by Cecilia Lyra
And then the bill for Tatiana’s credit card arrived.
I remember that session with perfect clarity. Daniel sitting on the couch with his forehead resting on his hand, fuming. Tatiana on the other end, lips pursed, arms crossed. Daniel was telling her that they’d only be able to make the minimum payment. They couldn’t afford to cover the entire bill. Tatiana dismissed his concern. “I already told you. My parents will pay for it.” But Daniel was proud—he didn’t want to rely on his in-laws.
I asked Tatiana why she had lied about her shopping hiatus. It was the first time that I’d considered that maybe she had a real problem—an addiction, perhaps. And that’s when she broke the news: she was pregnant, two months along. “I had to buy things for the baby,” she said.
Daniel was over the moon. He forgot all about the credit card bill.
Six months later, Angie was born. Daniel and Tatiana skipped several sessions. I didn’t think anything of it—they had a toddler and a newborn. They were understandably busy, likely overwhelmed. When they did come, it became clear that they were slipping back into their old habits. Workaholic. Shopaholic. At this point, I suggested they try individual counseling as well. It had become clear to me that they both had compulsive personalities—an issue that went beyond their marriage.
Then everything changed.
One day, Daniel walked into my office without his wife. He looked shell-shocked, defeated. I could tell he’d been crying. For a moment, I imagined the worst—I usually did, after my mother. But then Daniel explained that Tatiana had left him. “She’s been having an affair with her Pilates instructor,” he said. “She says Angie is his. I should’ve known. She was born one month before her due date, but she didn’t look premature. And now she wants full custody of both my kids.” Daniel left before the session was over. If Tatiana wasn’t coming, he didn’t want to be there.
Three weeks later, they both came in for a session. By then, the DNA test had proved that Angie wasn’t Daniel’s biological daughter. Tatiana had ended things with the Pilates instructor. She no longer wanted a divorce. Except Daniel was still hurt, too hurt to take her back. He could forgive Tatiana for cheating, but not for threatening to take his kids from him. He was there to find a way to be civil with her. “You’ll always be the mother of my children,” he’d said. In his heart, Angie was his.
My heart went out to Tatiana. She’d made a mistake. An awful one. But she seemed to regret her actions. And I’d seen couples overcome infidelity before. I encouraged them to continue coming to therapy. I hoped they’d make things work. As it turned out, my optimism was unfounded. Weeks later, Daniel announced that he’d filed for divorce. He wanted them to be friends for the sake of the children.
I knew Tatiana wouldn’t take this well. Rejection was a huge trigger for her. But I couldn’t have predicted her reaction, not even if I’d been treating them for years. If I close my eyes, I can see it in front of me: Tatiana’s newly narrowed stare, the way her lips curled ever so slightly, the subtle lift of her eyebrows. It was an eerie, frightening thing to watch. She looked menacing. She spoke in a paused, deliberate way. “If you leave me, I’ll sue for full custody and you’ll never see Angie again. I’ll tell her—and the judge—that you’re not her real dad. Don’t test me, Daniel. You have no idea what I’m capable of.” He tried to reason with her, to explain that their marriage was over. But she wouldn’t budge. “You are not leaving me, do you hear me? You will not do this to me. I will not be humiliated by you.”
She looked like what she was: a woman both desperate and cunning. Tatiana is highly intelligent—but, sadly, also highly insecure. She saw the divorce as a defeat. And losing wasn’t an option. Not for her.
Frankly, I was relieved when they never came back for another session.
I didn’t think I’d see them again. Not until Daniel and I ran into each other, almost one year after that last session. I had no idea that the man who used to be nothing more than a patient of mine would turn out to be the love of my life.
But he did.
Now, as he caresses my hands, I’m reminded of all he stands to lose if we decide to be together. I don’t like the idea of hurting Tatiana (and not just because she’s more than a little scary), but the idea of hurting Angie is unthinkable. I might not have a relationship with her, but she’s Daniel’s child. That’s enough to make me love her.
