Griffin reads everything in my hesitation. “Thought of something, did you?”
“I was intrigued, sure,” I admit. “From a clinical standpoint. But that was before.”
“Before I made an ass of myself going down on you on your kitchen table?”
My cheeks flame hot with shame, but I manage to keep my shoulders from drooping. “How exactly did that make an ass out of you?” I shake my head, knowing that’s not the point. He’s hurt and humiliated, and that never brings out anyone’s best side. “Griff, I would have told you if I could. I swear to God, the instant I got permission—”
“That was her on the phone, wasn’t it?”
I blink. “What?”
“The night we had sex. She called you, didn’t she?”
I do a quick scan of the ethics guide in my brain, then nod. “Yes. It was.”
“And did you ask her right then and there to call me? To get everything out in the open?”
Again, I hesitate. I remember Elle offering to talk to him. To explain it all right then. “I wanted you to hear it from me.”
“So you could spin the story however you wanted.”
“That’s not the reason.” Or hell, maybe it was. I owe him honesty at this point. “Yes, I had more confidence in my own ability to break the news to you than I did in how Gabrielle might do it. Elle. You know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I do.” He drags a hand through his hair. “You changed the course of my life, Mari.”
Those words in a sweeter tone would mean the world to me. But his voice is cold and bitter and echoes darkly through my skull. “I never told your wife to divorce you.”
“Did you tell her not to?”
“That’s not what a therapist—”
“Answer the question, Mari.”
I hesitate. There’s no point in sugarcoating things now. “No. I didn’t.”
“And did you think she should leave the marriage?”
Again, I pause. I recognize the need to choose my words with caution. “My opinion wasn’t relevant to—”
“Goddamn it.” He smacks his palm against the doorframe. “Just answer me, okay?”
I take a deep breath. “She told me her husband’s name was Gary. And based on what she told me about him—about you—yes, I did think she’d outgrown the marriage.”
He flinches at my words. “I see.”
“Griffin, you have to believe—”
“I don’t have to believe a goddamn thing you say.” He folds his arms over his chest and stares at me. “If she’d never met you, I’d still be married.”
It’s another sucker punch, stealing the breath from my lungs. All I can do is nod. “It’s possible. Or it’s possible you wouldn’t. Often, people come to therapy seeking validation for what they already intend to do.”
He shakes his head slowly. “It wasn’t enough for you to derail my life once,” he says slowly. “You had to go and do it again.”
I stare at him, blinking back tears. Emotion isn’t what we need right now. “Would you want to still be married to her?”
Holding my breath, I wait for the answer. I’m afraid of what he’ll say, but I need to know.
“What I want,” he says slowly, “is to have my life—my daughter’s life—unfold without someone else pulling puppet strings.” He shakes his head, then looks out at the ridgeline in the distance. It hurts to know he can’t stand to look at me right now.
“I agreed to be part of this show to give Soph and me a fresh start.” He says the words slowly, voice cracking on the last syllable. “A new life after the hell we’ve been through. And yeah, I agreed to have my life televised. But what I didn’t consent to is having some—some—some therapist—” He spits the word like a curse, blue eyes flashing. “Some goddamn head shrinker deciding the course of our lives.”
There’s nothing I can say right now to fix this. He’s angry, and he deserves to be angry. But there’s something I need him to know.
“I love you, Griffin.” I start to touch his arm but stop myself. “I’m sorry I hurt you. I wish I could have told you my connection to Elle. I wish—”
“You know what I wish?” He takes a step back, putting more distance between us than his words have done. “I wish I’d never met you. I wish Soph never met you. That Gabby hadn’t, either.”
I close my eyes, taking the blows as they come. The words he’s not saying, I hear them anyway.
I wish I were still married.
I don’t love you.
When I open my eyes, he’s taken another step back so he stands inside the doorway. He’s inches away, but the space between us feels like miles.
I swallow back the lump in my throat. “All right,” I say softly. “If there’s anything I can do to help—”
“You’ve done enough, Mari.” He steps back and shuts the door in my face.
I don’t know how much time has passed when there’s a knock at my cabin door. An hour? Six hours? It feels like I’ve been crying for days, and my stupid, battered heart struggles up from the mat and limps hopefully to the door.
But it’s not Griff, or even Soph knocking.
It’s Lana and Lauren, wearing matching expressions of grim determination. Lana holds a potato, while Lauren clutches a pair of spoons.
I look from one to the other, not sure what’s happening. “Whatever this is, I’m not in the mood.”
Lauren looks at Lana. “It’s worse than we thought. Start with the spud.”
They push past me into the kitchen, ignoring my feeble protests. Lauren shoves the spoons in my freezer, while Lauren sets to work slicing the potato. As usual, it’s like I’m not here at all.
“I’m really not hungr—”
“Lie down on the couch,” Lauren orders.
I frown. “What for?”
Lana turns around. “They’re not for eating, they’re for putting on your eyes.” She holds up two thick slices. “Potato has astringent properties to bring down swelling.”
“Oldest trick in an actress’s toolkit,” Lauren says. “We’ll do cold spoons next.”
Lana looks thoughtful, then shakes her head. “Teabags before spoons. Black tea, so the caffeine can penetrate the skin barrier.”
Leonard’s been quiet today, baffled by my crying jag. He chooses that moment to squawk as Lana moves toward me with the potato.
“Skin barrier,” he shouts. “Skin barrier.”
I turn and glare at him. “There’s a useful phrase for you to know.”
Lana ignores my muttering, dragging me to the couch as Lauren thrusts a bottle of pale liquid into my hands. “Drink this.”
I can’t think of any cause to object. Maybe it’s cyanide. At this point, I wouldn’t blame anyone for putting me out of my misery. Tilting the bottle to my lips, I try to recall the last time I drank something besides lukewarm tea that’s been forgotten for three cycles in the microwave.
“Gack!” I choke after the first swallow of salty-sweet liquid. “What is it?”