Sever (Closer Book 2)

by Mary Elizabeth

  I take her in my arms and hold her tight. “I’m sorry, Smella. I should have gone to the appointment.”

  She shakes her head, holding me back just as forcefully. “Don’t you understand how afraid I am? I don’t have control over the things happening to my body, or when this baby will come, but I can control the environment he’s born into. We can control how we improve our marriage.”

  I kiss the top of her head. “Okay. Make another appointment. I’ll be there.”

  “Sorry to interrupt, but we’re going to catch a movie,” Emerson says. He lingers at the end of the short hallway. “Will you guys lock up when you leave?”

  “Will do,” Ella calls out. “Sorry, Em.”

  “We’ve got to stop coming here every time we argue,” I say ironically. “This shit isn’t right.”

  “On a scale from one to Chris Brown, how pissed are you?”

  Grabbing a random magazine from the rack, I say, “Ella, I’m past Chris Brown. This is Ike Turner anger.”

  The couple sitting across from us snorts and blinks rapidly, offended by our conversation. We shouldn’t joke about physically abusive men in a therapist’s office, but we’re here for a reason. I don’t want to stop being honest now. There’s a G-Wagen in the parking lot that can vouch for my wrath.

  “Are they judging us?” Ella whispers in my ear. She pins her eyes on the men who are now acting like we don’t exist. They hold hands and scoot closer in their seats, like they’re not here for the same exact reasons we are.

  “Let’s keep our jokes politically correct in public,” I suggest.

  Ella dropped the idea about marriage counseling for the first time about three months ago. I brushed it off for weeks, assuming it was another ploy to straighten me up, but she kept asking. Then she made appointments. She rescheduled the first few dates when I said I needed to work late or I wasn’t feeling well. When she refused to reschedule again, I didn’t show up.

  What can this lady tell me that I don’t already know? Anyone can get a psychology license online these days. I’m skeptical.

  Ella says this will make her happy, and since not a lot can do that these days, I’ll give it a try for her sake. But I’ll bitch about it every step of the way, because I’m not going down like this either.

  “I’ve heard good things about this lady,” Ella says.

  “What goes on between us is none of this person’s fucking business.” I flip through The Wall Street Journal, not reading a single word. I rip a few pages. “She doesn’t know a thing about our lives.”

  “Stop making this a bigger deal than it needs to be, Tell. We’ll talk to her, and if it doesn’t work out, we won’t come back.”

  “Where did this even come from? Why do we need counseling?” I trade The Wall Street Journal for WebMD magazine, because surely, that belongs in the office of a medical professional. Parents bring their kids into the ER every single day, convinced their son or daughter has cancer because the internet said so. I really don’t trust this so-called therapist now. This practice is irresponsible. “She won’t tell us something we don’t already know.”

  “Quit being so damn arrogant.” Ella dares the duo across the room to roll their eyes at us again. They’re smart and know not to poke the pregnant lady. “If we had the answers, we wouldn’t be here.”

  “I’m only here because you didn’t give me another choice.”

  “Oh, I gave you a choice,” she says. Ella sits as straight as the roundness of her stomach will allow. “You chose wisely.”

  Scanning an article about nine easy exercises to cure back pain, I say, “I chose my family. I will always choose my family, so if this is what you want, so be it. But I don’t have to be gracious about it.”

  All nine back-relieving exercises are bullshit.

  “Don’t be gracious, but don’t make me feel like I’m wrong.” She snatches the magazine from my fingers and tosses it onto the seat beside her. “I’m trying to save our child’s life.”

  “Knock it off,” I say, running my hands through my hair. How long have we been waiting? A million years?

  We’re not the type to keep up with appearances, but when the receptionist behind the front desk starts to scope us out with one hand on the phone to call security, we zip it up and act like there’s nowhere else we’d rather be.

