Chapter 34
Chapter thirty-four
Emma
When We Needed Help
“I hate therapists.”
“You say this everytime.”
“I still hate them.”
“Ouch.” Ellie feigns offense as she pulls into the lot in front of my therapist’s office. “Here we are,” she sings, trying to make it sound more exciting than it is. She knows exactly how I feel.
“And I hate even more that I had to be driven here like some child.”
“Doctor’s orders.” She shrugs and puts the car in park. The sticky July heat is so thick it presses against the windshield, and I have to peel my thighs off the seat. Being twenty-five weeks pregnant in summer should be illegal. I scan the lot—no sign of Steven’s car.
“I think she meant less stress, not less driving,” I grumble.
Ellie shrugs again, unbothered by my grumpiness.
My blood pressure has been high, and based on my history, my doctor has been overly cautious.
Annoyingly so. She even threatened bed rest when I refused to take off work, but we negotiated.
As long as I’d accept more help and stay on top of my numbers, she was satisfied.
Ellie, of course, took this as her personal challenge, appointing herself as my full-time chauffeur—to and from school, appointments, even coffee runs.
I wish I could say it’s for me. But we both know she’s spiraling over wedding plans, and this is her attempt at a workaround, assuming my matron-of-honor services can be done in the car with a full belly and won’t spike my numbers.
So far, it’s worked. I ride passenger princess with an iced tea, an eye mask, and listen to her discuss floral arrangements.
“Do you want me to stay?” she asks when she realizes Steven’s car is missing. This is our first couple’s session, and the thought alone makes something tighten behind my ribs. Honestly, none of this is great for my blood pressure. But doing nothing hasn’t exactly helped either.
“No, it’s okay. He’s on his way.” A lie. I have no idea where he is.
“Alright,” she says, worrying for a beat too long. “Call me after, okay?”
She hesitates but eventually drives off when I shoo her and waddle my overheated self inside.
I meant it before: I hate therapists. My sister is a great one, I have no doubt, but I’ve never had the urge to support her career at the expense of myself.
And according to her, it would be a conflict of interest. I’ve just taken her word and the rave reviews at face value: she’s good.
And her suggestion to get back into therapy after my hiatus.
It’s been a few years since I’ve seen anyone, and my sister does know what she’s talking about. So here I am. I trust her.
I repeat this to myself as I check in. I trust her.
A tall woman with thick-rimmed glasses and a curly bob awaits at the check in desk.
In silence, she leads me down a quiet hallway to the last room in the corner.
Dr. Belo, Psychiatrist gleams from the door.
She gestures to the brown leather sofa in the center of the room.
Diplomas hang above it like a silent reminder that this is to be taken seriously.
To the left of the sofa is a massive photograph of two birds.
It must be significant, seeing as it commands an entire third of the wall.
Dr. Belo walks in and I instantly zero in on the crisp white notepad she’s carrying.
“How is your day going, Mrs. Jones?” She asks as she sits opposite me.
“Fine.” It sounds like a question, but I don’t trust simple pleasantries in these types of settings. Ellie once told me that when therapists ask about your day, they’re assessing how you receive kindness or share details. Everything is data to them. It’s all a part of the game.
Dr. Belo smiles and writes something down. I sneak a glance. She notices immediately, clicks her pen closed, and crosses her arms to block the page.
“It’s just the date,” she reassures.
“Huh.” I chew on my lip.
“It’s been a while—”
“Yeah, yeah,” I wave her off and start fanning myself.
“You don’t want to be here, do you?”
“What gave it away?” I wince. “That was so rude. I’m sorry.”
I rub my bump as the baby kicks, a small reminder to be gentle with myself. Dr. Belo’s eyes flick to my belly, and she smiles.
“How far along are you now?” she asks, already glancing back at her notes.
“Twenty-five weeks, yesterday.” I can’t stop the smile that comes with it. Gratitude warms me from the inside, settling low in my belly, and the baby responds with another kick.
“That’s exciting.” She writes something else down. I resist the urge to look and let my gaze drift toward the bird photo instead.
“Shall we go ahead and start?”
Our session is an hour. We’re ten minutes in, and Steven still isn’t here. I check my phone for an update, but no messages. A familiar unease pokes at the back of my mind, one that wants to scream this isn’t going to work over and over until I try to run.
“Sure,” I finally say, sitting up straight and readying myself for whatever questions might be lobbed my way.
