She slowly types a new message to him: Hope you’re having a good morning. Think I figured out who sent the flowers: They were a thank-you for all the work I’m doing on the school auction.
Matthew will never verify it with Natalie; his pride won’t allow that.
It isn’t an outright lie, Marissa assures herself as her finger hovers over the little arrow that will send the text to her husband. In any case, she did it to save Matthew from any more pain. She loves him. She wants to repair their marriage; her heart is in the right place.
CHAPTER NINE
AVERY
I DON’T BELONG TO A GYM. I’ve always preferred to exercise in solitude: running and biking outside, lifting light weights at home, and stretching using my favorite yoga app. Yet here I am, exiting Pinnacle Studio with my umbrella in hand and a pass for a free one-week trial offer tucked in my bag. I won’t be buying a membership, which I know will disappoint the chipper young man who just spent a half hour talking up the gym’s special features and wide array of classes. I just need to get a feel for the place.
Marissa frequents the Pilates classes at this gym, which is located in almost a straight line down Connecticut Avenue from their home into northwest D.C. She likes to take them at least twice a week. It’s not that I plan to spend hours at Pinnacle with the expectation that I’ll bump into my new client chatting up the guy she slept with, but something I notice at this gym may inform the techniques I utilize in my sessions with Marissa and Matthew. And though it’s highly possible Marissa might be avoiding her gym altogether now, I’ve learned that the people who seem straightforward can surprise you most.
In my new role as a ten-session fixer, I cast a lot of lines. Usually one gets a tug.
I wonder if Matthew is also tempted to check out the clientele at his wife’s gym, since our inquiries seem to be overlapping this morning. When I called Bloom at 10:15 A.M., the woman who answered the phone laughed and said, “What’s up with these flowers? You’re the third person to call, and I can only tell you what I told each of them. The roses were ordered through a Venmo account and I have no idea who sent them.”
Marissa and Matthew, I’d thought as I hung up the phone. They’re the only other ones who would have phoned.
I pause at the street corner, taking a step back—to avoid getting splashed as a bus rolls through a big puddle, then cross with the light and reach my car. It’s broad daylight, and I’m parked at a meter on the side of a busy road. Still, I reflexively check the back seat before closing my umbrella and climbing in.
I rub my hands together for warmth, then pull out my phone. There’s one more thing I need to do before I head to the shelter to pick up Romeo.
I tap out a message to Marissa and Matthew: Here’s an assignment for you. Go on a date tomorrow night—alone. Pick a quiet restaurant. Reminisce about how you met, and what made you fall in love. Go back to those early days and try to relive them.
They might dine at La Ferme’s heated outdoor patio, or they could choose a different venue. But wherever they go, it won’t be difficult to find them.
I put away my phone and merge into traffic, heading south, deeper into D.C.
Less than an hour later, I’m on my way home from the animal shelter with Romeo. He’s riding shotgun, trying to wedge his snout through the window crack. His efforts are complicated by the plastic cone of shame ringing his neck.
“Sorry for the indignity. But the shelter has to neuter every dog before he’s adopted.”
From the look he gives me, I’m not sure that he accepts my explanation.
We idle at a stoplight on a tree-lined road, and Romeo gives a hoarse-sounding bark.
“You really showed that squirrel who’s boss. Good boy.”
His stitches should dissolve in a week or two, and in the meantime I’ve got a bottle of pain meds from the shelter’s vet to keep Romeo comfortable. The trunk of my car is filled with his new supplies, and it just hit me that I’m going to be walking Romeo morning, noon, and night—even during storms like this one.
He bends down and tries to sniff my leather purse.
“Don’t even think about it. You’re already on thin ice.”
When we get home, the rain has eased, so before we even go inside, I clip on Romeo’s leash and we slowly stroll around my block. He wants to smell every shrub and tree and mark most of them. When a woman walking a golden retriever puppy passes by, Romeo shrinks against my legs. I stroke his head and tell him it’s okay. We’re almost back home when my phone pings with a text from Kimberly, one of my clients: All good see you soon. We’d tentatively scheduled an outdoor session at 3:00 P.M. but agreed to check in before meeting because of the weather.
Kimberly is a twenty-nine-year-old who initially sought me out because of a bad breakup. I think about him all the time, she confessed. I can’t stop checking out his Instagram. I even drove by his house the other night. Her core issue wasn’t the presenting problem. It rarely is. Kimberly had been sexually assaulted as a teenager and never received the help she deserved. She can’t afford my usual fee, but I don’t do this work solely for the money. Kimberly pays a fraction of what I charge clients such as the Bishops.
My strategy with Kimberly has been to begin gently, earning her trust and connecting her with a solid foundation of support networks. Now for our eighth session, which I’ve labeled The Test, we’re amping things up by meeting on the trail in the park where the man grabbed her.
Romeo and I climb the front steps to my porch and I deactivate my home alarm. I hook his leash over a post and return to my car, making two trips to carry in his supplies.
After filling up his water bowl and giving him a chewy bone to work on, I set up his crate, placing a comfy pillow and a few toys inside.
“I’ll be back in a bit.” I give him a pain pill inside a piece of turkey.
He swallows it, but looks unconvinced.
“You’re the master of the guilt trip,” I grumble as I latch the door to his crate. But it’s probably strange for him to be in such a quiet place after the constant noise of the shelter. I turn on some acoustic rock and grab my purse, then head back out the door.
* * *
All in all, it was a successful day, I reflect as Romeo and I amble down Connecticut Avenue in the chilly evening air, his leash in my right hand and my bag of spring rolls and panang dangling from my left.
Kimberly’s session had gone well. At first she had been reluctant to even step onto the park’s pathway, but in the end she did so of her own volition. And even though I let Romeo wander around the house while I typed up my notes and checked in with Cameron, my shoes remained unchewed.
My latest update from Cameron was also pleasing: Skylar had been released from the hospital and he’d resisted her pleas to drive her home. Apparently she’d taken an Uber.
As for my newest clients, the Bishops, Marissa had emailed to tell me she’d secured a babysitter for tomorrow night, and Matthew was making reservations for their date. She didn’t reveal where they’re going, but I’ll park outside their home—using my late husband’s car in case they recognize mine—and follow them to the restaurant. I’m curious about how they act when they think no one is watching.