  I don’t want to be here. I had to take a day off work for this bullshit. Now I’m trapped in this beige hell, when I could be putting together the crib or spending time with Phish instead. The sorry fish doesn’t know what’s coming with the birth of his human brother. It’s going to be an adjustment for the entire family, but especially him.

  “The art on the walls is hideous. We should leave,” I whisper. She ignores me, scrolling through her cell phone. I should break that motherfucking phone.

  A week has passed since the last time I coerced her back from Emerson and Nic’s, and I thought we were doing okay. I know we have our issues, but we’re a good kind of crazy in love. I still don’t understand why this is such a big deal for her. She quit having sex with me. It’s been two weeks. That’s the real reason I’m here.

  I’m in a pussy drought.

  I’ve tried everything from shower sex, to sideways sex, to upside-down sex. Nothing works. I’m dying. I’m desperate. My wife is beautiful, and I want her every day, in every way.

  “I’m too tired,” she lied. “I’m too fat. I’m too hot. It’s not happening until you show some effort.”

  “Gabriella Reddy,” the receptionist calls. Her hand is still on the phone.

  “That’s me,” Ella offers. She lifts herself out of the chair, stomach first.

  “Annie is ready to see you.” The receptionist fidgets, and I keep staring. “You can head to her office right through that door.”

  “We don’t belong here,” I mumble to the receptionist in passing.

  “That’s what they all say, mister,” she replies.

  A slight woman sits behind an oak desk, nearly hidden by stacks of files and other useless shit. Perched on the end of her narrow nose is a pair of glasses, magnifying her light brown eyes. Her blonde hair is thin, reaching all over with static electricity.

  “You must be Mr. and Mrs. Reddy. I’m Annie Streety.” She comes around her desk, all of five feet tall and ninety pounds. “Feel free to call me by my first name. Keeping the environment as casual as possible helps the process. I’d like you to feel like we’re friends.”

  Is that why she’s wearing purple Crocs, because this is casual?

  Beige from the waiting room bleeds into the office, coating the walls, the furniture, book covers, and Annie’s knee-length skirt. The different shades of brown make me feel like I’m trapped in an eighties sitcom, missing only on-demand laughter.

  “It’s nice to meet you.” Ella shakes her hand with our counselor or therapist, or whatever the fuck she is.

  What I want to say is, “No, it’s not.” But I’m not an animal.

  Annie claps her hands on her thighs and asks, “Should we get started?”

  I lean back in my old, neutral-colored chair with my knees wide open and an extra nicotine patch on my arm. “Let’s jump right in. I’ll start.”

  Ella scoffs and rolls her eyes, murmuring, “This should be good.”

  “Great, Teller. It’s a good sign you’re showing initiative,” Annie says, taking a seat. She pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose, but they slide right back down. “This shows me you want to get to the bottom of your issues as much as I do.”

  “I’m not sure how much you know about us, but I’m a doctor. My wife is a nurse, so we know a thing or two about a thing or two,” I start. “Do you know what I mean?”

  Annie folds her hands on the desk, expressionless and listening. My intentions weren’t to come in here and throw around labels, but I also didn’t come in here to learn something I don’t already know.

  She waits until I’m done speaking before looking to Ella in case she has anything to add. Annie
inhales through her nose and says, “With all due respect, Teller, I’m aware of your and your wife’s profession. I’m also aware that you hope to open a private practice in family medicine after you pass your exams next year. Our fields of medicine are not too different, but they are, in fact, different. I won’t tell you how to set a broken arm, because I don’t know how. In exchange, don’t assume you know what I do here. It would be unfortunate if you missed an important lesson because you think you’re unable to learn anything from me.”

  “She won’t have sex with me,” I blurt out.

  “You’re such an unbelievable dick,” Ella groans. She rests her forehead in the palm of her hand.

  I hold my hands up. “Hey, you want me to be honest. That’s honest, isn’t it?”

