When I stepped into the shower the next morning, I wasn’t certain where I was or to whom I belonged. My mind envisioned the trappings of a campy Harlequin novel: Grocery Store Man and I would meet again, realize we belonged together, and despite all the odds, certain obstacles, and assumptions, end up together as true soul mates.
“Fate isn’t that kind, you dimwit,” I said to myself. Clenching my eyes shut, I hoped to force away the images that still danced in my mind and wash the dream down the drain. My life might fill the pages of many a book, but it was not, had never been, and never would be, a romance novel.
Chapter 3: Theo
“Something has changed with Sadie. I just know it.”
Doc narrowed her eyes at me. “What do you mean by changed? You’re still living together at home?”
“Yes, that’s the same. What I mean is...” How to say it? Something different in her posture. Something different in the flush of her cheeks. She hadn’t mentioned anything to me or the kids, but she’d been more... “She’s been more distracted. Less focused on us.”
“And how does that make you feel?”
Why did therapists always use those words? Those terms—spoken over and over—were so cliché, and what did they expect the person to say? Did she think I’d tell her everything as I sat in the suffocating air of this cave? While the dusty blue walls were soothing, the lighting...well, it could stand to be improved. How did it make me feel? It made me feel...
“Angry.”
“About what?” Doc asked.
Angry summed up my life since being discharged—honorably, but still discharged—from the service. Angry I’d been in Afghanistan in the first place. Angry I’d seen what I had when I was there. Angry that Sadie and I didn’t make it. Angry I couldn’t hold onto my old job as a web developer because too much screen time set me off. Angry, angry. Fucking angry. No other word sufficed. “Everything.”
“Theo, one-word answers will get you nowhere in this office.”
Maybe, but so far Doc hadn’t kicked me out. Biweekly therapy appointments—one-on-one, addressing cognitive behavioral therapy—had been on my schedule for the last six months. I kept some of them; others, I didn’t. Everything would get better once I’d worked through it. I knew that, but days existed where I didn’t care. Life was too painful sometimes. That’s partly why Sadie and I had split.
Doc tapped her fingernails against her clipboard, a sure sign she was debating about where to go with the conversation. Always the type of therapist not to push—I appreciated her approach. But she also knew I would sit and say nothing for the remainder of the hour if I felt like it.
“If you’re not ready to talk about your anger, then let’s get back to Sadie. How is she doing?”
Sadie was an independent woman. The sort who gave birth naturally in the morning and was home, doing dishes, writing emails, and dragging kids to the library by the evening time. Nothing stopped her. Nothing bothered her. At least in my estimation. Her resiliency, her competence, her strength: those qualities had been attractive early on. They’d also been why I had to walk away, why we had to end the marriage—not that we had gone through with it yet. I didn’t want to hurt a woman like her any more than I already had. She deserved so much more than I could give to her then or now. More than I could ever give her.
“She seems to be holding it together. As usual...” A piece of lint on my jeans drew my attention, and I flicked it to the floor.
Doc finished my sentence for me. “But there’s something different about her.”
“Yeah. Maybe next time I come in, I’ll know what.”
Understanding what was wrong with Sadie meant I’d need to “spend time self-reflecting”—Doc’s words, not mine. I faced more time at home now, only working part-time at a local fitness center’s front desk (thank goodness for old friends and a bit of structure), but that didn’t mean Sadie and I had reconnected. A huge gap still existed between us. And since we were no longer together, no incentive existed to bridge it.
Doc’s voice cut through my thoughts. “Are you finished for the day?”
“I am.”
Sometimes Doc went with it and let me call the shots. Another thing I appreciated about her. She sighed, closed her notebook, and cocked her head to the right, a slight gesture I’d learned to interpret.
“Game on,” she said and rose from her chair.
Most of my life was atypical now. Living with a woman who wasn’t quite my ex-wife (but would be if I signed the papers). Spending time with a therapist who used ping-pong as part of her repertoire. They both fell into the “atypical” category. So be it.
The paddle’s cool wood tingled against my hand. It gave me something tangible to take my anger out on. Doc lifted the ping-pong ball and shook it in the air, helping me focus. I knew the drill: breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth five times, and then we’d begin. Lame, but a process that helped, especially on days when I couldn’t (or wouldn’t) talk and let out what was inside. Doc raised her paddle and tapped the ball once. She didn’t know it yet, but she was going down.
. . . . .
The next morning, I clocked-in at eleven. Being employed at the fitness center had taken time to get used to. Web developer hours and gym staff hours varied
