by Tawna Fenske
All is well. I will survive. Each experience helps me grow.
Oh. I remember. A mantra, one the marriage counselor taught me at the bitter end. I was frantic and desperate and certain my marriage was circling the drain.
It was, obviously. The therapist knew that, even if my dumb ass hadn’t figured it out. He taught me to breathe and say the words softly to myself.
All is well. I will survive. Each experience helps me grow.
I move to the stove, pushing the thoughts aside. There is absolutely no reason to go there. No reason to let my brain wander down paranoid paths.
Shoveling one omelet onto a plate, I sit down at the table. With a deep breath, I pick up my fork and begin to eat alone.
Chapter 11
CONFESSIONAL 722.5
Judson, Marilyn, PsyD (Psychologist: Juniper Ridge)
That moment when someone stops hiding. When they let down their guard and show their truest self to another person. It’s the most amazing thing to witness as a therapist, and I never get tired of it. Seeing someone open up and reveal all their secrets is such a gift, I—
Well. Yes. There are some secrets that need to be kept. Some you can’t talk about. Not ever.
“I’m so sorry, Gabrielle.” I clutch the sheet to my chest and pray no one sees me out here on my dark back deck wearing bed linens. “I’ve tried for weeks to reach you.”
“It’s Elle now, Dr. Judson.” My former patient sniffs on the other end of the line. “Elle Julia. My manager suggested the change for my career.”
“Right, yes, of course.” I suspect this isn’t the only life change her manager encouraged, but I bite my tongue. I’ve got bigger fish to fry. “Elle suits you. Congratulations on making a go of it in Hollywood. It must feel wonderful to achieve your dreams.”
“Yes, well. ‘Hustlers and Housewives’ is just a starting point. We’re filming the final episode of the season this week.”
“You must be very proud.” I’m doing my best to make small talk, and also to use open-ended statements so she can correct me as needed.
Gabrielle—er, Elle—doesn’t waste time doing that. “I’m capable of so much more. It was you who told me that, actually.”
I close my eyes, hoping like hell that wasn’t the advice she used to justify walking away from her husband and child. “Look, Elle—there’s something I need to talk with you about.”
Her voice brightens almost imperceptibly. “That’s right, your TV show. My manager said you’re still casting actors.”
“Community members,” I say automatically, not loving where this is going. “That’s actually not why I was trying to reach you. I’ve been—”
“What are the odds my ex-husband would end up on a hit show before me?” The cheer in her voice wears thin, revealing a steelier edge. “That’s irony for you.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to defend Griff, but I need to tread carefully. “They’re doing well here. Griffin and Soph? They’re settling in, making friends and all that.”
Elle falls silent. For a moment I think the call has been dropped. Then, “Sophia is all right?”
The pain in her voice takes me back to those early therapy sessions. She never mentioned a daughter, but her anguish over staying in her marriage was unmistakable.
“I just can’t do this anymore,” she sobbed, mopping her eyes with a tissue. “Be the happy little housewife when there’s so much more I could be doing.”
That seems like a lifetime ago. Back when I pictured her husband as an overbearing control-freak instead of the kind, sweet, generous—
“Sophia is flourishing,” I tell her, since that’s who she asked about. “Her grades are good and she’s making friends. She’s been learning to crochet.”
I don’t say I’m the one teaching her. This is awkward enough without awakening Elle’s inner mama bear. Besides, I feel protective of Soph. Guarded with what I share. If the two of them connect at some point, that’s up to them. For now, I keep my focus on the present.
“Good.” Elle lets out a long breath on the other end of the line. “Look, I know I’m a bitch for not telling you about my kid. And I know I’m a bigger bitch for leaving like I did.”
“You know I don’t like judgment words.” That’s what I say out loud, but inside my brain shrieks “bitch” at maximum decibels. “But that is a good segue into what I wanted to ask you.”
“About Fresh Start at Juniper Ridge you mean?”