“I’ll find a way to explain this to Angie,” Daniel says. “I’m her dad. I’ll always be her dad.” A pause, he lowers his voice, “I’m not the only one with something to lose. What about your career?”
It’s a fair question. Marriage counselors aren’t supposed to tear couples apart. I know that’s not what I’ve done, but people won’t see it that way. And perception is reality.
“I’ll quit the show.” It’s something I’ve been considering for a while, anyway. The spotlight isn’t for me. Private practice, writing books—these are the things I love. Being on East Coast Coffee has been great for my career, but I’m not an on-camera person.
“What about your patients?”
“Claudia will think of something.”
It’s why I have a publicist on retainer, after all. To manage my image, to make sure that my brand—I do not like this word—is protected. Years ago, I resisted the idea of hiring a publicist—I wasn’t a celebrity, after all. But after my book—What All Happily Married Couples Have in Common—became a bestseller, I received more interview requests than my agent could handle. Claudia won me over with her efficiency—she is petite and delicate but has the lungs of an opera singer and the bark of an army general. She’s surprisingly down-to-earth for someone who trades in image.
“This is the best news.” Daniel beams at me with bright, expectant eyes.
“Are you sure?” I say. “You don’t want to think about it?” I had anticipated that he would. For Angie’s sake.
“I’ve always been sure,” he says. “I’ve always known that it was you. I never left Tatiana because…” His voice trails off.
“Because of Angie.” I squeeze his arm.
He nods. “You were dead set against marriage. And I was afraid of losing my daughter.” A pause. “I still am. But we’ll find a way. If you’re in, I’m in.”
“I’m in.”
Ten
Julie
Saturday, June 30th
Janette eats like a teenager with the munchies. It’s refreshing.
“Do you think it’s true?” Janette slurps her milkshake. She whips her head around, trying to flag a server.
“I don’t know.”
The server comes by—a tall, squared-jawed boy with large ears and an endearing smile. Janette orders another strawberry shake. I envy her metabolism.
We’re at The Catch, a local spot unknown to most of the summer people. I picked it because both the food and the atmosphere are unpretentious—and inexpensive. If I had taken Janette to Paola’s or Le Bilboquet, she would’ve balked at the prices. I wouldn’t have blamed her.
“If it is, she’s a hypocrite.” Her tone is firm, self-assured. Janette is a stranger to insecurity.
“I don’t know about that.” I feel a spike of defensiveness. Janette means well. She’s protective of me. Loyal. But I don’t like it when anyone says anything negative about Cassie. We’re still sisters—even if we no longer have a relationship.
I reach over and grab a fry from Janette’s plate. She returns the gesture with a subtle lift of her eyebrows.
“Isn’t her entire job, you know, helping couples stay married?” Janette says. She pushes her plate forward.
“It’s probably not even true.” My words lack confidence. Sophie has been texting me nonstop about Cassie and her alleged relationship with a married man. She seems sure of herself. Sophie is seldom wrong.
I peer out at Erie Avenue. The cars parked outside are on the older side, weathered. All of them have Montauk license plates. Not a Porsche or a Ferrari in sight. We’re supposed to grab ice cream at The Fudg
e Company after this. It’ll be an entirely different scene on Main Street.
I take another fry. They taste so good: salty and greasy and gloriously unhealthy. Much better than the Caesar salad I’m having, dressing on the side. Why did I even order this? It’s like a part of my brain forgets that Patrick isn’t here.
The server brings Janette her milkshake. She thanks him with her winning smile—the least intimidating thing about her. Janette is a lawyer—a public defender. She is all confidence and strength and confrontation. Arguing with her is downright scary. But when she smiles, she becomes gentler, softer. We’ve been friends since college, bonding over the fact that we were both there on a scholarship.
“You could find out,” Janette says. And then, after I take yet another fry. “You could also order your own side of fries.”
“I can’t imagine Cassie doing something like that. She was always so…” I pause, searching for the right word.
“Uptight? Self-righteous? The bearer of a stick up her ass?”
