Chapter Twenty-Six
Brooke
“These are the cubicles, that’s the breakroom, over there are the bathrooms. And the boss’s office is on the other side. Anything else you need, just holler,” Stacy says in one long breath before she promptly disappears like a puff of smoke.
I stand in the corner for a second, taking it in. The office isn’t big, maybe six cubicles total, not very large at all. It’s obviously a starter company, not some established, glossy travel agency with branded mugs and endless resources.
I’m okay with that.
I started my career as a flight attendant with a budget airline; paying my dues isn’t new to me.
“Hey, Brooke, right?” a warm voice says.
I turn to find a tall African American man with an easy smile approaching me.
“Yeah,” I nod.
“I’m Teddy,” he says, offering his hand.
I shake it, grateful for at least one friendly face.
“Come on, I’ll show you the ropes. Stacy does that a lot,” he adds as we walk.
“She’s not mean or anything, sweetheart, actually.
I think she’s got ADHD or something. Talks fast, forgets to check if you actually heard her. ”
I nod, a small smile tugging at my lips.
“Anyway, we’re gonna be neighbours.” He gestures to the cubicle next to his. “All these computers are hardwired to the same network, so you don’t need to log in or anything. Whenever you make a booking-”
He squints at me. “You were given your ID number, right?”
“Yeah,” I nod.
“Just enter that on the final paperwork or you’ll lose the commission.”
“Seriously?” I ask, already wincing.
He nods solemnly. “Trust me, I’ve been there.”
I make a face, and he laughs, pointing me toward my seat.
“Oh, and did you bring earbuds?” he asks.
I shake my head.
He reaches into a drawer and pulls out a headset that look like it’s been through at least three presidencies. “These are from, like, the ‘90s. We all bring our own so our ears don’t bleed.”
“Noted,” I say dryly, taking mental notes as fast as I can.
He opens up a webpage and starts explaining. “We’ve got three types of calls. One: we call back people who left inquiries on our website. Two: we answer incoming calls. Three: we cold-call, offering services. Luckily traffic’s been good lately, so we haven’t had to do number three in a while.”
I nod. “Okay.”
“It’s not that hard,” he says encouragingly. “Most of the info is on the website. And this.” He points to a clipboard. “Mr. Kowalski isn’t big on tech, so, uh, analogue.”
Of course.
Before I can ask anything else, my line rings. A little box pops up on the screen: ACCEPT or REFUSE.
I glance at Teddy, who gives me a thumbs-up like some kind of coach about to send me onto the field.
I expected to be trained. Or at least given training wheels. Not told to skate down the highway on my first day.
I look around, the other agents are already deep into their own calls, unfazed.
I take a deep breath. “Now or never,” I mutter and press ACCEPT.
Matthew
“Turns out you were right,” I tell Dr. Bart, looking him straight in the eye. “I know I was wrong. And I’m man enough to admit it.”
He doesn’t react much, just gives a small nod, like he expected this.
I take a breath. “But you were wrong too. Brooke liked me in college. So, I have no reason to resent her or any of that.”
Dr. Bart tilts his head. “And all’s well, then?”
I shake my head. “I mean, I believe her. But I’m not…” I trail off, searching for words that don’t make me sound pathetic.
He quietly writes something down in his little notebook. I guess second sessions mean actual notes now.
“Let’s table that for a second,” he says. “You said you grew up in a single-parent household?”
“Yeah.” I nod. “My Ma.”
“And how is your relationship with her now?”
I puff out my cheeks. “I’m… kind of not talking to her right now. Or ever.”
His brow rises.
I tell him, about Aunt Mia, about the lies, about every little detail I learned.
He listens, writes some more, then says, “You said your Ma was your hero. How so?”
I twist my neck, uncomfortable. “I thought she had to finish college while working and being pregnant. She sacrificed her life for me. She didn’t even date. She tried, but I’d throw tantrums, so she stopped. For me.”
Dr. Bart nods slowly. “And you felt like you owed her for it.”
I nod again.
“Why?” he asks simply.
“I just told you.”
He leans back in his chair, calm as ever. “No, you told me what a parent is supposed to do. Not something to be idolized for. Why did you feel like you owed her?”
I shrug. Because what else can I do?
He lets out a controlled breath, like he’s frustrated but too professional to show it fully. “Let’s try something else. Did you play sports as a kid?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you invite your mother to watch?”
“Always,” I say without hesitation.
“And did she come?”
I pause, then shake my head. “She rarely did. Aunt Mia had a bad hip, so she didn’t come much either.”
“And did you get angry when no one showed up?”
I shake my head again. “She was working.”
Dr. Bart leans forward just slightly, his voice soft but pointed. “Matthew, do you hear yourself? You learned to explain away her absence before you ever allowed yourself to feel it. And that-” he taps his pen against his notebook lightly, “-is what’s bleeding into your marriage.”
My stomach knots. “What do you mean?”
“I think,” he says carefully, “you’re not just dealing with resentment towards your wife. You’re dealing with the insecurity underneath it. You don’t just resent her, Matthew. You resent that you don’t feel loved the way you want to. And worse, you resent yourself for feeling insecure at all.”
I stare at him, my throat dry. “I guess I don’t want Penny to have the childhood I had,” I manage to say.
Dr. Bart tilts his head. “But your daughter has you. She’s not going to have a fatherless childhood.”
I suck in a sharp breath. Fatherless.
I look away, blinking hard. “I tell everyone I never missed my dad growing up. That Ma was there. But…” My voice trails off, and it feels like trying to dig through concrete to keep going.
