The Breakup Doctor

by Phoebe Fox

  I found some antibiotic ointment in my purse, along with a receipt from the tattoo parlor—apparently I paid $250—and applied it over the thing, then carefully placed the bandage back over the evidence and taped it into place. Back in the guest room, I shoved the Fishy Bob’s shirt into a corner of Sasha’s closet and pulled one of my own T-shirts over my head. And not a second too soon—I could hear Sasha’s phone alarm chiming in the next room.

  I stepped to her doorway and looked in—she was still sound asleep despite the incessant alarm. For the first time I actually hoped Sasha had gone home with her date last night. If she’d gotten in after I did, she wouldn’t ask any questions about my evening.

  Watching her curled up, looking innocent and young with no makeup and her mouth slightly open, I remembered the day she wanted us to be blood sisters when we were in sixth grade—one of the many days she rode home on the bus with me after school. There were a lot of afternoons when she did that, that year her dad started to come home less and less often, he and her mom arguing all the time when he did.

  Sasha had whipped out a safety pin the size of an ice pick and said, “You and me. Sisters. I want it to be real. Family.” We wound up spilling rubbing alcohol all over my bedroom and almost being caught by my mom, and in the end I’d chickened out.

  I blinked, trying to clear my vision that had suddenly blurred around the edges.

  Longing stabbed me for the innocence and ease of those days when we’d been kids together, our biggest concern whether the alcohol would bleach the carpet, and how much trouble we would be in if it did.

  I tiptoed over to the other side of the bed and crawled in under the covers, lying on my non-freshly-tattooed shoulder with my head on the pillow facing Sasha, the way we’d fallen asleep together in my bed on all the nights she’d stayed over at my family’s house instead of her own.

  Her eyes flickered and then blinked open, and a sleepy smile bloomed over her face when she saw me. “Are we thirteen again?” she asked.

  I smiled back at her echo of my thoughts. “Yes. There’s been a time warp and it’s 1992.”

  “This time don’t let me get a perm.”

  We lay there in silence for a few minutes, listening to a persistent mourning dove making its cooing hoot. I wished with an aching in my throat that it was 1992. That we could go back to when we didn’t know how much everything in the world could hurt us. When we didn’t know we weren’t the fearless heroes we thought we were.

  “Remember the day you wanted us to be blood sisters?” I whispered.

  “The alcohol all over the carpet.”

  “And my mom thinking we were drinking.” We giggled together for a moment.

  “We should have done it,” I said quietly. “Become sisters.”

  Sasha reached over and twined her fingers through mine. “We did.”

  I wanted to tell her what I had done last night—what I had done over the last few days. I wanted her to laugh about it, to make me laugh about it, to lessen the sting of it with the soothing balm of normalcy. Oh, God, who hasn’t done that, Brookie?

  But I knew the answer. I hadn’t. I wasn’t the one who jumped off the deep end after a relationship ended. I was supposed to be more mature than that. More evolved. I was the Breakup Doctor, for God’s sake.

  But here I was, hungover and freshly tattooed, and too ashamed to tell the best friend I’d ever had anything about it.

  I squeezed her fingers and we dropped back into silence, listening to the dove’s sad little call.

  All I wanted to do was find out how to get a tattoo removed, and start the process immediately. But I had a Breakup Doctor appointment first thing that morning, and somehow I had to figure out how to advise someone else on their own broken relationship when I was proving to be such a complete failure at handling my own.

  A man I assumed was my client sat alone at a table by the edge of the outside dock when I walked into Ship to Shore down on Hurricane Bay, and he stood when he saw me. I guessed him to be in his mid-fifties, about five-eleven, with sandy hair graying attractively at the temples. He wore cream linen slacks, a silky baby blue short-sleeved button-down, and an ascot in a fresh cool lime green. I’d pulled myself together as best I could after a much-needed shower that didn’t do anything to wash my self-loathing away, wearing tailored pants and a blouse, with a three-quarter-sleeve cardigan, despite the day’s warmth, to help hide my badge of shame.