I grip the sheet tighter and fight to keep the strain from my voice. “No. It’s about Griffin.” I say his name too loudly, and glance back at the house in case he heard. He’s not in the window anymore, and I cross my fingers he won’t come looking for me. I hope I’d hear the door, but every moment I’m out here runs a bigger risk of someone catching this conversation. “Look, I’ll just say it. I’ve gotten close with your ex-husband.”
There’s another long silence. “What, like you’re treating him as a patient? Isn’t that unethical or something?”
I force myself to take a few calming breaths. “I’m not seeing Griffin as a patient.” God, how much do I reveal? Our families don’t know we’re dating, so I hardly want his ex-wife to hear it first. “Community members at Juniper Ridge interact closely by nature of our physical proximity and the boundaries of the social experiment we’ve established here. The research I’m conducting.”
There, that sounded good. Professional and no-nonsense and—
“You’re sleeping with him.” Elle’s voice is flat and calculating. “Oh my God. Griffin’s banging my shrink?”
I close my eyes and pray for a re-do on this conversation. Maybe I wouldn’t have answered the call at all.
But then I’d be no closer to getting Elle’s permission to share our history, which means I still couldn’t give myself to this relationship with Griff. I owe it to all of us to clear the air.
“We have a close and personal relationship,” I say, expertly dodging specifics. “So what I need from you is permission to share our history.”
“You have a history with my ex-husband?”
“What? No.” God help me with my pronouns. “HIPAA prevents me from telling anyone you’re a former patient of mine. That means I’m not able to come clean with Griffin about the fact that we—you and I, that is—have a connection.”
“I see.” She’s quiet for another long stretch. “And you need me to sign something so you can tell him everything you and I discussed?”
“Absolutely not. Your conversations with me, those are sacred. I’ll take those to the grave. But divulging the fact that you and I have a history together—”
“Send the paperwork to my manager.”
I blink. “What?”
“Unless you want me to talk to him now?” She laughs, but it’s a bitter, calculating sound. “Thought I heard his voice a minute ago.”
I consider what she’s offering. Maybe it could be that simple.
But the thought of springing it on Griffin like that is too much. His ex-wife shouldn’t be the one to drop another big bombshell in his life. It needs to come from me, and besides—I won’t feel safe until I see signed documents.
“I really need you to sign a consent form,” I say carefully. “It’s how we make sure everything’s legal and ethical.”
There’s a long pause. Then, “Sure. I’ll look it over.”
“Really?” All the breath leaves my lungs. “That’s great. Really, it’s—”
“Send it to my manager,” she says again. She rattles off an email address and I fumble to jot it in my phone while not losing my grip on the sheet.
When I replace the phone to my ear, she’s shouting what sounds like a dinner order to someone far away. “Look, I have to go,” she says when she’s back on the line. “Filming resumes in five. I’ll tell Barney to watch for your message. And Mari?”
The fact that she’s using my first name instead of “Dr.” catches me off-guard. “Yes?”
“If there are any cast
ing opportunities on your show,” she says slowly, “you can pass those along to my manager, too.”
She clicks off before I can reply, which is just as well. I’m pretty sure my jaw just dropped to the deck. With a shiver, I hike the sheet around my breasts and turn back toward the house. What is Griffin thinking? He must still be inside, and how am I going to explain this? Why I urgently had to take a phone call outside while mostly naked and still glowing from our second sex session.
“Mari?”
I whirl and my heart kicks up seeing Lauren and Lana strolling across the lawn. There’s a shortcut that runs from the bunker to Lana’s cabin, and apparently they’re on it.
“Hey there.” I grip the sheet tighter and force a smile. “Everything all wrapped up with the event?”
A slow, measured smile spreads over Lauren’s face as she ambles toward me with Lana on her heels. “I knew it!” She turns and looks at our baby sister. “Didn’t I tell you she slipped out to bang the hottie brewer?”
