Page 74 of Two Wrongs

I twist the plain gold band around my finger and slip it off. “I belong to me, because I can’t belong to you.”

Looking at him hurts sometimes, and I let my eyes fall to my feet. I admit, quietly, “I would be yours, completely, if that was possible.”

He clears his throat. “There’s a store down the block. Finish getting ready, and I’ll go buy you a scarf.”

* * *

The driveto the facility is quiet. Griffin doesn’t even turn on the radio. Still, somehow the silence is loud. All of my apprehensions yell inside of my head. Each one tries to be heard over the others. There’s so many things for me to worry about. Like if the therapist wants to dig into our relationship rather than Liam’s addiction.

I’m not sure I want to examine the why and how of the deterioration of my marriage. Talking through it can’t save it any more than an autopsy can heal a patient. My marriage is dead, and I’m ready to bury it.

“You’re thinking awfully hard over there,” he says as we turn onto a long dirt road leading to Hidden Lakes Health Center.

My thumb brushes over my scar. “I don’t like therapy.”

He drops his hand over mine, holding over my wrist for a moment, then continuing on to lace our fingers together. “I’ve never been. Probably should have, but it seemed like something only people with disposable income could afford.”

“Or when you’re deemed a risk to yourself,” I mumble.

“I guess Liam falls under that category,” he says.

“That’s the thing though. When you first start therapy under those circumstances it feels like an intrusion. Maybe it does the rest of the time too, but when you don’t have a choice, it makes you feel backed into a corner.”

He turns his eyes on me for a second before looking back at the road. “And you did all that alone?”

I nod. “But I wouldn’t have wanted to bring him in when I was already so raw and vulnerable. There was only so much I was ready to face, and the deterioration of my marriage wasn’t on the roster.”

“Wasn’t that the entire reason you were there?” he asks.

The simple answer would be yes, but it wouldn’t be the most honest answer. “It might have been a catalyst that made what was inside of me feel so much bigger than I could handle. Yeah, as my husband, it would have been great if he’d have been around to see that I was struggling. Maybe, if he’d been around I’d have been able to keep ignoring how I felt about myself and life in general, but Liam isn’t responsible for my mental health.”

Griffin shakes his head. “That seems like you’re letting him off the hook.”

I purse my lips, thinking about how to best explain this. “He didn’t help what was going on with me. And yeah, his treatment of me made it worse, but I’m responsible for my feelings. No one else should get to dictate how I think and feel about myself. I didn’t get help after the death of my parents, and it left a chasm inside of me, that for a while Liam was able to fill. When he stopped showing up for me, that wound was exposed again.”

“I still say he should have noticed how bad it had gotten for you.” His eyes drop pointedly at my wrist.

I shrug. “I could have reached out for help.”

“To whom? Your best friend that he was fucking? Me, when I made sure you felt isolated and alone? Charlie, after he made sure you knew he was on Liam’s side? Fuck that. He made sure you were wholly dependent on him, then left you to drown in the loneliness. You might not be willing to blame him, but I sure as hell can,” he snaps.

Moments like this I feel like I could lose myself in this thing growing between us. Then I remember what it feels like to be lost, and I pull back. “I learned a valuable lesson,” I mutter to myself.

“I’m afraid to ask what you learned. It’s going to be some bullshit about not letting anyone help you, isn’t it?”

I take a deep breath in through my nose. “I learned not to depend on anyone else but me.”

“That’s a shit way to live,” he grumbles.

I narrow my eyes. “It’s my way to stay alive.”

Mercifully, we pull up in front of the main building. The tension between us is thick enough without being locked in the car together for several more minutes. To think, I was nervous we’d be too affectionate and Liam would see through us. At least we are acting more like what he’d think is normal.

The front desk agent shows us to a pretty standard waiting room. The kind with hard furniture, complete with wooden armrests, a television playing a game show on silent, and dated reading material spread out on the coffee table. The wait feels long, because we’re each locked in our own heads.

Finally, an older gentleman enters, ending the pain of anticipating the session. He extends his hand to me. “You must be Mrs. Hale.”

I shake it, and reply, “It’s Parker, actually.”

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