I clear my throat. “When she told me about my dad, the story about him leaving, she made it sound like she would’ve been there more, been present, if I’d had a father.
Like it was this great tragedy that she had to do it alone.
And I just… I wanted to be that for my family.
The one who stays. The one who’s there.”
There’s a quiet beat. I don’t look at him, but I can feel his gaze settle on me.
“Your mother,” Dr. Bart says finally, his voice low but firm, “ultimately blamed you for not having her.”
I blink, trying to process it. Blamed me.
“She didn’t say it in those words,” he continues.
“But the message was clear. ‘I can’t be there for you because of you.’ And that kind of message gets into your bones when you’re young.
You built your entire sense of being a father around making sure Penny doesn’t feel what you felt.
But you can’t protect her from something Brooke isn’t doing.
She’s not your mother. She’s your wife.”
My hands curl into fists in my lap, my knuckles going white.
Dr. Bart leans back slightly, his voice steady but gentle. “But you know her better than I do, Matthew. So, tell me honestly, would she ever do that? Would she ever make Penny feel what your mother made you feel?”
I don’t answer right away.
Not because I don’t know, because I do.
I take a moment, letting the question settle, stripping away all the noise in my head. Brooke is not my mom. She doesn’t smother. She doesn’t pile on. She gives me space even when she’s angry. She faces things head-on, even the ugly parts.
She had debt, yeah. A messy past, sure. But she faced it. She isolated the weak spots and fixed them. She learned how to be everything she needed to be, because no one did it for her.
I exhale slowly. “She would never,” I say finally, my voice firm.
Dr. Bart nods, the corner of his mouth tipping up slightly. “That’s good. Because sometimes, in order to stop repeating the past, we have to remind ourselves we’re not still living in it.”
I shift in my chair, suddenly feeling uncomfortable with how serious this got. “This is all good and all,” I say, leaning back, “but how does that actually help me in my relationship when I don’t even know what the problem is?”
He doesn’t flinch. “That’s fair,” he says evenly. “Let’s talk about that. When did things start to go wrong between you and Brooke?”
I answer without hesitation. “When Zeke, Brooke’s ex-brother-in-law, stole my credit card and racked up almost thirty grand in debt. I had no choice but to tell Brooke, and she thought I was keeping money a secret.”
His brow furrows slightly.
So, I add, “Zeke’s an addict. Brooke didn’t want him near Stella and the kids, but I felt bad for the guy, so… I kind of became his friend. Behind her back.”
Dr. Bart’s pen moves across the page. “Why didn’t you tell her about the friendship?”
I shrug. “Because Brooke was projecting her father onto Zeke. I thought that was unfair.”
He looks up. “So… you don’t trust your wife’s judgment.”
“I do,” I say quickly. “It’s just, she has some trauma around that stuff. She wasn’t thinking objectively.”
“And your allegiance to this Zeke,” he says evenly, “was more important than her feelings.”
My mouth drops open. “It’s not that simple.”
Dr. Bart lifts a hand, calm as ever. “Okay,” he says, “let me give you a scenario. A woman asks her husband to bring home broccoli. He brings home cabbage. She gets angry and leaves him. Why do you think she did that?”
I rub the back of my neck. “I guess… because he didn’t listen?”
Dr. Bart nods slowly. “Exactly. Sometimes we’re so busy looking for cues and hidden meanings that we don’t actually hear what’s being said. Your wife told you Zeke was not to be trusted. And what did you do?”
I let out a quiet breath. “…I didn’t listen.”
“Right,” he says gently, flipping to a fresh page in his notebook. “Now, about the money.”
God. The way this man talks, it makes me feel like I’m back in high school, sitting in my guidance counsellor’s cramped office while he calmly dismantled my grand plans. Back then, he told me I shouldn’t put all my eggs in a sports bucket.
He was right.
And the really annoying thing?
So is Bart.
After my appointment, I feel drained. Like someone scooped out everything inside me and left just the shell.
I’m replying to Brooke’s text, half-reading my own words, when my phone starts to buzz with an incoming call.
“Hello?” I answer, still distracted.
“Is this Mr. Matthew Basen?” a woman’s voice asks.
“Yes,” I say, confused.
“This is Bethany from Marx Corp.”
I stop walking dead in the middle of the sidewalk. A guy behind me slams into my shoulder and mutters, “Asshole,” before striding past.
“Excuse you too,” I mumble, then start walking again. “Sorry,” I say to the woman.
My heart beats a little faster, though. If they were firing me, it would’ve been an email. That’s how corporate works. Right?
She clears her throat. “Would you be available for a meeting tomorrow at nine at the New York headquarters?”
I frown, more confused. “Uh… yes. What’s this about?”
“It’s regarding Marx Airline. Please arrive early to get through security.”
And then, click. Just like that, she hangs up.
I slow down, my mind scrambling to make sense of it. Why would they call me back in after what happened?
By the time I reach the apartment, I’m still walking in a daze, replaying every word of that call, trying to convince myself it’s not what it could be.
I hang my coat up on the hook, the sound of the door clicking into place snapping me out of my fog. That’s when it hits me.
“Shit,” I mutter under my breath. Penny.
I was supposed to pick her up from Zara’s.
I scrub a hand over my face, exhausted. I can’t ask Brooke to pick her up, it’s her first day. And calling Zara or the nanny to ask for a favour? Yeah, no.
Neither woman seems to like me much. Can’t really blame them, I’m guessing Brooke’s told them everything.
With a quiet huff, I grab my keys again and head back out the door.
Great.