“I know,” I say, trying my best to wave away any lingering guilt she might have. “And it’s really not your fault. We just have some things we need to work through, and I think it just made it more clear when you brought it up.”
“And did you? Work through those things?”
“Work in progress,” I inform her with a sharp exhale.
“So, are you guys just having lunch?”
“We’re going to a therapy session,” I blurt out. “Couples therapy.”
It wasn’t an easy topic to bring up, but I did. We both did in some way through an unexpected yet tentative late-night conversation in our quiet kitchen long after Sophia went to bed. We each scooped ourselves a bowl of ice cream, and we talked it over while our spoons clinked against the ceramic bowl. And now, here we are.
Teeny’s about to take a sip of her water but stops just as the spout touches her mouth. She looks at me, speechless with her brow hiked up close to her hairline.
“Work in progress,” I remind her. “And yeah, I guess we’ll have lunch. Spend some quiet alone time together.”
She smirks. “You’re welcome.”
I glance at the clock one last time. “I should head out. Kendall should be back home by now.”
“Okay.”
“Are you nervous?”
Kendall rests her hand on my thigh, her pinky bearing all the weight with my own hand sitting next to hers. I don’t know if it’s okay for me to link our fingers, take her palm in mine like I’ve always done without giving it a second thought, so I leave it there. A work in progress.
“No,” I tell her, shaking my head. “We’re just talking to someone. We’re not going in for a lobotomy.”
She chuckles, tapping her pinky to my knuckle, her version of a fist bump. “Then is it bad that I am?”
“No,” I assure, drawing out the single-syllable word to emphasize my answer. “I think it’s expected.”
“Then how come you aren’t nervous?”
“I think it’s because…I’m willing to do whatever it takes to make us work,” I start to explain. “Not that you aren’t, but I felt the fear of losing you to my bones. So…whatever comes after, it doesn’t scare me. As long as you’re here.”
I don’t say this to approach couples therapy with an air of arrogance or to appear aloof. It’s just the truth. After being faced with the possibility of losing my wife, all the other things I’m doing to keep her—like flying all the way to another state to practically badger her into talking to me—feels trivial.
She finally reaches for my hand, giving me an encouraging squeeze, just as we’re called back. “Kendall and James Cohen?”
We stand and walk with all the dread to turn our shoes into cement blocks. Now that we’re actually walkingintotherapy, I guess I am a little nervous.
“Come on back,” the woman instructs us, gesturing to the door that’ll probably open to a hallway with even more doors. Like a portal. She walks down the hall, confirming my portal assumption though, unlike most foreboding occult portals, most of these doors are open. She looks over her shoulder at us while saying, “I’m Astrid, by the way.”
“I’m James. This is my wife, Kendall.”
Astrid smiles. “Nice to meet you both.”
When we came to the decision that couples therapy would be something we seriously consider, we thought neutrality would be the best way to go. We couldn’t go to her therapist or mine, so we decided to start fresh. A way to hash out our past with someone who doesn’t know which side to take.
We stop at one of the many doors and walk through. There are two chairs facing one, creating an isosceles triangle with the furniture.
“Go ahead and have a seat,” Astrid says, gently closing the door behind her. She motions toward the two chairs sitting side by side, and I’m starting to get an idea of how this is going to go. I’m sure I’ve seen it in movies, or maybe as part of some imaginative forethought I drudged up in my head. Kendall glances in my direction, and with the sudden frigid air that followed us inside, I wonder if some of Kendall’s nerves seeped into me. I clench my fist in an attempt to remind myself why I’m here.
Kendall dithers between the chairs and I guide her to one, fully aware of the seating arrangement, and Astrid joins us.
“So,” Astrid says, patting a hand to her notebook sitting on her lap. “How are you today?”
Kendall smiles, tucking her chin to her chest. She tilts her head to me, and we share a look that makes me realize we’re being silly. We aren’t heading into confession or getting strapped to a polygraph machine, or even the lobotomy I joked about. We’re here because we want to be. No one is forcing us.