I start to close my eyes but stop when I see the furrow in Lana’s brow. “If she’s hooking up with Griffin,” Lana says slowly, “things must not be going well if she’s out here alone in a bed sheet.”
The public relations wheels are turning in her head, and I hurry to dispel her worst-case fears. “I’m fine,” I assure them. “Everything’s okay. I just—needed to take a phone call.”
Lauren looks down at the phone in my hand. “Did you at least get a few good orgasms before you yanked the sheet off loverboy and left him cold and naked in your bed?”
Cringing at the mental picture, I fumble for the best way to end this conversation. “Can we please not make a big deal of this? I’m not ready to talk about things publicly right now.”
Lana’s smile is tinged with relief. “We’re not public; we’re your sisters. And we know how to keep our traps shut.” She glances at Lauren and elbows her.
“What?” Lauren rolls her eyes. “Of course I’m not going to say anything. Who you bang is your business.” She folds her arms over her chest. “Even on the set of a television show dedicated to documenting people’s messy personal lives.”
It’s not a threat. Quite the opposite, though anyone who didn’t know Lauren wouldn’t hear that. She’s letting me know they’ll do their part to keep this piece of Griffin’s storyline out of the limelight. A wave of gratitude washes through me and I give her a tight nod.
“Thank you for not saying anything.” I look from one sister to the other, confirming my understanding. “And for walking away quietly and pretending you never saw this.”
Lana studies me with undisguised curiosity. “Why do I think there’s one helluva story here?”
“You have no idea.” I clench my sheet tighter, then sweep it behind me like the train of a ball gown. “I need to get back inside.”
The catcall behind me comes from Lauren, though I’m pretty sure it’s Lana humming oooh-la-la as I stumble barefoot across the deck.
As I near the door, I struggle to get my thoughts in order. How much did he hear before I made it outside? Did I say anything to clue him in about who was on the phone? I don’t think so, but I can’t be sure.
The reality is this: He could ask me point-blank why I spoke with his ex-wife, and I could neither confirm nor deny that I did. That’s how the law works. It’s there to protect patients, and I’m ethically bound to do it.
But right now, I kinda hate it.
I push through the door to find Griffin seated shirtless at my kitchen table. He smiles as I walk in and sets his fork down on an empty plate. “I kept your omelet warm for you,” he says. “Sorry, I got hungry.”
“It’s me who’s sorry.” I glance at the stove and see the perfect ham and cheese omelet capped with the glass lid of my skillet. “Thank you.”
For the food. For the sex. For understanding my need to go flying out the door moments after the most intimate experience of my life.
When I glance back at Griffin, he’s got a curious expression. “Everything okay?”
“Yes, sorry. Just something I needed to deal with quickly.”
He quirks an eyebrow. “I can leave anytime you need privacy. You don’t need to flee your own house half-naked.”
I glance down and hike the sheet higher. “I had to make a snap decision and the call was pretty urgent.” I’m feeling naked and exposed, and only part of that has to do with what I’m wearing. “Do you mind if I put on some clothes?”
“Be my guest,” he says. “Actually, could you grab my T-shirt while you’re in there?”
“Of course.” And now I’m remembering our plan to tumble back in bed with our food, fueling ourselves for round three. “I’m so sorry about…this.”
“Don’t be.” He grins and gets up from the table. “I know the kind of work you do comes with privacy restrictions.”
I look into his eyes. Does he really? Would he understand if I told him right now how tightly my hands are tied?
But of course, I can’t say that. I can’t say any of it, and I can’t reach out and touch his face the way I’m dying to. I know where that might lead, and right now, I can’t afford to get any closer to Griffin Walsh.
So I turn and walk down the hall, feeling his eyes on my naked back.
Avoiding a guy after having sex with him and dropping the L-word is a terrible idea.
I’ve explained that to more than one client over the years, and the fact that I find myself doing it now is not a point of pride. In my defense, I end up leaving town for two days to attend a Human Resources seminar in Portland. I text Griffin a few times, doing my best to keep it light.
