Chapter Twenty-Eight
For the next six weeks, Beckett courted me like a man trying to learn a language he should have been speaking all along. There were no flowers. No jewelry. No surprise trips. There were questions.
Can I call tonight? Would you like company for the county zoning meeting? Do you want help moving the new stall mats, or do you already have a crew? Would dinner Friday feel good or like pressure? The first time he asked that last one, I stared at the message until Tessa leaned over my shoulder.
“That’s annoyingly healthy,” she said.
“Stop reading my phone.”
“Stop holding it at eye level in a shared office.”
I went to dinner. Then another. We drove separately. We split checks more often than not, partly because I needed the ordinary act of paying for myself and partly because watching a billionaire calculate half a diner bill amused me. He came to Harlow Creek twice, both times invited.
Once to repair a section of roof flashing with Luis because I had mentioned the contractor wouldn’t return calls.
He did not hire a roofing company behind my back.
He asked if I wanted help, arrived in old jeans, and spent four hours being told by Luis that his hammer technique was “soft for a cattle prince.” The other visit was a Sunday afternoon with no job attached.
We walked the property. Poppy allowed him within fifteen feet.
“She likes you,” I said.
“She tolerates me.”
“For Poppy, that’s practically a proposal.”
He smiled. We stopped at the creek where ice had formed along the edges.
“My therapist wants to know if you’d come to one session,” he said.
I looked at him.
“Couples therapy?”
“Not exactly. He said one joint session could help us identify what we’re trying to rebuild, if anything. No commitment beyond one.”
My first reaction was resistance. Therapy felt like admitting we were a project. Then I thought about how many years I had treated our marriage like something that should run without maintenance.
“Will he tell me everything you’ve said about me?”
“God, I hope not.”
I laughed.
“Fine. One.”
The appointment was in Bozeman on a gray Tuesday morning. Dr. Simon Archer was younger than I expected, maybe mid-forties, with a calm face and a plant-filled office that made Beckett look oversized in the chair beside me.
“Mara,” he said, “I’m going to start by telling you that Beckett is my client. I will not disclose his private sessions without his consent, and my job today is not to recruit you into his treatment.”
“Good.”
“Your job is also not to reassure him.”
I glanced at Beckett.
“He’s been saying that a lot,” Beckett said.
“Because you keep trying to earn a passing grade,” Dr. Archer replied.
A laugh escaped me. Beckett looked betrayed.
“I liked you better before you met him.”
“No, you didn’t.”
Dr. Archer smiled slightly. Then he asked the question that dismantled me.
“Mara, if Beckett never changed another thing from today forward, would you want to remain married to the man he is now?”
I opened my mouth. No answer came. Beckett went still beside me.
“That’s unfair,” I said.
“Why?”
“Because the whole point is whether the change lasts.”
“Exactly. I’m asking you to separate present desire from future proof. Do you want him now, while still requiring evidence later?”
I looked at Beckett. He did not look back. He stared at his hands, giving me privacy even while sitting three feet away.
“Yes,” I said.
The word came quietly. His head lifted. I kept looking at Dr. Archer.
“Yes. I want him. I don’t trust the pattern yet.”
“Those can coexist.”
I swallowed.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
I almost laughed.
“Apparently not.”
He turned to Beckett.
“What did you hear?”
He swallowed.
“That she wants me now, but she doesn’t owe me confidence about tomorrow.”
“And what do you want to do with that?”
His answer came after a long pause.
“Not squeeze it until it becomes a promise.”
I looked at him then. Something inside me softened. Dr. Archer asked me what I feared most about reconciliation. I expected to say neglect.
Instead I said, “Myself.” Beckett frowned.
“Explain,” Dr. Archer said.
“I’m afraid I’ll go back and become convenient again. Not because he asks me to. Because I’m good at it. I know how to anticipate, smooth, cover, take over. I don’t know if I can live with him without becoming the person who makes everything easy.”
Beckett’s face went pale.
“I don’t want that.”
“I know.”
“Then don’t.”
I looked at him.
“You say that like it’s simple.”
“No. I’m saying I’ll have to learn to notice it.”
Dr. Archer lifted a hand.
“Careful. Her overfunctioning is not another task for you to manage.”
He exhaled.
“Right.”
“Mara, what would help you notice it yourself?”
I thought.
“Written roles.”
Beckett blinked. I almost laughed at the irony.
“At Harlow Creek, Tessa made me write her job description so I couldn’t absorb her work or hand her all of mine. It helps.”
Dr. Archer nodded.
“What would that look like in a marriage?”
We spent twenty minutes answering. Not a chore chart. A boundary map. What belonged to Beckett without reminders. What belonged to me.
What required joint decisions. What no spouse should silently absorb. Calendars were shared, not managed by me. Family communication with Evelyn belonged to Beckett. Harlow Creek operations belonged to me.
Halvorsen business belonged to him. Invitations involving both of us required both answers. Gifts were not substitutes for attendance. If one person said something mattered, the other did not get to downgrade it because they disagreed. By the end, my chest felt scraped open.
Dr. Archer looked at us.
“One more question. What does reconciliation mean?”
Beckett answered first.
“Not her moving back.”
I turned toward him.
“Then what?”
“Being married on purpose again. Wherever we live.”
My eyes burned. Dr. Archer looked at me.
“Mara?”
I thought of the Halvorsen house. The farmhouse. The gate between us.
“Being able to choose him without choosing against myself.”
No one spoke for a moment. Dr. Archer closed his notebook.
“That’s enough for today.”
Outside, Beckett and I stood beside our separate vehicles.
“You okay?” he asked.
“No.”
“Me neither.”
I laughed weakly. He shoved his hands into his coat pockets.
“Thank you for coming.”
“Thank you for not making me comfort you when I said I was scared of becoming convenient again.”
His mouth tightened.
“I wanted to.”
“I believe you.”
“Apparently wanting isn’t the same as doing.”
“Look at you learning.”
He smiled. I stepped closer.
“Kiss me.”
His eyes darkened.
“Here?”
“Do you object to therapist parking lots?”
“Deeply unromantic.”
“Good.”
He kissed me anyway. It was brief, warm, and entirely ours. When we separated, he touched his forehead to mine.
“Dinner Friday?”
“Yes.”
“Feels good, not like pressure?”
I smiled.
“Still annoyingly healthy.”
“I’ll work on being worse.”
“Don’t you dare.”
I drove away lighter because neither of us had pretended we could solve everything at once.