As commander of the Captain of the Guards, Janette has sworn an oath to protect the Sky Princess from any foe—no matter how formidable. Commander Janette slays offenders with her words: her oratory powers can turn any enemy into Calacatta marble. The kingdom is now filled with beautiful statues of past adversaries.
“Responsible,” I say. “And for the record: all those words were used to describe you back in school.”
A sly smile from Janette. She is proud of her reputation. She should be.
“You’re right,” I begin. “Let’s get more fries.”
Janette beams.
“You didn’t tell me: are you going to do it?” she asks, after she flags the waiter and requests an extra-large side of French fries.
For a moment, I’m not sure I follow. But then I understand—she’s referring to Sophie’s ludicrous request. “Of course not.” I lower my voice. “I could never spy on Cassie.”
“You know, this might be in your best interest.” She pauses for a moment. “You could use it to jumpstart your career as a journalist.”
I stare at her for a moment. “You can’t be serious.”
“You keep saying you want to go back to work.”
“Start working.” An important distinction. I’ve held many jobs—babysitter, barista, bartender, all while attending school full-time—but I’ve never had a career.
For years, this didn’t bother me. In fact, it felt thrilling.
Growing up, all I wanted was for Sophie to be a stay-at-home mom like so many of the mothers at our school who occupied their days with facials and leisurely lunches. These women would eagerly await their children’s arrival from school. They were happy to fix them snacks and help out with homework. Sophie had very little time for me. The school bus would drop me off to an empty apartment—I had my own key and I knew I wasn’t supposed to go outside or turn on the stove or let anyone in. Sophie worked because she had to: we needed the money. The idea that someone would choose to spend eight hours a day under fluorescent lights was baffling to me. Having time to kill felt like the epitome of luxury.
But now that it’s my reality, I find that I am, quite frankly, bored. Other than cooking dinner every evening, I try to keep busy with my grooming rituals (daily massages, twice weekly blowouts, weekly manicures) and making sure that our apartment is up to Patrick’s standards (we have a cleaning lady, but she’s constantly moving things around). A career would give me purpose. It might lessen the yearning I have for a child.
“So why not take advantage of your celebrity sister?” Janette asks.
Celebrity sister. It’s an accurate characterization—Cassie is a celebrity. She isn’t movie-star famous or anything. Most people know her as Cassie the Couples’ Counselor since that’s her name on the show. But it’s odd to think of her as a famous person. Maybe because it isn’t something she ever aspired to be, at least not as a child.
It’s ironic, the turns that our lives have taken.
As a young girl, Cassie had two goals in life: to become a psychologist and to never get married. She held a fascination for issues of mental health—a dark hobby for a young teenager, but an understandable one, given her mom’s history. Cassie wanted to help people through talk therapy—not pills. As for marriage, she rejected it on principle, deeming it unnatural and toxic. It’s strange to think that she did stay true to her goals—she is a psychologist and she isn’t married—but she does make a living helping other couples achieve their happily ever after.
My goals were entirely different. I was determined to do what Sophie couldn’t: find a husband. An old-fashioned dream, I know. But I didn’t care. I wanted a ring on my finger. A certificate of marriage. A proper family. I didn’t spend any time daydreaming about having a job. My dreams were always about being a wife, a homemaker.
I don’t need to be a psychologist like Cassie to understand how our aspirations stem from the same place: our dad. Cassie and I have the same dad—but we shared him in two very different ways. Our home lives were entirely different. She had stability, the sense of permanence that comes from having married parents, even if she did often remark on the loveless nature of their union. I was kept a secret—Dad showed up sporadically, but at least he was with us by choice. Our shared experience molded Cassie and me in opposite ways. What she ran from, I ran towards.
“There are worse ways,” Janette says, interrupting my reverie. “You’re a good writer. Writing this article could give you your big break.”
“Sophie asked me to spy on Cassie. Not write an article about her.” Sophie isn’t a writer—she works in the magazine’s marketing and publicity department—but she’s hoping to bring this information to the editorial team. According to her, it would be a scoop. I obviously told her no.
