Page 79 of October
I sat there in the quiet, the weight of it all pressing into my chest—but for the first time in a long time, the weight felt like something I could carry.
The phone rang, and when I saw October's name on the screen, my stomach dropped.
She never calls. Not unless something's wrong with the kids. Not unless it's urgent.
I answered immediately, thumb hovering to put her on speaker. "Hey—hello? Are the kids okay? Areyouokay?"
October's voice came through, calm but a little tired. "Yes, yes. Don't worry, we're fine."
I exhaled, hand pressing to my chest like I could slow my own heartbeat. "Okay. Great. That's... good."
Beth was already watching me from the couch, her expression alert and amused.
Without missing a beat, October's voice cut through the speaker, "Do you want to try couples therapy?"
I froze.
Beth's eyes went wide, and then she looked at me with a slow, smug smile.She started clapping silently, fists tucked under her chin like she was trying not to squeal.
I blinked. "Oh. Uh—yeah. Yes. Sure."
October's voice stayed steady. "It doesn't mean we're getting back together. I just think... we need help. For co-parenting. For communicating. For not screwing this up worse than we already have."
"Yeah," I said quickly. "I understand. I'll look into it, set something up."
"Okay. Good night, Thomas."
"Good night."
The line went dead.
For a moment, I just stood there, holding the phone like it might ring again and she may take it all back. But then I turned around and hugged Beth for the second time that night.This one lingered.
Chapter Twenty-Six: The Silence Between
We sat on opposite ends of the couch. The couples therapist, Dr. Mireille, sat across from us, legs crossed, notepad restingon her knee. She'd spent the first half-hour just listening. No interruptions. Just nods, the occasional jot of her pen, a few well-placed "Go on"s when things got tense.
Finally, she set the notebook down.
"There are two separate issues here," she said gently, her voice steady, almost soothing. "But one feeds the other. There's the affair. And there's the miscommunication that came long before it."
October shifted slightly beside me, her legs crossed tight, her arms folded like a shield. I didn't move. I couldn't. The words were landing too close to home.
"We'll address both," Dr. Mireille continued. "But we need to start at the foundation. The affair is the fire, yes but miscommunication? That's the gas line running underneath. It's what made everything flammable to begin with. A leak you never noticed. A pressure build-up left untended. It was always there, hissing in the background, long before the first spark."
I nodded slowly. Couldn't disagree. I didn't even try to.
She let a beat of silence pass—comfortable, deliberate—before continuing.
"One of the most common mistakes I see in long-term couples," she said, "is the belief that silence means peace. That if something isn't said, then it doesn't exist. That avoiding conflict is the same as solving it. But silence isn't neutral. It doesn't disappear. It collects. It thickens the air. It hardens into resentment. Builds pressure under the surface, and before you know it, the person sleeping next to you becomes a stranger—someone you stopped updating. Someone you stopped inviting in."
My throat tightened.
Her voice stayed calm, but it pressed in close, like a truth you'd been avoiding.
"That's the real danger. Not conflict. Not tension. But the quiet. The space where questions go unanswered, where assumptions take root. Where one person pulls back and the other, unsure and hurt, fills in the silence with worst-case scenarios. Doubt grows. Distance settles in. And little by little, you stop being a team. You stop checking in. You stop being curious about each other."
She leaned forward slightly, her voice quieter now, like she was asking something sacred.
