He crosses his arms. "Because I knew you'd want to keep her in the traditional classroom. I knew you'd want to debate it endlessly. So I called Dr. Reeves to get a professional opinion first."
That’s weird. It was weird that he took the initiative to find a therapist for her to begin with. But I figured he felt like it was his duty. But calling the therapist to talk? That’s so out of his wheelhouse, it boggles the mind. Asher is not that guy. At least not any version of him that I know. It’s completely out of character.
"You called her therapist? And you did it before you talked to me?"
"Yes. I wanted to make sure this was actually the right move before we discussed it."
"Before we discussed it?" I repeat, my voice hollow. "You mean before you informed me of your decision."
"That's not what I mean."
"Isn't it? You talked to the school on Friday. You called the therapist at some point. You've already made up your mind. And I'm just finding out about it now because the school called me wondering why you hadn't responded."
I can feel the anger rising in my chest, but underneath it is something worse—a cold, clear realization. "I'm not part of this, am I? You didn't even consider me in any of this."
"That's not true."
"Then why am I always the last to know? Why are you making decisions about our home, our household, without even consulting me?"
He uncrosses his arms. "Because she's struggling, Julie. And sometimes you need to act instead of analyzing every option in the way that you do."
It's like a bucket of cold water. "I'm not asking you to analyze. I'm asking you to include me. There's a difference."
His jaw tightens. "I didn't make a decision. I gathered information. And now we're discussing it."
"It doesn't feel like a discussion. It feels like you've already decided and you're just informing me."
"Stop it. We are making decisions together. Right now. And I'm telling you I think this is what's best for her."
"What about what I think?"
"What do you think?" He glares at me. "That she should keep going to school and having panic attacks? That we should force her into an environment that's clearly not working? That she should suffer because you want to think about it?"
"No. I just think we should take our time. Maybe see if things improve. Talk about medication and coping mechanisms. Not rush into isolating her at home."
"She's not being isolated. She'll still see her therapist. She'll still have us. She'll just be in a less stressful environment."
“But–”
“No. Not buts. You’re being ridiculous. I’m so fucking tired of not meeting your impossible standard. You’re perfect, I suck. I get it. Thanks for the constant motherfucking reminder.” He stalks toward the door.
"You know what, Julie? Sometimes you’re a real fucking cunt. So fuck this and fuck you. I've already decided. She's doing online school. It starts next week."
He walks out and slams the door behind him before I can respond. The sound reverberates like a cannon. He’s never spoken to me like that. Not ever. He’s never slammed out of a room like that either.
Physically, he didn’t scare me. But what he said and the way he said it felt like a slap or a punch. Like abuse.
Like my father.
I can’t be here. I can’t do this, whatever it is. Shaking, I walk into the kitchen, grab my purse and keys, and leave.
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
JULIE
I don't rememberthe drive to Jamie's condo. One minute I'm backing out of my garage, and the next I'm sitting in her parking lot with my hands shaking so badly I can barely turn off the ignition. I sit there for a full minute, staring at the steering wheel, trying to breathe.