Janette lets out a loud breath. “That’s how negotiations start. You tell her you’ll get the dirt on Cassie but only if you can write the article yourself. And if Posh isn’t interested, then you can sell it to Vogue or Harper’s Bazaar. Or even US Weekly or People. There’s no shortage of periodicals looking for gossip. Don’t you want your name on a byline?”
“Not like this.” It feels wrong. And it would destroy Cassie. “Besides, I’ve never wanted to be a journalist.” The only writing I’ve ever been interested in is fiction. Janette knows this.
“You hear about it all the time, authors who get book deals because of an article gone viral,” Janette says. “And don’t people have a right to know that America’s sweetheart marriage counselor is dating a married man? They buy her books, watch her show. Trust her advice. She’s a public figure. That makes her fair game.”
“She’s my sister.”
“You’d be doing her a favor.”
I frown. “How on earth—?”
“If this is true,” Janette continues, “it’s bound to get out, sooner or later. But if you break the news, you can make her look sympathetic. You can spin it in her favor.”
“The other woman always looks bad.”
“But you can make sure the damage is minimal,” Janette says. “Besides, why should you care what she thinks? This is someone who stopped speaking to you for no good reason.”
I shift on my seat. No good reason is wildly untrue—but I can’t fault Janette for her mischaracterization. She doesn’t know the truth about Katherine’s death. It’s my burden to bear.
“Also,” Janette continues, “and I can’t believe I’m saying this, because I’m not a fan of Patrick’s, but your mom is right. You being here could potentially jeopardize your marriage. Patrick gets jealous when you spend the day with me. I can’t imagine he’s OK with you spending the month away from him.”
“It’s his choice not to come.”
Janette frowns. “I thought you weren’t allowed overnight guests?”
“He could get a hotel. Or come for the day, like you.”
She gives me a pitying look. “You know he won’t do that.” What she doesn’t say reverberates loud and clear: Janette is
willing to come for the day when Patrick isn’t. Janette loves me more than Patrick does.
“I know.” A pause. “Sophie says he’ll leave me if I stay here.”
“You’re eating fries and you haven’t checked your phone since we got here.” Her tone drops a register. “I’d forgotten what it was like, having an uninterrupted meal with you.”
I feel my shoulders sagging. “He hasn’t been texting me. No calls, either.”
She nods quietly. “It says a lot that you’re still here. I know how committed you are to making your marriage work.”
“Right now, I’m not sure I care about my marriage.”
“I’m sorry, what?” Janette cranes her neck. “What am I missing here?”
I bite my lip. Janette doesn’t know about what happened at the benefit. I was too embarrassed to tell her after it happened. Besides, Janette already has too many reasons to dislike Patrick. But I’m keeping too many secrets as it is. I need to tell her—anyone, really—something.
“Remember the benefit I went to at the MFA?” I ask.
She nods. “I think so? Wasn’t it only a few days after your grandmother died?”
“That’s right.” Not to be dramatic, but I felt like death. I’d never lost anyone before. “Well, something happened.”
Janette leans in. It feels good, having her full attention.
My mind takes me back to that day, the day I found out Nana had died.
The first stage of grief is supposed to be denial. But I skipped it altogether.
After Mrs. Bunsen called me to tell me that Nana was gone, I broke down in tears. It felt like I was trying to purge a sickness living inside me. Tears streamed down my face. My chest felt constricted. I had trouble breathing. I worried that I was having a panic attack. That my heart was actually—physically—broken.
I called Patrick to ask him to come home early. He said he’d try, but he didn’t make it home until 7 p.m. By then, I’d been feeling so crummy that I took two Xanax. Months before, Sophie had given me a few pills when I confessed to struggling with insomnia. I hadn’t taken any because I associated them with Katherine. She used to be addicted to them. But that day I didn’t care. I didn’t even think about it, to be honest. When he walked through the door, I was fast asleep in the living room. I woke up with Patrick standing next to me.
