Chapter 5 #2
I’ve ranted about Sherry a million times.
How I watched her cry many rivers. Whisked her away to our island, her favorite place in the world.
To Clover Cay, where under the Bahamian sun, she painted, healed, slowly becoming herself again before the limelight pulled her back into the fray back in ’24. And for a goddamn comeback tour…
“She loved them,” Dr. Bellamy says softly. But then her eyebrows draw together. “More than you. That’s what you said.”
Them.
I open my mouth to speak then quickly close it again, unsure how to take that—how she wants me to.
Sherry loving her fans more than me? That’s what she’s smiling about? What’s funny about that?
“Nothing is different.” My tone is hard, steely. “We’ve talked about this. It’s the whole reason that we were—”
“Preparing to file for divorce,” she finishes, callously, as if I could somehow forget that my marriage of almost fourteen years had been over, and Sherry and I were in the middle of dividing our lives, about to sign on the dotted line.
We weren’t in love anymore.
“Before Sherry passed, together you’d come to the mutual decision to consciously uncouple.” She nods, treading lightly. “Without the lawyers or screaming matches. No social media meltdowns or courtroom blowups. Just quiet counseling and the fair division of your belongings, right?”
I swallow, letting the tension harden the set of my jaw.
People fall in and out of love all the time. They separate and divorce, decide to walk different paths. They want different things. That’s what we agreed upon. Loving each other enough to let go.
But it didn’t mean I wanted her to…
“You couldn’t have known her fate, Warner. It wasn’t your fault.”
Hurt nestles in my chest, wrenching my heart.
“Wow.” I slouch back against my chair, my mouth wide open, every inch of me deflating as I lift my gaze.
Except movement in my periphery snags my attention.
Outside my office, my best friend—and the only chef who gives my godfather a run for his money—Cord waves and taps his watch, before he circles his finger, signaling for me to wrap it up.
The man’s timing.
Jesus.
A small laugh bubbles in the back of my throat.
Yeah, sure. Let me just hurry up and shut down a potential breakthrough because it’s Friday, and my best friend—the entirety of my small, trusted friend circle—is a hopeless romantic in a fuckboy’s clothing, wants to hit up some upscale bar to “watch” the Legends game, when we both know he couldn’t give a shit about football, and really he fucked around, pretending he didn’t care about some woman and now he’s in the “find out” phase because he’s got it bad for her and wants to “accidentally” run into her because she’s ghosting him for playing games.
But again, who cares about mental health when tip-off is in half an hour?
I should be there for him, though. If only to tell him to grovel instead of trying to man up and move on.
“Tell me how that made you feel,” Dr. Bellamy says. “It seemed like you had a visceral reaction to those words. Preparing to file for divorce…”
She nods, slowly, unaware that ten feet from me, my giddy best friend is, nineties R&B group style, dry-humping the glass in celebration that I’ve finally agreed—and I’m now low-key regretting my decision—to brave the public with him.
I bite my tongue to stifle my laugh.
“Honestly…” I shrug. “Not great. Pretty shitty, actually.”
Out of camera view, I hold up a hand, telling Cord I’ll be ready in five.
To which this fool chooses to double down, plastering his body—shirt lifted, giving full nipplage—to the glass, hips thrusting, palms flat, mouth suctioning, simulating a sad case of sexually frustrating mating ritual, right as my assistant, Greer, walks up behind him.
“What an asshole,” I mumble, covering my mouth with my hand as I return my attention to Dr. Bellamy, who’s still nodding, silently, seemingly sliding another piece to my puzzle together in her head.
“It’s not grief. It’s guilt,” she says, like it’s a fact. A truth that lands so hard, she’s got to be gentle with it.
Apparently, not with me.
“Guilt?” I repeat, disbelief laser-cutting through my tone. Is she psychic? Does the server-to-chef grapevine also extend to tele-therapists, and somehow she knows I was checking out Whitney, too? Fuck. “What does that mean, guilt?”
She curls her fingers pressed to her lips.
Then that smile returns, grating deeply on my nerves.
And—of course—this is the moment Cord resumes his shenanigans in the hallway.
Thankfully, Greer, the only person with any sense, it seems, has declined to join him in a sad attempt at the Robot—full arm swings, neck tilt, bending at the waist like a pop-locking fool—as he raps on my door.
I drop my head into my hands, masking frustrated laughter with a terrible excuse for a cough. “What is happening?”
“Is everything okay, Warner?” Dr. Bellamy asks.
The woman probably thinks I’m losing the last of my marbles.
On a deep sigh, I glance up at her. “Yes, my friend is here. We’re about to head to a bar to watch the Legends after our session,” I explain, still slightly confused how we leaped from divorce and healing. “What exactly did you mean, guilt, not grief? The decision to split was amicable.”
She closes her folio. “You’ve been helping the public punish you,” she starts, before telling me that some surviving loved ones feel guilt for not feeling devastated enough.
For remembering the conflicts, instead of the good moments.
For wanting to move on, maybe meet someone new, when not enough perceived time has passed.
Greer walks into my office with Cord on her heels.
Sorry, she mouths, swinging a long, dark braid out of her face before setting down my mail with a Post-it on top, reminding me she’s leaving early for a book retreat that she’s been telling me about for months.
She won’t be back until Wednesday and wanted to say goodbye before she left.
I hold up a finger, asking her to wait a moment.
“Well, I’m glad to hear you’re headed out with your friend. It’s healthy,” Dr. Bellamy says.
Cord clutches a fist to his chest, nodding. “We boys!”
Ignoring him, I thank Greer, hand her a gift card from her favorite independent bookstore, and tell her to have the best time with her friends.
With a quick smile, she points at the thick white envelope sticking out from the mail stack, mouths, Hand-delivered, then gives me a little wave and frowns at Cord’s blatant ogling on her way out.
Hand-delivered?
I’m half listening to Dr. Bellamy and inspecting the envelope when Cord rounds my desk, glances at the camera, then backs away, giving me the chef’s kiss.