Page 44 of Kiss From A Rose

So, this was how my twenty-year marriage ended—without complications. It was what everyone who was getting divorced wanted, right? This was a good thing, yeah?

Fighting with Gray would destroy me. As things stood, I knew it would take a long while for me to heal from a broken marriage. And, once Malou was gone and I wastrulyalone, I'd have to patch myself upagain. It wasn't going to be easy.

"What does Gray have to do to convince you of his love?" Malou asked, surprising me with her question.

My therapist had asked me the same question, and I didn't have a clear answer.

"I don't know," I admitted. "But the question is moot, Malou. He doesn't love me, and he's not going to move a finger to convince me. According to him, I should just get my ass home and stop being so dramatic."

"You sound like one of them bitter wives from theReal Housewives of Atlanta," Malou commented dryly.

"Well, I could be one of them," I chuckled. "I lived in their neighborhoodandhung out with the other rich white folk ofHotlanta."

Malou laughed and then sobered. "In the beginning, I thought you'd change. Becomethem. But you never did. You've always beenyou."

"That's not quite true," I murmured. "I lost myself, Malou. Became invisible. The thing about marriage no one tells you is that you have to give yourself completely to it. You do it selflessly. Your kids, your husband, they become your life. Butyou don't become theirs. No one even saysthank you. It's like you were expected to lose yourself and your identity to become a mother and wife. I don't even know who Rose May is anymore. They didn't see me, that's true—but what's truly fucked up is thatIdidn't see myself either."

Malou leaned into me, and I kissed her forehead, holding her thin, frail body close. She smelled like mint. She'd taken to chewing on the leaves to remove the foul taste of death (her words) from her mouth.

"I don't want you alone here…in this world when I'm gone," Malou told me.

"You're the one who said it was okay to be alone, just not lonely. I won't be lonely, hon."

"I hate that you're hurting, Flower Girl. I hate it very much." She gripped my hand tight. "But I'll tell you something that I know is true. Your family loves you. They may not have shown it lately, but they do."

It was a nice fantasy. But I didn't think it was true. I was thrilled that Willow was coming over, but that was guilt. I knew that and didn't care. I'd have my child with me for any reasonat all. Jude had not even bothered to reach out to me.Andthen there was Gray.

"They needed me when they were little, the kids, and Gray too, so he could work while I took care of things at home." I had worked so hard at being a good mother and wife. It was all for nothing. Here I was, forty years old,alone. "Now, they have their own lives. I get that. I just wish that they wanted me even if they didn't need me."

I'd talked about this to Dr. Mercer often, how I frequently felt like a wife, mother, and whore with no agency of my own. There was no Rose, justavatarsof her that serviced her family.

Malou's breathing slowed, and I knew she'd fallen asleep. I adjusted her head so it would rest on a cushion. She looked tiny on the large couch. I put a blanket over her and left her to sleep while I checked on my pot roast and slipped into a newavatar. That of the owner of a bed-and-breakfast: Rose May Smith, who knew how to cook, clean, and be a wonderful hostess—but this time, I was doing it for myself, and that tasted like freedom.

CHAPTER 16

Gray

My nerves were shot to hell. I was flying blind, clueless about what I was doing. Rose's reaction to seeing me after a month apart – and just two weeks after that gut-wrenching phone call – was anyone's guess. I hadn't called her again; I didn't want to risk fucking up like I had.

I needed help.

I sat across from Dr. Dennis Ogle, a therapist recommended by Dr. Mercer. I had made an appointment two days before Jude and I would be heading to Angel Island for Christmas without giving my wife a head's up.

Dr. Ogle was a stern-looking man with a gaze that felt like it could peel back the layers of your soul, but his voice was unexpectedly tender.

"Gray, I see in the forms you filled out you've never had therapy before," Dr. Ogle began.

"Not unless a thirty-minute introductory session with Dr. Mercer counts." I was sitting on a couch and felt fucking foolish. Was I supposed to lie down and talk about my feelings? Shit! I was being such a Southern male cliché. We didn't do therapy. We were men; we believed in staying stoic through it all.

Dr. Ogle smiled. "In the forms you filled out, you say that your wife left you, and that's why you're seeking therapy."

"Yes…andfor me…my growth as well," I added. "Her leaving has left me with more questions about myself than I have answers."

We talked a while and I told him what was happening with Rose and me, as well asjustme. He hung on every word as I spilled the ugly truth: to the world, Rose was the long-suffering wife, and I was the clueless bastard who didn't know how good he had it.

Finally, we then landed on thehomeworkDr. Mercer had given me, which I told Dr. Ogle about.

“Okay, then let's talk about why you started sleeping in the guest room,” he urged, his tone flat but not without empathy.

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