  “Do you want honesty? You’re an arrogant prick who thinks he has it all figured out. But you don’t, Teller, because you won’t shut up for more than five minutes to consider that I have your best interests at heart. What we’ve done for the last eight years is not working. It’s somehow gotten us this far, but unless we make major changes, we’re skating on borrowed time. Act like you give a shit about me and listen to the lady.”

  “I care,” I say.

  “Then prove it.” She turns back into her seat.

  “Fine,” I snap.

  “Fine.”

  Directing my attention back to Annie, I cough to distract her from the ass kicking I was just handed. She’s unfazed, seamlessly moving on like she’s witnessed arguments like ours hundreds of times. The sound of lead scratching on her notepad is cause for alarm.

  “What are you writing down?” I ask.

  “Just notes.” Annie looks up long enough to make eye contact and returns to her records.

  “What kind of notes?”

  “I write down information I find important to the overall health of your marriage. They’re confidential, but you should already know that.” She winks, and I’m stunned. Annie is badass; the Crocs are a ruse. “Based on the questionnaire you filled out, Ella, you’re newlyweds, but you’ve been in a long-term relationship for quite a while.”

  “In some way or another,” Ella says. She doesn’t give anything more.

  “How do you feel about the pregnancy so early in the marriage?”

  “Technically, we were pregnant before we decided to get married,” Ella answers. “I don’t particularly like being pregnant, but we’re prepared. It hasn’t affected our relationship in a negative way. The pregnancy hasn’t affected our marriage in any way. We’ve struggled with our issues for years. They’re nothing new.”

  Annie skims the questionnaire Ella filled out when we arrived before our appointment, questions about our family, relationship, and any concerns we want to bring to the table during our one-hour session. I didn’t have anything to contribute, but from what I can see, Ella let the floodgates open.

  “That’s not the impression I got from your survey, Ella.” Annie drops her pencil to look at my wife over the frame of her glasses.

  Ella crosses and uncrosses her legs. “My fears about the baby have absolutely nothing to do with Teller. He’s going to be a great father. I just want him to be a great husband, and in return, I want to be the wife he deserves. We’ve survived on a hope and a prayer to this point.”

  “Do you think you’d be married right now if it were not for the pregnancy?” Annie asks.

  “Maybe not,” Ella answers softly.

  “Teller?”

  “I don’t fucking know.” I pat my pockets for my pack of gum. “We would have been married eventually, but I don’t know if it would have happened so soon if it were not for our son.”

  Ella says, “For years, the people closest to us suggested we seek outside help for our … shortcomings. I chose a marriage counselor because we’re married, but it’s only semantics. I was never going to end up with anyone but Teller, baby or not.”

  “Teller, do you want to talk about the events that led up to your breakup earlier this year?”

  “Nope.” I clench my jaw tight.

  “Why not?” She’s surprised I don’t want to talk to her about the worst fucking experience of my life.

  “I don’t want to go there,” I say, tapping my foot on the brown carpet. “It’s in the past. We’re moving forward.”

  Ella exhales exhaustedly. “I don’t mean any disrespect, Annie, but he doesn’t like to talk about it. He’s not ready, so lay off.”

  “Can we talk about your parents?” Annie asks, going further down the questionnaire. “Your mother left when you were a child, and your dad died about ten years after that. Your brother took over the parental role after that.”

  “No, this isn’t family therapy. I’m here for Teller, and that’s all,” Ella answers dismissively.

  Annie nods her head. With her elbows on her desk, she places her chin on her fists. “Let’s go back to when you two first met. What kind of mental state of mind do you think you were in?”

  My wife and I share a look, and I wonder if she still thinks this was such a great idea. The mention of Ella’s mother and father weighs heavily on her shoulders, so I speak so she doesn’t have to.

  “We had an instant connection,” I admit. My heart hammers inside of my chest. “Our childhoods were economically different, but we both suffered from neglect. I knew I’d found my person the moment I laid eyes on her.”

