Melissa, my therapist, scribbles something onto her notepad. Probably something along the lines of Callie is pathetic and weak.
“Did you really not know what to say to Paul? Your mind was completely blank when he said that to you this morning?”
I lift my eyes to meet hers. “No, it wasn’t blank.”
She leans forward. “What were you thinking?”
“That it’s not fair for me to stay home.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to work.”
“Why do you want to work?”
“Because I want to do something with my life instead of sitting home every day.”
“So,” she says, leaning back against her leather chair and crossing her legs. “You did know what to say to Paul.”
I nod.
“You just didn’t want to say it.”
I nod again.
“Why not?”
“Because I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.”
“And what about your feelings, Callie? When do your feelings get validated?”
I hike my shoulders and let them fall.
They don’t.
“Let’s do an exercise. Pretend I’m Paul. Tell me everything you’d want to say to him if you knew he wouldn’t feel hurt by it. If you knew he’d hear you and accept what you say.”
“Okay.” I inhale in a long, slow breath while I compose my thoughts.
“I’ll start,” she says. “Aren’t I enough for you, Callie?”
“No, Paul. You are not enough. It takes more than another person to make me feel complete, more than a husband to feel fulfilled. I want to have something that is my own. I want to do something that I’m good at. I want to create. I want to feel inspired. I want to be my own person while you are out being your own person, and then I want to come home to you at the end of every day and share in our separate endeavors.”
Melissa’s eyes narrow. “Keep going. What else?”
Hot tears sting my eyes, my hands shaking. “I want to adopt a baby. We’ve tried getting pregnant, and it didn’t work, and I understand why we can’t keep going down that road. I’ve accepted it. But I don’t want to give up. Not when there’s another option. We can adopt a beautiful baby, and we can have the family we’ve been trying to create.”
“Good,” Melissa says, jotting notes as I talk.
Salty droplets roll down my cheeks, but I don’t wipe them away. I let them stay there, serving as proof that I do have feelings, and they do matter. This is the only place I allow them to surface.
“I want to be able to tell you how I feel without you getting angry, without you turning the attention back on you. I want you to listen to me and actually understand me. I want to feel valued. I want to feel useful. I’m sick of feeling guilty for the things I feel. I’m sick of lying to my friends about our marriage. I’m sick of feeling empty inside. And most of all, I’m sick of pretending everything’s okay. It’s not okay, Paul. I am not okay!”
I bury my face in my hands as the sobs take over my body.
“Good, Callie.” Melissa rises from her chair and places the tissue box in my lap. “This is good.”
What Melissa doesn’t understand is that my words, my feelings, my tears mean nothing once I leave this room. In here, we can pretend like Paul will hear me. We can practice articulating what I should say. But the problem isn’t that I don’t have the words to say to Paul.
It’s that my words aren’t worth saying.
They’re not worth the fight that will come after they leave my mouth. The hostility they will incite.
That’s why I choose not to say them.
“How have your panic attacks been since our last session?”
I dab my eyes with a tissue and exhale. “I’ve felt them coming on, but I practice the breathing techniques you taught me. I also made a list of things I’m grateful for, like you told me to do, and that helps.”
“I’m glad to hear those exercises have been helping. I have something else that might help.” Melissa holds up a pale pink notebook with the word Journal in gold foil script letters on the cover. “I give this exercise to all of my clients who have trouble expressing themselves verbally. Each day, I want you to write something in here. Doesn’t have to be long, whatever you have time for. But writing your thoughts can help reduce stress and anxiety. It helps to get it all out in a safe space. Like you do here.”
I lean forward and take the journal from her, running my fingers over the matte cover. “Thank you.”
When my session is over, I fix my smudged make-up in my car before heading home.
It’s dark downstairs when I step into the foyer. Paul’s probably upstairs in his office, so I make my way to the stairs. I always leave therapy feeling spent, and I look forward to soaking in a hot bath.
“Where are you going?”
My shoulders tense when I spot Paul in the dining room, drinking at the table with the lights off.
“Oh, I thought you were upstairs. I was going to take a bath.”
“Come have a drink with me.” Paul tilts the crystal decanter, refilling his glass with the amber liquid.
My nose scrunches. “You know I don’t drink scotch.”
“Sit with me while I drink.”
His tone is sharp and demanding. The Paul I know is being replaced with the person who comes out when liquor is added, which seems to be occurring a lot lately.
I offer him a tentative smile. “Or you can come upstairs with me, and we can both enjoy a relaxing bath. Make love with the jets on like we used to.”
My attempt at sounding sexy falls flat. He’s too far gone at this point.
Paul stares into his glass, watching the ice swirl around as he flicks his wrist in circles. “Do you even want to fuck me?”
My eyebrows hit my hairline. “Is that a serious question?” I set my purse and the journal down, moving slow as I venture toward him, leery of getting too close. “Of course I want to.”
He huffs out a humorless laugh. “Why would you want to fuck me if I can’t get you pregnant?”
My body stills, realization setting in.
Maverick’s ears pin back, and his tail suctions underneath his body as he slinks out of the room.
“Paul, I thought we discussed—”
“I bet you want to fuck him, though.” His eyes lift, glaring at me from under his furrowed brows. “Bet he could get you pregnant.”
“Who? Paul, what are you saying?”
He downs the contents in his glass and slams it down on the table, pushing to his feet. “You know who. I saw the way he was looking at you last night.”
Cole?
My face twists. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about. I want you and only you, Paul. Please, let’s go upstairs and relax.”
He stalks toward me, and fear constricts my breaths as I brace myself for what’s to come.
He slides the back of his hand along my cheekbone, though his touch is anything but loving. “Say it again.”
“Say what?” My voice comes out like a meek whisper.
“That you want me and only me.” He leans in, the smell of alcohol thick on his breath, his words laced with possession. “Tell me you’re mine.”