“Alright. Tell me why you’re here.”
“I was forced to be,” I mutter.
She smiles. “Did someone drag you here?”
“Basically.” I let out a humorless laugh. “My marriage has been…well, it’s not great. And we weren’t sure what else to do.”
“So this was a joint decision?”
“I thought so.” I glance at my phone again then at the still-closed door.
“What’s going through your head right now? Steven’s late; you’re here without him. How does that make you feel?”
My fingers tap against the armrest, the sound louder than it should be.
I really don’t want to tell her how it makes me feel.
I don’t want to unravel how the last few years have felt like watching a train wreck in slow motion.
How sometimes, when Steven and I fight, I feel myself float out of my body, hovering above the disaster, watching it build and build, knowing exactly what’s coming and still unable to stop it—knowing the smartest thing to do would be to get off the tracks.
I chew the inside of my cheek. I stare at the birds. I do mental math (362 times 8), hoping she’ll pivot. She doesn’t. She just watches me for a moment then writes more notes.
I relent with a groan, that deep-rooted need to please a stranger steamrolling my boundaries. “I guess I’m mad,” I tell her. “Pissed, actually.”
She hums in response but doesn’t speak.
“Aren’t you supposed to ask me why?” I cross my arms.
“Do you want me to ask you why?”
I lift a brow, not sure what to say. But I feel myself soften anyway as the real question settles in. Do I want her to know why? Do I want anyone to know?
I think I do.
“I’m mad because we’re supposed to be a team.
” I huff. “That’s what marriage is, right?
But lately, it’s felt very one-sided. We barely talk.
And when we do, we’re tired and annoyed, and apparently, I’m not always pleasant.
” I air quote the words of my husband, and she arches a brow at this.
“I’m sure I could be worse, maybe? I don’t know.
I just don’t feel like myself. I feel like a ticking time bomb, always ticking but never actually exploding.
I miss my husband, but I feel like he’s scared to set me off.
And I’m scared to tell him how I feel. Then I try to get the courage to, and I eventually just…
” I deflate as my words, and the muscles in my back, lose momentum, and my shoulders slump.
“You lose steam?” Dr. Belo says gently, watching the very tired, very pregnant woman melt into her leather sofa as sweat slips between skin and cushion.
“Yes,” I sigh, like the word is a physical weight being lifted off of me.
“Have you told him this?”
I arch a brow.
She smirks. “How do you think he feels?”
I glance at the door as tears, grimy and unwelcome, fill my eyes. “Like he doesn’t notice,” I whisper.
Just then, footsteps thunder down the hall, followed by a quick knock.
Dr. Belo gives me a soft smile, flicks her gaze toward the tissues, and goes to answer the door.
I stealthily wipe my eyes with the tissue and shove it beneath my thigh.
Steven doesn’t need to know we started without him.
He doesn’t need to know I was crying about him.
“I’m so sorry,” Steven pants as the door opens. Sweat plasters his neck and face, splotching his scrubs in all the wrong places too. Did he run here?
“Come on in,” Dr. Belo says. “We were just getting started.”
“Did I miss anything?” His eyes are frantic and apologetic as they search mine.
“Not really.” I give him a smile.
“Oh, good.” His shoulders fall with relief.
He sits beside me but leaves inches of leather between us, his back stiff as a board.
This is how he’s been for months, like he has no idea how to be near me anymore.
Like I’m unrecognizable to him. It makes me ache, a longing and equally irritated kind of ache.
I’m pregnant, clearly he knew how to be around me five months ago.
“Steven, how are you doing?” Dr. Belo asks with the same calm she gave me. Pen down, arms blocking the notes. But Steven doesn’t seem interested in the notepad like I was. His eyes are on me.
“What’s wrong?” I murmur from the corner of my mouth.
“Hi.”
“Hi,” I echo and immediately feel the strange flutter in my chest.
“You look nice.” His voice lingers on the word, deliberate. I fight the laugh that wants to slip out. Nice? My hair is plastered to my neck, my cheeks are flushed, and my ankles are twice their normal size.
I thank him anyway, grateful for the kindness in his eyes. But it doesn’t stop him from studying me.
“Is there…something on my face?” I ask, swiping at my cheeks and forehead. Sweat is everywhere.
