that happen?”
I huff out a soft laugh. “Technically… four years. But, well, it’s a long story.”
“I have time,” he says simply.
So, I tell him.
I tell him about the lockdown years, how I’d wrapped myself in a little antisocial cocoon, content to keep the world at arm’s length. How she slipped through that wall like it was nothing. How she became my friend, my person.
Then how we drifted apart.
How, years later, we ran into each other on an aeroplane. How it felt like no time had passed and yet everything had changed.
How we ended up in bed that night. And how, not long after, we found out she was pregnant and got married.
By the time I finish, Bart leans back in his chair, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. “There’s no shame in a shotgun wedding,” he says gently.
“It wasn’t,” I shoot back quickly. “I married her because I loved her.”
He nods once. “And why did she marry you?”
The question lands like a small punch to the gut. I look away. “…We needed my insurance. For the pregnancy.”
Bart doesn’t jump in to fill the silence. He just lets it sit for a second.
“And how do you feel about that?” he asks finally.
I shrug, though the motion feels stiff. “It… sucks. But she loves me now, so…”
“So it doesn’t matter anymore?” he finishes softly.
I don’t answer.
“When was the first time she told you she loved you?”
My mind flickers back uninvited, our wedding reception. The café, the food. My ma walking in on us in bed.
“After the wedding,” I say quietly.
Bart tilts his head, studying me. “That must feel… complicated.”
A bitter laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “That’s one word for it.”
“Resentment is another,” he says.
I snap my head up, the word hitting harder than I want to admit.
“It doesn’t make you a bad person,” Bart adds, still maddeningly calm. “It just means-”
“It means nothing,” I cut in, voice sharp. “I don’t resent Brooke. Okay?”
I feel like I’m suffocating in this stupid fucking shoebox. I push myself up off the couch, my hands balling into fists at my sides.
“I was wrong,” I bite out. “There’s a reason you’re giving free therapy at a community centre. Goodbye.”
I grab my jacket, and yank the door open.
Behind me, Bart’s voice follows, still calm. “No matter how much you ignore it, Matthew, it won’t go away.”
I roll my eyes so hard it almost hurts, then slam the door behind me and storm out into the hallway.
What a crook. I came here to figure out how to show my wife I respect her, and this gumball somehow concludes I resent her. Please.
I’ve seen her give birth. I’ve held her hand through it. Any resentment I could’ve felt would’ve died a long time ago.
Not that I ever did resent her.
I mean, sure. It sucked back then. Loving her while she only saw me as a friend. And yeah, she said that thing about liking me too, but let’s be real, that’s a load of horseshit.
There’s no way someone like her would’ve ever dated someone like me. Not the me I was back then.
Broke. Under my mom’s thumb. Short. And worst of all, fat.
I was basically the walking definition of the “nice guy best friend” she’d never actually pick.
The perfect guy she’d never date.
Everyone thought so, including my friends.
God, I’d actually planned to ask her to graduation. As a date.
Thankfully, one of my buddies found out and talked some sense into me. Told me to stop setting myself up to get humiliated.
So instead of wearing the suit to graduation, I wore it to a job interview.
I remember standing in front of the mirror, tightening the tie like it was some kind of lifeline, telling myself if I couldn’t get the girl, I could at least get out.
Get the hell away from New York.
Paris seemed far enough.
Brooke
I stir the sauce slowly, letting the steam rise up and warm my face. I’m no master chef, but I can make a decent meal, and pasta happens to be one of my specialties.
Marta has Penny, which means I’ve had the rare luxury of a shower, a quick clean-up, and actual cooking time.
Cleaning, in this case, mostly meant putting a load of laundry in and wiping down the counters, but it’s amazing how good it feels to move around in a space that doesn’t have burp cloths and bottles scattered everywhere.
And honestly? It’s really nice living with someone who not only cleans up after themselves but me, too.
I guess that’s what it must feel like to have a wife.
I scoff quietly to myself. Stupid men.
Matthew texted me when he left the centre, so I had time to plate the food. I sprinkle a generous handful of cheese on top of each dish just as the front door opens.
He steps in, does this exaggerated sniff of the air, and groans dramatically. “God, I’m starving. That smells amazing.”
He hangs his jacket on the hook, kicks off his shoes, and walks over, his expression already softening.
I smile a little and set the plates on the counter. We don’t have a dining table, so the counter has always been our spot.
Matthew washes his hands and drops onto the stool beside me.
“How’d it go?” I ask, sliding a fork onto his plate.
He takes another bite, chews, swallows, then makes this vague little circle next to his head with his fork. “Not great. I mean, I told him stuff, but he kind of… you know. Not all there.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You think your therapist is crazy?”
