“Your son is doing therapy vicariously through you?” He quirks a small grin. “Didn’t know that was a thing.”
“What I mean is my son was anxious about talking to someone and I wanted him to see he had nothing to worry about. That it’s fine for people to go to therapy, so I’m modeling it for him.”
“Do you have an attendance card you need me to sign to show him you came? And maybe we can just discuss the Falcons’ chances this season or reminisce about homecomings and the good old days on the yard during our sessions since there’s no real work we have to do here.”
His sarcasm pulls a reluctant smile from me. “I really don’t mean to insult what you do. My wife…ex-wife…has benefited a lot from this stuff and swears by it. Whatever helps the people I care about, I’m all for.”
“How about we start there.”
“Start where?”
“Your ex-wife. You indicated on your intake form that you’ve been divorced for almost two years. How’s that been?”
I stiffen. It’s one thing to come here for a few sessions until Kassim feels comfortable, but it’s another for this stranger to start digging in caves I’ve sealed with boulder-sized stones.
“It’s fine. She’s fine. She’s gotten the help she needed.” I shift, placing both feet on the floor. “We make a great team. Raise our kids together. Run our business together. It’s all good.”
“It sounds very progressive and amicable.”
“Why wouldn’t it be? We didn’t want to sacrifice our kids and the business we’d worked so hard to build just because she didn’t…” I clear my throat. “Becausewedidn’t want to be married anymore.”
“So did she want the divorce or did you or was it mutual?” He picks up his pad. “It’s rarely actually mutual.”
“Do you ask these intrusive kinds of questions with all your clients in the first session?” Irritation prickles beneath my collar, heating my neck.
“Idohave some kid gloves around here somewhere.” He makes a show of searching the office. “I could use those if you’d prefer, but it sounds like you don’t plan to come to many sessions. Figured I’d better make the most of the time we have.”
We stare at each other for a few seconds in a silence that grows tighter the longer it stretches out. I’m determined not to break it, not to give him anything, because why would I? I don’t know this motherfucker from Adam, and he wants to dig around in my head? Drag out all the shit I store in neat compartments so I can find some measure of peace? He wants to shake all that up, but he wouldn’t have to live with the fallout. I would.
“Tell me a little about your ex-wife,” he finally says to break our silence. “What’s her name?”
I don’t relax. Don’t take my eyes off him, like he’s a hunter setting a trap and I might stumble in if I’m careless.
“Her name is Yasmen.” I sit back and fold my arms over my middle.
“Why did you marry her?”
Because she was the best thing that ever happened to me.
It’s bad enough I let that thought out of its cage and into the common area of my mind. The hell I’m saying that shit out loud. It’s naive, romantic nonsense, and the version of me who first met Yasmen, who fell for her almost on sight, may be able to get away with that sappy bullshit, but the guy who watched her leave in increments every day for a year, who begged her to stay and had to accept that she would go? That guy doesn’t get to indulge in soft, squishy thoughts about my ex-wife.
“I wanted to fuck her every day for the rest of my life,” I half joke. “She’s that beautiful. Is that a good enough reason?”
The answer, though absolutely true, leaves so much out, and I can tell he recognizes an abridged version when he hears it. He huffs a laugh, shaking his head.
“If that’s true, and that’s all you had together, then I’m not surprised you divorced her. Must have gotten old.”
“I know what you’re doing. This reverse psychology routine doesn’t work on me.”
“Reverse psychology assumes that posing the opposite belief will persuade someone to share their actual one. If that were the case, you’re saying I believe your marriage was based on more than just how badly you wanted to fuck your wife.” He pulls a folder from under his pad, flipping it open. “So did you get tired of her? Maybe she let herself go after two pregnancies.”
“Three,” I amend automatically. “Three pregnancies.”
The reminder of yet another loss, though spoken so quietly, lands in the room with a thud.
“Of course, three,” he says, his tone softening.
I don’t want to give him even this, but there is something inside of me that fundamentally resists anyone talking about Yas, about what we had, in such dismissive terms.