Page 64 of False Start
It feels strange for him to tell me to make myself at home. We used to be each other’s home. I take a seat on the edge of the couch and try to relax.
Bryant takes a seat beside me. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“You look like you’re ready to bolt.”
“I’m not ready to bolt, Bryant. It’s just, it’s a little strange for you to tell me to get comfortable in your house.”
“You mean because it’s not our house?”
“It’s just that we have different spaces now, and I suppose I’m still not accustomed to it after living with you for so long.”
“Same. I still reach for you in the night, babe. I forget you’re not waiting at home for me after a long day on the practice field. I forget you’re not mine anymore. And it hurts every time I have to be reminded.”
I want to apologize, to say I’m sorry for any pain I’ve caused him, because I know I’ve been bitter since he cheated. I didn’t intend to be that way. It’s how I dealt with the betrayal. It was my defense mechanism, but it’s an exhausting one, and I don’t know if it’s sustainable any longer. I lean back against the couch and allow myself to visibly relax in his presence. I let my walls down just a few inches, and let him peek over the top. “I want to be able to forgive you, not for you, but for me. I don’t know how to do that or where to begin, but I’m willing to go back to therapy with you if it will help me find some peace.”
His face lights up like a child’s would in excitement, and his eyes dance back and forth as a dimple appears on either side. “What changed your mind?”
“I’m tired of being angry at you.”
— 22 —
Now
“WERE YOU ABLE TO complete your homework earlier this week?” Mary asks from her lone black wingback chair.
“Yes,” we both answer.
“I’m curious, Zhanna, will you tell me the spontaneous and fun thing you did together?”
Bryant reaches across the small space between us, and gently squeezes my hand in a reassuring gesture.
“After our last appointment, we danced in the middle of the street not far from here.”
“How wonderful!” She says. “Whose idea was it?”
“It wasn’t so much an idea as fate,” Bryant replies. “We were walking along and I heard a song that carries meaning for us. We danced to the song at our wedding.”
“Love Me Tender,” I further explain.
“It’s a beautiful song.” After a pregnant pause, during which time she jots notes in her brown, leather binder, Mary says, “I know the story of how you met and fell in love, but I don’t know why you’re sitting in front of me today as a divorced couple. What changed? What do you hope to accomplish in therapy? It’s pretty clear Bryant is here to reconcile, but what about you Zhanna? What motivated you to attend not only one, but two sessions?”
“A loaded question. I don’t know the answer to it to be honest. He came over the other night with beignets and coffee and we connected in a way we haven’t in a long time.”
“And how did it feel?” She asks.
“It’s a lot like relief. I’m still angry at what he did, but I’m not consumed by it anymore. It was a very sudden shift, one I can’t quite explain.”
“You’re entering a new stage of grief. You’ve left the anger stage, and you’re moving toward acceptance of the events that transpired. It’s great. It’s progress. You’re in a good place to be in therapy to assist in transitioning from the bouts of anger you may struggle with to perhaps trusting again.”
The thought of putting my trust in Bryant again in that way is scary. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Maybe what?” Bryant asks.
I shrug my shoulder as heat creeps into my cheeks. Therapy requires raw honesty and I don’t know if either one of us is ready for that level of brutal honesty.
“Talk to us, Zhanna. Tell us what you’re feeling and thinking,” she prompts. “Learning to communicate again is vital in learning to trust.”
