46. Divergence
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
DIVERGENCE
Ethan
I count the ceiling tiles for the fourth time.
Thirty-two.
My mouth is so dry I have to swallow twice before it works. Classic rock drifts from the overhead speakers while someone turns the pages of a magazine across the waiting room. Every few seconds, I glance at the door, wondering if it’s too late to leave.
I’ve negotiated multimillion-dollar contracts, managed difficult clients, and solved problems that looked impossible on paper. Yet sitting in a therapist’s waiting room makes me feel like I’m about to throw up.
I’ve been back from spending Thanksgiving at my parents’ house for almost a week. After my last conversation with Reid, I finally did what he’d challenged me to do.
I called.
Booked the appointment.
If I want any chance of rebuilding my relationship with Ellie—and proving to Claire that I’m serious about changing—this is where it has to start.
The office itself doesn’t help. I’d expected soft classical music, inspirational quotes, and furniture designed to encourage sharing. This waiting room looks more like a tattoo parlor.
One wall is exposed brick. A record player occupies the corner, and the coffee table is littered with magazines about outdoor adventures, motorcycles, and hand-drawn art.
According to the website, my therapist specializes in family counseling. Nothing about this place feels like family counseling. The office door, a heavy slab of dark wood opens, and a man steps into the hallway. I assume he’s another patient, but then he looks directly at me.
“Ethan?”
I stand, and he extends a hand.
“Dr. Noah Rutledge.”
This is the therapist?
He’s in his early forties, but that’s where any resemblance to the image in my head ends. Dark hair falls almost to his shoulders, and a neatly trimmed beard covers most of his jaw. Tattoos disappear beneath the collar of his button-down shirt and reappear at his wrists with every movement.
Combined with his broad shoulders and worn leather boots, he looks less like a family counselor and more like someone who spends weekends fronting a rock band. Or, more accurately, a member of a motorcycle club.
Apparently, I’ve been staring too long, and his mouth twitches. “You seem disappointed.”
I clear my throat. “No.”
“You expected an older guy in plaid with elbow patches.”
I’m irritated that he’s right, and a hot flush creeps up my neck. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.” He smirks, then gestures toward his office.
“Come on in. I promise I’m licensed.”
His office continues the theme from the waiting room. Hand drawn sketches adorn the walls, and the air carries a faint scent of worn leather. Nothing matches, yet somehow it still works.
I settle into the chair across from his desk, the springs groaning under my weight. He drops into the chair opposite me, and I already hate this.
He seems perfectly composed. A small smile appears beneath his beard. “What brings you here?”
The question seems simple, but it isn’t. I look toward the window. “I had an affair with my daughter’s teacher, who also directs her summer drama program.”
He doesn’t react.
“How long ago?”
“It ended a little over three months ago.”
“And your wife found out.”
I nod.
“Tell me how it started?”
“Her name is Brooke. I volunteered to build the set for my daughter’s summer drama program. She was a teacher at the school and the director of the production. We’d crossed paths a few times that spring at school events before we really started talking.”
I pause thinking back to the first time I met Brooke at Ellie’s awards program.
“I was attracted to her almost immediately. We started spending more and more time together. I found excuses to stay after rehearsals, and eventually... I crossed a line.”
I run a hand through my hair. “I don’t know why I did it.”
“Did you fall in love with Brooke?”
“No! I just—I don’t know. I thought I had feelings for her.”
“If Brooke had never existed, would your marriage have been healthy?”
“No. But I also wouldn’t have cheated.”
“Those can both be true. What will make these sessions worth your time?”
“I want my wife back,” I say, with urgency.
“That’s not something you can control or something I can fix for you.” He continues, his voice calm. “You can control your own actions—your honesty, your choices. You can’t control how she responds. The only part of this you can fix is you.”
Afterwards, I sit in my truck staring through the windshield contemplating his final words.
You spent a lot of time talking about what you lost. At some point, you’re going to have to decide who you want to become.