  “Duncan O’Neill?” I asked, extending a hand.

  “In the flesh.”

  “Brook Ogden.”

  “Yes. The Breakup Doctor.”

  I cringed at the title as we settled back down at the table and gave the waiter our orders. When the server left, Duncan leaned back in his chair and tented his fingers.

  “I’m about to tell you all about my relationship woes, which are between me and my husband, Wagner, and I’m desperately hoping you’re the sort who’s as open-minded as you seem from your column.” He’d put emphasis on the word husband, watching me closely as he said it.

  I nodded. “Love can be complicated no matter who you’re with. Ready when you are.”

  His expression cleared. “Wonderful. I had a feeling from your column. You just sounded...fair.”

  My juice came and I took a long sip, hoping it would revitalize my confidence.

  Duncan waited until our waiter had finished warming his coffee and left. “Well. Wagner and I have been together for ten years,” he began. “Which is like dog years in a gay relationship—each one counts for seven hetero years. We were married in Canada in 2007, and have been inordinately happy far more often than not. There’s no one else I’d rather do things with, tell things to, or even argue with. He’s more than my lover—he’s my best friend, and I flatter myself that I’m his.”

  I felt an ache in the back of my throat. It sounded...lovely. I nodded for him to go on.

  Duncan paused and looked out over the bay, where a midsize Regal was just puttering in alongside the restaurant’s dock to tie off.

  Then he gave a hard sigh and continued. “One of the things that makes us work so well, in my opinion, is that we have always had an understanding about extramarital relationships. Things...happen—but we both agree they must be strictly physical and are kept completely separate from our marriage.”

  He stopped talking to take a sip of his coffee but his eyes never left my face, and one corner of his mouth lifted into a smile.

  “You’re doing a lovely job of not reacting to that, dear, but I can feel your surprise from here.”

  Actually, I was thinking who in the hell was I to judge anyone else’s choices?

  Duncan put down his cup and leaned forward. “You’re a mental health professional—how often do the studies say men think about sex?”

  “Every seven seconds, according to the Kinsey report,” I answered automatically.

  Duncan nodded. “Well, that’s a bit overstated. But I can tell you—it’s pretty often. You get two men together, and it’s a safe bet that most of the time, one of us is thinking about having sex. Wagner and I are in love. Deeply. But we’re realistic, and we both know there’s no sense throwing away something as solid and rare as what we have over the occasional insurmountable impulse.”

  A pelican lit on the wooden dock just underneath the patio where we sat, its scoopy beak bobbing up into the air as it swallowed whatever it had just plucked out of the water. I tried not to come to snap judgments about people in my practice, but I did pay attention to my instincts. I liked Duncan O’Neill. I wished I had his self-assurance.

  “You two sound like you have a committed, healthy relationship,” I said honestly, “on terms you both agree upon.”

  The cheerful, open expression abruptly left Duncan’s face, and the downcast look that replaced it seemed out of place. “Yes, well, I thought so too. Until recently.”

 
; The waiter sidled back up to our table, delicately setting the plates in his hands down in front of us.

  Steam was still rising off my omelet, along with a delicious, spicy scent, but I couldn’t have forced a bite down.

  Duncan unfolded his napkin and set it down in his lap, staring down at it for a moment. Perhaps he was reflecting on my complete inadequacy to help him, or anyone else. “I feel like such a pathetic fool,” he muttered, so softly I almost missed it.

  He felt like a fool? Before I thought about what I was doing, I reached under the table and gripped his thigh. Duncan looked up at me, startled. That made two of us. I retracted my hand. “You’re not a fool, Duncan. Or stupid. You’re just...trying to cope with your pain.”

  He smiled, a small one. “Thank you,” he said quietly, and the constriction in my throat eased ever so slightly. When he picked up his fork and started to eat, so did I. Between bites Duncan started telling me the rest.

