Suddenly she was kissing me, and her lips were moist and warm, and I couldn’t resist the love and tenderness she offered. How was it possible that she could turn this darkness into light? All the obstacles between us fell away like a crumbling wall of stone. I pushed Melanie from my thoughts and embraced the beautiful woman in my arms and wished we could leave New York and run away together, even if we had to live as paupers. I would do anything to be with Olivia and escape what I had done.
I knew in that moment that I had to find a way to end my relationship with Melanie, and I couldn’t delay because it was clear that Olivia’s passion matched mine. To her, I was good, decent, and strong. I sat on a pedestal.
That was the man I wanted to be, and perhaps I could be . . .
I had come so far. I had pulled myself out of a wretched childhood. I couldn’t let anything drag me back there.
Just then, a key turned in the lock. Olivia and I quickly sat up on the sofa. We straightened our disheveled clothes and pretended to be engaged in conversation as two young women walked in.
Olivia greeted them. “These are my roommates and best friends, Rachel and Cassie.”
We chatted briefly, and I was grateful for the excuse to say good night, because Melanie was waiting for me. It was time I put an end to this painful charade.
CHAPTER 19
DEAN
New York, 1986
The hour was late when I drove into the back parking lot at Melanie’s apartment. The lights were still on in her kitchen window, so I suspected she’d heard me arrive. I glanced up at the door at the top of the stairs and saw her move the curtain aside to look out, but she didn’t wave at me. She simply stared.
The curtain fell closed, and I knew I was in for it.
With a knot of dread the size of a football in my gut, I got out of the car, climbed the long, steep steps to the second level, and knocked.
She took her time answering, which I recognized as an attempt to make me sweat. It was passive-aggressive behavior on her part, and it was not unusual. She often exhibited behaviors that put her in a position of power over me. It was what she needed in order to feel safe and valued, and I despised myself for allowing it to become the foundation of our relationship.
“Melanie. I know that you’re home,” I said, “and I understand that you’re angry. I’m very sorry I’m late, but I had no control over that. The boat went halfway up the Hudson River Valley. We were gone for hours.”
I left out the part about having dinner with Olivia afterward, and I felt like a heel, but I needed Melanie to open the door so that I could begin to pave the way toward a resolution to this problem.
I continued to stand outside on the landing, knocking and pleading with her to open the door, but she wouldn’t budge. Finally, I bowed my head in defeat. I had no idea how I was going to make her understand that we couldn’t go on like this. How could I convince her that things weren’t healthy between us and she needed to see another therapist? She was going to be devastated. It would kill her.
I felt a sudden, intense surge of guilt. My leaving, deserting her, not loving her, was her worst fear.
Was I sure?
I knocked again and spoke more firmly this time. “Melanie, open the door.”
At last, I heard the heavy pounding of her footsteps across the kitchen floor. The dead bolt was unlocked, and the door swung open.
There she stood, in her red terry cloth bathrobe, her eyes puffy from crying. She didn’t speak a word. She simply turned and walked away, back to the living room. I heard the television blaring, so I entered the apartment, closed the door behind me, and followed. She lay down and curled up in a fetal position on the sofa, clenching a crumpled tissue in her fist.
I noticed the empty wine bottle on the floor beside the sofa and felt sick to my stomach. I was angry with myself, to be sure, but I was also disgusted by the person she became when she drank. She was so much like my grandmother and my father, and I couldn’t go back to that life. I wanted nothing to do with it.
At the same time, I understood why Melanie had this problem, and I knew that I had failed as her therapist and as her lover and friend. She needed help, but I couldn’t be the person to help her. Not after what we had become to each other.
I moved closer, got to my knees on the floor in front of her, and brushed a lock of hair away from her forehead.
“Hey,” I said in a gentle voice. “I’m sorry I was late. I should have called.”
“How could you call me if you were on a boat?” she asked. “With such important people?” Her speech was slurred, and she smelled of alcohol.
“Fair point,” I replied, then considered what to do. “I’m going to get you a glass of water,” I said. “Then we can talk.”
Even as I spoke the words, I knew it was the wrong time to have this conversation. She needed to be sober so that we could talk calmly and sensibly.
I rose to my feet, went to the kitchen, found a glass in the cupboard, and filled it at the sink. When I turned around, she was standing by the kitchen table, glaring at me with a mixture of rage and despair. A vein throbbed visibly at her temple, and her cheeks were flame red.
“I saw you,” she said. “I went to the marina, and I saw you get off the boat with her. I saw you holding hands.”
I couldn’t seem to form words. All I could do was stand there, speechless and immobile. I looked down at the floor. “Let’s go into the living room where we can talk.”
Her cheeks flushed with color. “No. I don’t want to go anywhere with you. I know you don’t love me. I don’t think you ever did. I was never good enough for you. You’re too ambitious, and don’t pretend it’s not true. You were just using me because you were lonely, and I was weak and vulnerable, and you knew I was easy prey.”
“That’s not true.” It was an honest answer because I had never wanted to take advantage of her or hurt her in any way. I had fought against it as best I could. And I had been weak and vulnerable too.
“If you don’t want me, you should get the hell out,” she said.
I set the glass of water on the table and carefully approached her. “Please, let’s just talk, okay? I don’t want to end things like this. Let’s sit down.”
She swayed on her feet, and I wondered if she’d had more than just one bottle of wine.
She pointed at the door. “Get out of here. I want you out of my life.”
It was what I wanted as well. I couldn’t deny it. But not like this. There was too much at stake. We needed to part ways as amicably as possible, and I believed that I could help her get there—to accept that our relationship had never been a healthy one outside of therapy. I wanted to talk about it and agree to a plan where we could both get the help we needed and move on.
“Melanie . . .” I took a few steps forward, but she screamed at me.
“Get out!” She grabbed hold of my arm, marched me to the door, opened it, and shoved me out onto the landing. “I never want to see you again!”
“Wait,” I said, whirling around to face her because I still wanted to talk this through. But she came barreling toward me until I fell back against the rail. Then she slapped me across the face.
It had been many years since I had been struck like that. I had forgotten the shock of it, how much it burned.