Chapter 8 Liam
The counselor was a waspy, middle-aged woman who had to be five-foot-even at most. With her ash blonde bob and purple-framed glasses, she reminded me of someone’s quirky aunt, or maybe a drama teacher.
When she poked her head out to call us into the office, I stood up in the middle of the waiting room.
“The appointment’s for two. My wife isn’t here yet,” I said, hunching my shoulders as the other people in the waiting room watched.
“That’s perfectly fine. We can wait for her in here.”
I entered her office and looked around. The walls were painted a soothing, denim blue, which I hadn’t expected.
There was a round glass coffee table with two neat stacks of books, flanked by a leather sofa to the right and a cushy, burnt-orange armchair to the left.
A credenza took up almost the entire length of the opposite wall, laden with what looked like a coffee station and a plate of cookies under a glass dome.
“Call me Laurie. Sit. Or grab a cookie, and then sit. My husband baked them this morning. Cranberry, orange, and nutmeg.”
I hesitated before sitting down. “All that in one cookie?”
“It’s a surprisingly nice combo. Would you like one?”
I considered it for a short moment. “No thank you,” I said.
Laurie shrugged in a suit yourself kind of way. “Well, while we’re waiting, why don’t we talk a little bit about you? Tell me what brought you here, personally.”
I released a puff of air. “Where should I start?”
“Wherever you feel it’s best to start.”
“I guess I’ll start with the day my wife left me, which was three years ago.”
I paused. Talking like this felt unnatural. I felt like I was baring myself, exposing the most vulnerable cracks in my armor. I glanced at Laurie, who gave me an encouraging nod.
“I’m listening,” she said.
I exhaled, forcing myself to unclench my jaw.
“About a week ago, my wife and I ran into each other. She came back to town, and I thought it was because she wanted to pick up where we left off. But what she actually wanted was a divorce. I managed to convince her to give therapy a shot, and here we are. Or…here I am, at least.”
Laurie had her head bent, scribbling notes on a notebook she had pinned against her knee.
“Don’t worry,” she said as she glanced up, pen still moving across the paper. “I just want to remember this for when your wife gets here and the real work begins. Would you like to talk about what her return has been like for you? I assume it must have been a shock.”
“Fuck yeah. Excuse my language, but it’s been three years.
” The sense of tension I’d been carrying in my shoulders suddenly unraveled.
Shortly, I realized how good it felt to just be honest for once.
“After the first year without hearing a peep from her, I thought I’d never see her again.
I’d already moved on, and then BAM. Right in the middle of dinner, I see her, waiting tables at the Blue Ox. ”
“You said you’d already moved on. Does this mean a relationship with a different woman?”
“I’d say relations, but not a full-blown relationship. There were a couple girls I was casually seeing. But nobody like Roxy.”
Laurie dipped her head again, taking more notes. Uh oh. I wondered if I should’ve kept the “couple girls” to myself.
Just then, my phone buzzed. I picked it up to see that I’d received a text from Roxy. “Speak of the devil.” When I opened it to read what it said, my face fell.
“Liam?” Laurie said.
“She’s not coming,” I said, feeling a hollow, scraping sensation in my chest.
“We can keep talking if you’d like. There’s still over thirty minutes left in the session.”
Thirty minutes left, as if my life’s up and downs were reduced to billable hours.
“No thank you. There’s no point without my wife here.”
“I understand. Please, let me know when you’re ready to come back and try again. And in the meantime…”
Ten minutes later, I was dispatched with a small stack of brochures.
How to communicate. How to make arguments instead of arguing.
I clutched the glossy pages in my fist as I left the building and crossed the hot asphalt parking lot.
Once I got in my car, I tossed them blindly over my shoulder into the backseat and sped off, driving in the direction of Mountainside Resort.
When I got there, I stormed into the lobby and banged on the bullet proof glass, making the skinny teen on the other side glance up from his phone. The little plastic badge pinned to his shirt told me his name was Brian.
“I’m looking for a guest. Her name's Roxy Murphy.”
To my utter annoyance, Brian shook his head, his face neutral with indifference. “Can’t give that information.”
“I’m her husband. And I have a God-given right to know where my own wife is.”
“If you’re her husband, why don’t you just call her?”
Grumbling, I pulled out my wallet and slammed a hundred dollar bill through the little window in the bottom of the glass partition. “Now why would I call her when you can look her up on that computer right there?”
Without missing a beat, the kid reached out and slid the bill off of the counter. “What’s her name again?”
“Roxy Murphy. She drives the dark green Honda out front.”
Brian turned to his computer and started clicking around. “Let’s see, Murphy. Looks like she’s in 211.”
“Great. Thanks,” I muttered.
The motel was small, just a two-story strip of building, every room facing downhill towards the parking lot and highway.
I hiked the damp, cement stairs up to the second story and went up to the third door.
I pounded on the wood with my fist, hard enough to make the little brass numbers, arranged to form “211,” jump on their nails.
The door opened, and Roxy appeared behind it.
“What the hell, Roxy?”
I stepped inside and shut the door so I wouldn’t have to yell at her out on the landing where everyone could see. Roxy backed up and crossed her arms, giving me plenty of space.
“You promised that you’d show up,” I began.
“Well, you promised me a lot of things too.”
I stabbed my sternum with my thumb. “I never broke my vows, did I? I never broke any promises that actually mattered.”
Roxy scoffed and shook her head. “Typical,” she muttered.
“If you’d actually come to the session like we planned, we could’ve worked this all out!” I thought about Laurie’s calm, non-judgmental demeanor and felt a bitter resentment at the idea that Roxy would’ve actually liked her.
“It’s just too little too late, all right? I came to town for one thing and one thing only. For me, it’s either divorce or all-out war. So take your pick.”
I leaned close, huffing and puffing my hot, angry breath. “I choose war.”
I stormed out of the room and slammed the door, shaking the adjacent window.