  “Wagner drinks a bit. That’s not an issue,” he said, holding up a hand. “I drink a bit too—spirits can blunt life’s harsher edges, as long as you don’t use them as a crutch too often. But sometimes, well, he can...overdo it. As can we all,” he hastened to add. “But when Wagner does it...” He trailed off and then stopped, and I waited, not wanting to interrupt. “When Wagner does it, sometimes he turns...he turns...”

  My stomach sank. Violent, was what I feared Duncan was about to say, and no one should tolerate that.

  Duncan seemed to be choking on his words. “He turns straight!”

  I blinked. “What?”

  “He flirts—outrageously!—with women.” He looked so miserable and horrified that I wanted to get up and hug him.

  “Is that part of your agreement?” I asked.

  “Absolutely not!”

  I clattered my fork down to my plate. “Then that is bullshit, my friend. Total unacceptable bullshit.” Even as the words were leaving my mouth, I was horrified at myself. Where was Wise Therapist?

  “I know!”

  “Does he do more than flirt?”

  “I don’t know,” he said sadly. “We’ve always kept that part separate from each other, out of respect. So I can’t ask, can I, after we both agreed to those terms nearly a decade ago?”

  “You most certainly can ask. In fact, you have an inalienable right to.” Wise Therapist had apparently ceded the floor to righteous Founding Father. My usual careful phrasing was nowhere to be found, my tongue tripping along without any input at all from my brain. “So let me get it straight: It’s not the idea that he’s screwing around that’s suddenly bothering you, right?”

  “Of course not. A man has needs.”

  “It’s that it might be with a woman sometimes?”

  His face crumpled. “Yes! I just can’t handle it, and I’m afraid we’ve come up against a brick wall. I don’t see any alternative but to end it all.”

  My heart leaped in alarm. “Oh, Duncan, suicide is never—”

  He cut me off with a dismissive snort. “Of course not suicide, dear. Not my style. I meant us...our marriage.”

  “Oh. Well, have you talked to Wagner about this?”

  “No. One of the things that makes us work is that we don’t indulge in petty jealousies.”

  “But this isn’t petty to you!” I sputtered.

  “I can’t say anything,” he wailed. “What if he...what if he thinks I’m insecure? It’s so unattractive.”

  “But that’s how you’re feeling, isn’t it?” His fingers curled around mine and I realized at some point I’d reached across the table to put my hand over his. Disconcerted, I gave an awkward squeeze before pulling my hand back. “You told me yourself Wagner’s your best friend. If you can’t tell your best friend when you’re worried about something, or hurt, or yes, even insecure, something’s a little off, isn’t it?” Guilt flared inside me as I spoke the words. Wasn’t that what I was doing with Sasha?

  But this wasn’t about me. This was about Duncan.

  “At least talk to him,” I said. “Tell him exactly how you feel—have an honest, straightforward discussion about it. You owe each other that much.”

  He frowned, but nodded.

  I pulled a small notebook from my purse. “Look, I’m going to make a list of some specific questions you might ask him—and some you might ask yourself—to start to know exactly what you’re dealing with.” What was I doing? My job was simply to lead the horses to water, not shove their faces into the river and make them drink.

  But Duncan had brightened at my words. “Oh, that’s very helpful. It’s hard to think straight sometimes when I’m so upset about it.”

  I looked up and gave him a real smile. “Of course it is. We’re not wired to think calmly during a crisis—we’re wired for fight or flight. Sitting and facing the tough stuff flies in the face of human nature.”

  “You’re very kind, you know that? I expected your wisdom. But your warmth is a lovely bonus.”

  I felt myself flush. I wasn’t at all acting like the kind of therapist I’d been trained to be. I’d cursed, initiated physical contact, and objectivity was out the window. I was acting like Duncan was a friend—like he was Sasha, rather than a professional client. And as for wisdom...clearly I was no expert on how to handle relationship issues. I didn’t know what to say, so I just tore the page I was writing on from the notebook and handed it over.

