“It couldn’t hurt to look,” Max said on the way out of group.
On a Thursday in late January, I sat on the tenth floor of a title company in a navy-blue suit signing a stack of documents. I wasn’t totally alone: a lawyer I hired sat on my right and Lorne’s wife, Renee, sat on my left. I signed my name dozens of times under the line that read: Christie O. Tate, Unmarried Woman, Spinster. “Wow,” I whispered.
“Some of the standard real estate documents have retained rather antiquated language,” my lawyer said with a chuckle.
“Ha-ha,” Renee said sarcastically. “Maybe someone should update them.” She rubbed my back in a circular motion as I signed page after page.
When I got to group, a few minutes late, I pressed the group room button with my right index finger, and with my left, I twirled the keys to my condo, amazed that I now owned, along with the bank, a fifth-floor loft in River North. Two bedrooms. I felt high on progress and my ability to put 10 percent down on a piece of real estate. What good fortune, what a blessing. Everyone congratulated me as I took my seat, but as the session wore on, the high drained away, leaving me with one thought: Christie Tate, Spinster.
I interrupted Max. I can’t remember what he was saying, but I sliced into his story with my panic. “Y’all, I’m not sure about this condo.” All those papers. All that official evidence of my spinsterhood under the Illinois state seal. I had to fill those empty, echoing rooms all by myself.
Annoyed at my intrusion, Max huffed. “It’s fine. You’ll be fine. You did the right thing.” Then, he returned to his story. I sat quietly as long as I could, but the anger at Max and panic about the condo were too intense to stifle for long. My hands clenched, and I pitched forward, about to scream.
“Oh, here we go,” Max said. I wasn’t looking at him, but I heard the eye roll in his tone.
Fuck him. I slipped my feet out of my shoes—pink Uggs for the snowy streets—and threw one of them in Max’s direction. I swear I aimed for the wall above him, not his face. And I didn’t hit him, but I got close. As my shearling-lined shoe sailed across the circle, my “FUCK YOU” traveled with it. I stared directly at smug-ass Max. “I’m sick of being intimidated by you. Sick of your sighs. Your telling me what is and is not fine. You never had to buy—”
Max grabbed the shoe I threw and strode right over to my chair, pointing it at me like a gun. He stopped in front of me, and I rose to meet him.
“Fuck you too!” he yelled in my face.
“No, fuck you!”
We stood so close I could feel the brass buttons on his coat brush against my abs. My fury unfurled into his mouth, and his rage blew straight into mine. In his eyes, I saw flecks of gold and pure hatred. For me. And I hoped he saw my ferocity and hatred for him and every other person in the circle—in the world—who never had to buy a condo alone or date in their thirties or swim through thousands of hours of therapy to end up at the exact place she’d hoped to avoid. Christie Tate, Spinster.
“You don’t fucking know me, Max!”
“Yes I do! Of course I do! Why do you say such stupid things?”
“I’m not stupid!”
“Then stop acting like it!”
All I knew is that I would scream into his face as long as he would scream into mine. I would not crumple into my chair, breaking the spell with pitiful tears. I would stand my ground and scream as long and loudly as he did. I would hold my power in my own body. He couldn’t have it.
Then we were silent. Still inches from each other. Fury still pulsing between us. He backed away and sat down. Only then did I take my seat.
Dr. Rosen didn’t make a grand pronouncement after the fight. There was no This means you’re willing to be intimate. No leading questions like Have you ever had a fight like that with a man? With anyone? Do you understand what this means, Mamaleh? I wouldn’t have heard it anyway with my heartbeat galloping in my ears. And for the first time in all my hours of group therapy, I wasn’t secretly hoping that Dr. Rosen would turn his attention to me and praise me for all the deep work I was doing. For the first time, I didn’t need his affirmation to prove I was moving forward and doing the hard things to become the person I wanted to be. I had keys to a new condo in River North in my purse. I’d thrown my shoe at Max and stood my ground in a highly charged confrontation. It was undeniably life altering to buy real estate, but I’d sat through enough group therapy sessions to recognize that my willingness to fight full out with Max might be an even bigger indication of transformation than a new address on Ontario Street. My body buzzed with adrenaline that was sure to wear off, but in those dizzy moments after the shouting match, there was a solid, still part of me that knew: I was moving forward in my own messy, noisy, frightened way.
At the end of the session, I stood up, unsure if my shaky legs would hold me up. I wasn’t ashamed exactly, but I wasn’t sure how to deal with Max during the hugs or on the walk to the elevators. It was he who approached me after he hugged Dr. Rosen. For the second time in thirty minutes, he stood a few inches in front of me. This time, he opened his arms wide. I opened mine too. Neither of us said a word,
