But not yet.
In that moment, Laurel was naked, standing, stretching, arching her back deliberately and provocatively. Lately it had become her nature to behave in this manner just as soon as the do not disturb sign was hung on the door. She came alive in that room. A switch flipped, something different appeared— like a rabbit from a magician’s hat. It’s what kept me coming back, and it was at least half the reason why I couldn’t stop, even if I’d wanted to.
“Did you feel that you were taking advantage of a woman in a desperate situation?”
Did I feel guilt? Not really. Perhaps. Maybe a little. I didn’t really give it much thought. “No. It was a mutual exchange.”
“You never wondered if she might have had an ulterior motive?”
How can I explain the truth? For one, at the time, I hadn’t considered that the hours we were together would be broken down into bite-sized (pun intended) bits of images and words to be peered at under a microscope, not only by others, but by myself as well.
Eventually, I shake my head from side to side. It’s not the first lie I’ve told, and I doubt it will be the last.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Laurel Dunaway
Journal Entry
Dad was not well today. He was worse than not well. He was as bad as I’ve seen him. The nurse—he has another new one—paged Dr. Hastings, who ordered a bump on his morphine, which put Dad out for most of the afternoon. This was lucky since I couldn’t be there on account of my therapy appointment.
Not that I have much experience with shrinks—but I like James’s choice well enough. She’s unassuming. Pretty, in an unconventional kind of way. Exactly what I assumed my husband would have picked out.
At first, I saw her twice a week. I thought I’d hate it. I thought the abdication of control just might do me in. But it wasn’t like that at all. It was a relief. It was nice to have someone to talk to.
Still. To have someone peeking into your life that way, to have them examining your head, dissecting you, exposing you…well, it’s just a little over the top sometimes, if you ask me. Not that James has.
I almost didn’t show for our appointment today. After last night, the last thing I want is to be exposed. And where do I even begin with that? I can’t. There’s something about spilling ink that makes it feel real. Maybe I worry I’ll find out something about myself I’m not yet ready to know.
Last night we attended a party. Unbeknownst to me, it was our turn to host. James handled it. This meant she was there—the woman he hired to replace me at work. The one he’s been lying about. Suffice it to say, it did not turn out well. It’s ludicrous, given that it was my choice. To be fair, he had asked for permission. That’s the thing about you, Laurel, he said after. Wherever you go, chaos tends to follow.
He has a point. Things spiraled out of control. I went too far. I hurt someone. Not intentionally—limits are tricky. Sometimes you can’t help yourself. Sometimes accidents happen. Did I mea
n to break the guy’s arm? Did I mean to shatter his nose? No.
But I did.
This has become bigger than me, bigger than I could have ever imagined. Bigger than my husband, even. It’s not even like I can pin it all on him, as much as I’d like to. Sure, it might not have been my idea. But I was there. I went along with it. Dare I say—I even enjoyed it. Or a part of me did. The part I can never quite access after all is said and done. The part that only seems to be available in the moment. That woman, she rallies. She springs to life. She does what she does. She never considers the consequences.
Today, I finally told Dr. Miller about the fling with Max, and even though I explained that I was going to quit seeing him, that it wouldn’t happen again, she didn’t seem surprised, and I don’t think she believed me.
I’m not even sure I believed myself.
“How does it make you feel—the affair?”
“I’d hardly call it an affair. We just fuck. There’s no future in it.”
“But you feel like this is a betrayal of your marriage,” she said calmly. It was a leading question, I recognized. “Why?”
I had to think about it. Really think about it. Because James would kill me. She reads my mind. I presume the degree on the wall helps. “Your husband would be angry if he knew?”
“Yes.”
“Do you plan to tell him?”
I stuffed my hands between my thighs and stared at the floor while I tried to come up with a good answer. The right answer. Finally, I met her eye. I winced a little to show my uncertainty. “What do you think? Should I tell him?”
“That is the million-dollar question.”