He lets out a sound, like a laugh but not a laugh. “No,” he says, and I don’t know what to think. He’s not frustrated or annoyed, but there’s an edge to his voice that I can’t figure out. I bite my lip, pretending not to notice, and turn to Dr. Belo. He does the same.
“I’m okay, thank you,” he finally tells her. “Work was busy. I apologize for being late.”
She nods, writes something, then, without looking up, she says, “Why don’t we start from the beginning. Steven, tell me, why are you here?”
He doesn’t waste any time. “Well, we aren’t doing great. Her and me.” He gestures to me for clarification. “I don’t know why, really, but we’re out of sync, and I’m hoping this can help.”
“Emma, do you agree?”
“Yes.” I exhale, feeling the weight press into my bones again.
More notes are written down as Steven fills her in on the last fourteen years of our relationship, as if he’s prepared it in advance.
He’s methodic but cautious. He doesn’t falter when he tells her about his mom, or our rollercoaster of pregnancy circumstances.
He presents it all as facts. As if none of it holds any weight at all.
As if it hasn’t lodged itself under his skin like it’s done mine.
And when he finishes, he nods once. That’s that.
“And how does it feel hearing that back?” she asks.
He hesitates before dropping his gaze to his hands. I see his jaw flex. His thumbs press together until the tendons in his arms stand out. His skin is warm and rich against the pale-blue fabric of his scrubs, but his eyes aren’t. They’ve gone cold and distant. Hollow.
“I’m pissed,” he finally says.
“Interesting,” Dr. Belo murmurs, her eyes drifting to mine. “Emma, what about you?”
Steven’s gaze glides over to my hands clenched in my lap.
My black shorts dig into my thighs, the leather squeaking under me as I shift.
Uncomfortable. I’m feeling uncomfortable.
Uncomfortable that I couldn’t tell Steven was feeling this way.
Uncomfortable that we feel the same, yet we can’t communicate that without someone mediating.
Uncomfortable that I am one of the reasons he has gotten to this point.
But I can’t say that. I can’t say any of it. Something in my brain is blocking the words, shoving them down my throat.
“I don’t know,” I whisper.
Dr. Belo clicks her tongue and writes this down.
She’s probably writing big fat liar across the page, in all caps.
She then goes into a slew of exercises for us to practice—using phrases like I feel or I think and encouraging us to consider writing each other notes or emails if we can’t get the words out.
Then somehow, our time is up.
“This was a good start,” she says, standing.
Steven follows. I, on the other hand, struggle, the couch trying to take me as hostage.
When I can’t get up on my own, Steven wraps an arm around my waist, his other hand cradling my belly, and hauls me up effortlessly.
The baby kicks hard at the movement, and I grimace as we’re ushered out with instructions to come back at the same time next week.
I don’t miss the eyes Dr. Belo gives Steven: don’t be late.
“Are you hungry?” Steven asks once we’re in the car.
“Starving.”
“I might have a few minutes, if you—”
His words, and whatever plans he was hoping for, are cut short when his pager shrieks in his pocket.
He curses under his breath, checking it and then his cell phone. “I’m sorry, Em. I have to go.”
“It’s fine,” I say. “Ellie offered to pick me up.”
“I can drop you off,” he says, but I’m already hauling myself out of the car. The hospital is in the opposite direction of our house.
“It’s fine,” I say, pointing to the sad little salad bar next to Dr. Belo’s office. “I’ll grab something while I wait.” I would kill for a meatloaf right now.
He grimaces at the large green banner advertising half-off Caesar salads. He knows hungry me is not exactly a delight.
“I can order you something,” he says softly. “It’ll be there when you get home.”
He’ll mean to—I know he will—but he won’t get the chance.
Work will swallow him before he gets the chance, and I’ll find myself hoping it didn’t, hoping for something to show up, but knowing deep down it won’t.
I remind myself that it’s not that he doesn’t care.
He does. More than anyone I know. But everything else will distract him away from me, even if it’s unintentional, and I’ll be left sad, pregnant, and unfed. A terrible combination.
“Really, it’s fine. I’ll see you tonight,” I say.
I waddle myself across the parking lot and Steven’s gone before I even step inside the salad bar. I don’t realize I’m crying until the cashier asks, “Are you okay, miss?”
I press a hand to my belly, wiping at my nose, and feel a tiny kick in response. Baby’s silent agreement, a quiet little heartbeat telling me what I already know.
No.
No, I am not okay.