Miss you!
I miss you, too!
See you when you get back?
Of course. Looking forward to it.
What I’m not looking forward to is feeling like a jerk for hiding such a massive piece of information from the man I love with whom I’ve exchanged bodily fluids. I can be open about my feelings, but not the fact that I played a pivotal role in his divorce?
That doesn’t sound right, but it’s my reality as I send yet another email to Elle’s manager.
“Per my last message, I’m circling back in case I’ve slipped through the cracks…”
That’s code for “what the fuck is taking so long, just sign the goddamn consent form already.” But I can’t say that, so I wait on pins and needles and hope Griffin doesn’t notice the space between us is more than physical.
In my defense, Griff’s not the only one I’m avoiding. Twice, my sisters invite me to lunch. Twice, I decline, citing busy work and travel schedules. While not untrue, there’s another reason for dodging them.
I’m not ready to let them know things got serious with Griff. They suspect I slept with him, sure. But love? No way.
Right now, it feels like my own private treasure, something to guard and protect and cup secretly in my hands. If I show it to anyone, they’ll see what it means to me. How scared and naked I really am, and I’m just not ready for that.
I’m puttering around my kitchen an hour after I get back from Portland when there’s a knock at my door. I answer it praying simultaneously that it’s Griffin and that it’s literally anyone but Griffin. The tax collector or the grim reaper or—
“Soph.” I smile down at the girl in front of me. “What a nice surprise.”
“I wanted to see Leonard.” She drags her ponytail across her face and twists the end of it. “Is now an okay time?”
“Come in.” I swing the door open, then glance at the mess on my kitchen counter. “I’m trying to make banana nut muffins. It’s not going very well.”
Soph wrinkles her nose. “What’s burning?”
“That’s what I meant about it not going well.” I gesture to the garbage can, which contains the charred remains of a dozen muffins. “I forgot to set a timer and got distracted.”
“Bollocks.” Soph laughs and peers into my batter bowl. “It looks kinda runny for muffins. Want help?”
�
��I would love that more than just about anything.”
Annoyed at being ignored for five minutes, Leonard squawks from his perch in the living room. “Look at me, Mari!”
Soph walks over to him, and I hold my breath hoping she doesn’t ask about the phrase. It sounds like a plea for attention and not her father’s words as he urged me to keep my eyes open in bed.
“Are you being a needy boy?” Soph coos at my bird. “Joel says it’s important to do things on your own when you can and ask for help when you get stuck.”
I wasn’t going to ask about Soph’s first therapy session, but since she brought it up. “That’s right, you had your first appointment with Dr. Adams. Did things go okay?”
“Yeah, he’s pretty cool. And he told me to call him Joel, so I am.” She plucks a peanut out of Leonard’s bowl and hands it to him, giggling when he snatches it with his gnarled claw. “It’s kinda weird, talking about my feelings and stuff.”
“It’s a big adjustment at first.” Or forever, for some people. “But it’s healthy to talk things through. Get an outside perspective on your problems.”
“Mmmhmm.” Soph picks up another peanut but seems to hesitate. She hands it to Leonard, then wipes her hands on her jeans as she turns to face me. “My mom had a counselor once. Before she left, I mean.”
I hold my breath. She couldn’t know, right? There’s no way she found out it was me. “A lot of people have counselors,” I say slowly. “It’s a totally normal, natural thing.”
“I guess.” Her gaze skitters away. “Do psychologists tell people to get divorced?”
My heart thuds in my ears as I formulate an answer. “It’s not a therapist’s job to tell patients what they should or shouldn’t do,” I say carefully. “It’s our job to help them talk through what’s bothering them. To listen and offer guidance as they reach their own decisions.”
“Yeah, okay. That makes sense.” She scuffs her toe across the hardwood floor. “But what if someone’s, like, thinking about leaving her daughter. And what if the counselor says, ‘yeah, that’s a good idea.’ Do you think—”
