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He’d still been subdued when he walked her to her car that night, and she gripped his shirtfront, preventing him from leaving.
“Tell me this is an okay thing to do,” she blurted, tears suddenly too close. “I-I never considered that it wasn’t? The clinic is run by werewolves, so I just thought . . . Tell me you’re okay with all of this, please.”
Lowell hesitated for a long, endless-seeming moment.
“I-I don’t know. I’m just . . . surprised, I guess? They didn’t tell us this, so . . . I’m sure it’s fine. Right? They wouldn’t be doing anything unethical, not out in the open that way, I’m assuming. I’m just surprised, that’s all. I guess I don’t know what I was expecting. Thinking things through before jumping isn’t one of my strengths.”
She leaned up, catching his lips with her own, gratified when his hands slid around her waist, tugging her in closer. His hands lifted her to the car, and hers dropped to his belt. Nothing about this was smart; nothing about this made sense. She understood his confusion, understood it because she felt it herself.
Her confession was made in a halting voice in therapy that week, but the sphinx, as ever, was unbothered by her words.
“And how are you feeling about it? I’m hearing a lot of concern over what he might think, but I’m not hearing you discuss your own feelings on the matter.”
The sphinx’s voice was casual, but she shifted uncomfortably in her chair all the same. It was not a new line of questioning.
“We talked about transference before, right? It doesn’t seem like you have the same sort of personality clashes with this young man, so you don’t need to carry over a fear of self-expression into this new relationship.”
Moriah nodded, swallowing hard. She’d been given the option of a video chat, but she’d opted to go into the office. It was too easy to distract herself with her environment, too easy to slot the telehealth appointments in with her list of chores for the day, all accomplished from the comfort of her home. She felt a greater sense of responsibility when she came into the office. More anxious, but the anxiousness meant she was taking it seriously, she told herself.
“I don’t know how I’m feeling. I know that’s not a real answer, but . . . I don’t know.”
“It’s a perfectly fine answer. But let’s dig into that a bit more. Do you not know how you’re feeling? Or do you not know how you’re meant to be feeling? Because what you’re feeling is simply what it is. You don’t need to ascribe justifications. You just need to acknowledge. So let me ask you again. How are you feeling about it?”
Her eyes welled with tears, and the frustration of the last five years crowded in her throat, choking her.
“Confused. I’m confused and frustrated with myself, and I’m mad can’t just enjoy being with him. And Ireallylike spending time with him.”
“Why can’t you enjoy spending time with him? That’s not a judgment; I’m just asking. Help me understand.”
“Because this isn’t a real relationship. I wasn’t even supposed to meet him outside the clinic. I didn’t know that, though. I’m supposed to be focused on getting pregnant, that’s all.”
Moriah watched as the sphinx took off her glasses, smiling kindly. She had sleek black hair and a wide mouth, her broad lion paws pushing into the carpeting as she adjusted herself in her chair, her claws painted a punchy pink.
“Who made that decision?” She asked casually again. She had a way of making every question sound as innocuous as an inquiry into the weather, and Moriah didn’t know why it worked as well as it did, but it uncharged the judgment she felt coming at her from all sides normally.
“That’s why I’m at the clinic, it’s an insemination method. The point is to get preg —”
“But who made the decision that’s all you’re allowed to focus on? Did the clinic make you sign a contract agreeing to not have a single other desire or emotion for the duration of your treatment there?”
“I did,” Moriah answered, sniffling. “I made the decision.”
“But it’s a decision that seems to be making you miserable. So let me ask you this — what would happen if you allowed yourself room for other things? Would you suddenly not be able to get pregnant anymore? Because I feel the need to remind you, Moriah, there’s nothing physically preventing you from conception. The issues you had in your marriage were purely based on differing biologies.”
“But it’s all I focused on for so long. We spent so much money at the other clinic —”
“Who cares?” the sphinx shrugged. “I’m doing a lot of interrupting today, and I apologize,” she laughed, that excellent honking laugh that brought a smile to Moriah’s face every time she heard it. “But I just want to keep you on track; we both know how easy it is to slide back into rehashing the same frame of mind over and over again. Who cares how much money you spent? Sorben is gone. That money that you spent is gone too. Punishing yourself for it isn’t going to bring it back. The money you spent on those procedures was a choice you made in your marriage with your husband. Your marriage is over. We need to come to a point where you can stop beating yourself up for choices you did not make alone that are in the past. Who is forcing you to make this decision now?”
“No one,” she murmured softly. “No one is making me. But . . .”
She trailed off, and the sphinx raised her eyebrows encouragingly, nodding.
“Go on. But what?”
Moriah closed her eyes, inhaling sharply and exhaling on a woosh.
“This is all I’ve been focused on for so long. What do I do next? What if Drea and I aren’t friends anymore? I don’t know who to be if this isn’t who I am.”
The sphinx smiled brilliantly. “Those are excellent questions; I’m very proud of you. Let’s take them one at a time, okay?”