  “So, is it safe to say that you depend on Ella?”

  “How do you get that out of what I just told you?” I feel like we’re going in circles, and I can’t figure out what the fuck this lady wants from us.

  “What’s your recollection about the day you met, Teller?” Annie asks. The tips of her fingers are gray with lead. “Do you remember what kind of emotional state you were in?”

  Unease shrugs her shoulders. “My dad had just died, and my brother was taking care of me. I suggested a new start, and my brother agreed. We moved to L.A., and I started college. Teller and I had an instant connection, just like he said.”

  “You were still grieving for your dad?”

  “I guess so.”

  “How did your friendship evolve?”

  “Fast. Our relationship was easy at first, but it changed,” Ella admits.

  “How?” Annie ponders.

  “She never said it was without effort,” I say.

  “Care to explain?” she asks.

  “Have you ever felt a love so fucking stifling it’s hard to breathe?” She doesn’t need to reply for me to know she hasn’t experienced anything close to what Ella and I have together. “Go ahead and judge us. Call us crazy. Tell us we’re better apart. Everyone does. No one understands our bond. That’s the fucking problem. No one knows what this feels like, and they don’t care to ask. Instead of focusing on the good Ella and I have accomplished together, it’s the bad everyone remembers.”

  “From the little information you’ve given me during our session so far, and from what I’ve learned from your questionnaire, I think it is safe to say you share a co-dependent relationship.” Annie exhales a deep breath, as if she has it all figured out. “You met at a crossroads in your lives. Ella, your father passed before you had the chance to comprehend the loss of your mother. And, Teller, you still didn’t know where you belonged, and you rebelled against the structure you were forced to conform to until that point. If met under different circumstances, we might not be here today. But the fact is, you were an accident waiting to happen.”

  “That’s utter bullshit,” Ella replies. She laughs out loud. “You are making this about a past Teller had no part of.”

  “There are a lot of things neither one of you has come to terms with. It may not seem like it right now, but I promise, if we can get to the bottom of these underlying issues, everything else will eventually fall into place.”

  I take Ella’s hand.

  Annie continues, “I am not your enemy. Give this process a chance. Let me give you the tools to move past the things holding you back. It will change
your lives.”

  Now

  “Harder, Teller. Harder. Push harder!”

  “If I push any fucking harder, it’s going to come out the other side.”

  “Do I need to do it myself?” I ask, blowing a piece of hair out of my eyes. “Use your muscles. Put your weight into it. Push harder, Tell.”

  He’s so helpless sometimes.

  Teller grunts, gives up, groans, and gives up. His cheeks are red, and he’s clenching his jaw. “It doesn’t fucking fit. I’m not doing this anymore.”

  “You’re acting like you’ve never done this before. Move it around. Try different positions.”

  He wipes sweat from his forehead, exhaling a heavy breath from between his lips. No matter where we are or what we’re doing, he has an arm full of nicotine patches. They don’t work. Teller’s down to a half a pack a week, but he loses his patience like it’s the first day he decided to quit.

  I’d almost prefer him to keep the habit, if it weren’t for cancer, emphysema, and cardiovascular disease.

  “What you’re asking me to do is impossible. I’m done.”

  “It’s not rocket science, prick.” Maneuvering it around, I fit it in without much effort. “I’m eight months pregnant and did it. You must feel like a fool.”

  “I loosened it up for you,” he grumbles, glowing with embarrassment.

  I stare at him in amazement, blink, blink, blinking. “That doesn’t make any sense. It’s not a pickle jar. It’s not a jar of spaghetti sauce, Tell. It’s—”

  From behind us, someone clears their throat. Teller and I look back simultaneously, and it dawns on me that we’re not the only people on this airplane. Annie, our marriage counselor, has said once or twice during our sessions that we’re a little narcissistic. No doubt one of our fellow passengers recorded the entire exchange, and by the time we land in San Francisco, we’ll be an internet sensation.