  When we finished eating I paid the bill and we stood to leave. Duncan reached out a hand to shake mine. I wasn’t sure who was more surprised when I leaned forward instead and pulled him into a quick hug. Wise Therapist had now been taken over by a Care Bear.

  “It’s going to be okay, Duncan,” I said when we broke apart, my hand still on his shoulder. “Whatever happens, you’re going to be fine.”

  “I feel worlds better already,” Duncan said. “Thank you. I’ll start working on my homework right away, and I’ll be in touch soon to get together again.”

  “Good. Don’t you back down—you deserve to know what’s going on.”

  Duncan was looking at me with a warm, genuine smile. “It must be lovely to always know the right thing to do. That kind of certainty is such a gift.”

  I pushed out a smile and said goodbye, hoping he couldn’t read in my face what a fraud I actually was.

  twenty-two

  Tattoo in haste, repent at leisure. It turned out that removing a tattoo took a lot more time—and money—than getting one. The doctor estimated that mine would take nine to twelve treatments to fully remove, at $270 a pop, with seven to eight weeks of recovery time between each session—and we couldn’t even start until the freshly tattooed skin had healed. That meant that one night’s stupid, drunken decision would take me more than a year to undo. If I was lucky, the treatments wouldn’t leave a visible scar—but they would likely do nothing to erase my invisible shame.

  Between that, client meetings and keeping up with my column, and heading over to Dad’s whenever I had any downtime to make sure he wasn’t left alone too much and had food in his refrigerator, the next week passed by in a blur. I hardly saw Sasha. Partly I was avoiding her—I felt guilty at keeping so much from her. But she was out nearly every night anyway, and I feared she was back to her old relationship patterns.

  But I was hardly in a position to judge.

  At the end of the week my dad pronounced my house dry and mold-free.

  “How’s about Monday to start the work—good for you?” he asked as we dropped off his tools in my garage, along with the supplies we’d bought at Home Depot to fix the drywall. “Hate to interrupt your weekend with Kendall.”

  I flinched. I kept meaning to tell him, but every time I opened my mouth I thought about my dad all by himself in his house, lonely and miserable and missing my mom. I didn’t want to give him one more thing to worry about. I was keeping an awful lot of things from an awful lot of
people lately.

  “Monday’s fine, Daddy.” Lately the childish nickname kept slipping out.

  Dad wiped his hands on a rag he’d tucked into his belt. “Hey, you hear about your mom, gonna be in the paper?” He actually sounded proud.

  “Did she call you?”

  “Oh, well, you know, she’s really immersing herself in the play. That’s a hell of a role she’s got there. Stu told me.”

  “Did Stu talk to her?”

  “I wish you’d give her a ring, hon. Check on her. Let her know you’re thinking of her.”

  I pressed my lips shut so I wouldn’t spit out what popped to mind, which was, But I’m not thinking of her.

  “I’ve been pretty busy myself, Dad,” I hedged instead.

  My father looked down at the towel clutched in his hands, his body seeming to sag. “She’s still your mom, Brook.”

  Yeah. I wished she’d remember that.

  After he left I drove back over to Sasha’s to pick up my things. With the mold cleared up there was no reason for me not to be at my own house, but I wasn’t in any hurry to leave. Maybe I’d stay one more night and move back home in the morning, and tonight we could have a silly, giggly slumber party together, like we used to when we were kids.

  But Sasha was in her bathroom putting on fresh makeup when I let myself in at her apartment. She had on a fitted sleeveless black wraparound top, with a pair of flowing cream palazzo pants that would have looked overdone on anyone else, and I knew without her telling me that she already had plans.

  “You look hot,” I told her honestly. “Another date?”

  She smiled. “Same one.”

  I sighed. “Oh, Sash. Don’t you think it’s a bit much, a bit fast?”

  Sasha shrugged, her smile disappearing.

  I felt bad. “Maybe we can do something tomorrow night?”

  “We are doing something tomorrow night. Jan and Faryn’s party.”