Matthew nods earnestly. “He is. Get this, he thinks I resent you. Can you believe that?”
I blink, caught off guard. “Why?”
He moves his pasta around with his fork like it suddenly got very interesting. “Apparently it’s because I loved you in college.”
The fork pauses halfway to my mouth. “…You loved me in college?”
He nods, almost too casually, then shrugs. “You know this.”
“I knew you had a crush,” I say slowly, still processing. “I didn’t know it was love.”
Another shrug. I swear, if he does it one more time, I’m going to launch a forkful of pasta at his face.
“So why didn’t you ever ask me out?” I ask.
He shrugs again. “I was going to. One time. Before graduation. But I got talked out of it.”
“By who?”
“One of the guys.”
I narrow my eyes. “Jay?”
He looks at me, surprised. “How’d you guess?”
I roll my eyes. Jay was an asshole. The kind of guy who peaked in high school.
He used to say I was ‘taking advantage of Matthew,’ even after I introduced him to the group.
If Matthew so much as handed me the bread, he would go all, ‘she’s at it again.
’ I hated him. Always nitpicking. Probably had something to do with me turning him down.
I tell Matthew, “he hated me ever since I turned him down.”
Matthew’s head snaps up. “Wait, Jay asked you out?”
I nod. “Yeah. It was before we met.”
His eyes go wide, like cartoon wide. “He always said you weren’t his type.”
I actually laugh out loud, shaking my head. “His type.” I mimic air quotes. “Please. His type was any woman who’d put up with his ego long enough to make out with him in the cafeteria.”
He shakes his head slowly. “Wow.”
We eat quietly for a few bites, the sound of forks against plates filling the silence. Then, without really planning to, I say, “I would’ve said yes, you know.”
He looks up mid-bite. “What?”
“If you’d asked me out before graduation,” I clarify, my voice steady. “I would’ve said yes.”
Matthew shakes his head immediately. “You don’t have to do that.”
I frown. “Do what?”
He rolls his eyes like I’m missing something obvious. “There’s a reason I started working out and eating well right after college, Brooke. I know the kind of guy I was back then wasn’t good enough for the kind of girl you were.”
My brows shoot up. “Was? So, I was too good for you then, but what, once I got knocked up with no insurance and a decent place to live, my value went down? Or did your value go up when you grew muscles and a bank account?”
His jaw tightens, and he shakes his head. “You’re taking it wrong. I just meant… you didn’t see me like that back then.”
I nod slowly. “And tell me, what exactly did I see you as?”
He looks away, his voice quieter now. “A friend.”
I can’t help it, I laugh. Not a real one, more like a I-can’t-believe-this-idiot laugh. “You know I broke up with José for you, right?”
His head snaps toward me so fast I almost hear his neck crack. “What?”
I reach for my water and take a long sip, letting him sit there and sweat a little.
I rub my lips together, dragging it out just a beat longer before I finally say, “He wanted us to get an apartment together off campus. But he didn’t feel comfortable taking that step while I was so close to you.”
Matthew blinks. “What?”
I tilt my head, watching his face shift as the words sink in. “He asked me to end the friendship,” I say simply. “I said no. And then I dumped him.”
His mouth actually falls open. It’s almost funny, almost.
I give him a sad little smile. “Guess you resented me for no reason then.”
Matthew doesn’t say anything. He just sits there, shoulders heavy, jaw tight. And I can tell, he knows the therapist is right. And I’m right.
The thing is, his behaviour lately… it’s been strange.
Not him. He’s never been the “stay home and raise my babies while I bring home the bacon” type.
And yes, I know that’s how a lot of men are.
I’ve dealt with enough of them to recognize the signs.
But Matthew never used to be like that. Still isn’t.
He basically told me to stay home and do nothing.
He’d work and still do most of the chores.
He didn’t make a face when I mentioned the other women in my new moms’ group going back to work. He didn’t judge them or say a single negative thing. It’s just me he seems to have a problem with. Me.
And I think… maybe it isn’t resentment. Not fully. Maybe it’s insecurity.
About me. About us.
I let out a long breath. I’ve been telling the girls what’s been happening, because I needed advice, so sue me.
Zara thought he might be trying to control me with money.
Sheera thought maybe he’s just a traditional man like her husband.
And Becks… Becks said he might be scared.
Scared that if I have the choice, I’ll leave.
At the time, I thought Sheera might be right. But now… it’s starting to sound a lot like Becks hit the nail on the head.
I lower my head, staring at the pasta I’ve stopped eating a while ago. The truth stings.
Matthew still doesn’t believe I love him.
That I chose him.
And I have no idea how the hell I’m supposed to convince him of something he’s already decided not to believe.