Page 71 of Novel Problems

“Let’s wait until I’m back.” My voice turned serious. “But George, thanks so much for talking to me about all this stuff. I really appreciate it,” I said, my voice wavering.God, George is great.I felt almost overwhelmed by how strongly my feelings were for her. I cleared my throat. “Anyway, that’s enough of my news. How’s your mom’s visit going?”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

HANNAH

As I took a shower and dressed for the day, I reflected on last night’s conversation with George. It had given me a new way of seeing things and had been immensely comforting at the time, but this morning, a niggling voice in the back of my head kept asking whether this was another example of me becoming too reliant on George.

If I depended on George for emotional support, writing inspiration, and her friendship circle, and then we broke up… My throat constricted at the thought, making it hard to swallow. The thought of losing George was unbearable, I didn’t know how I’d cope with losing everything else too.

No. I took a deep breath in an attempt to keep my anxiety at bay.

If I was becoming too reliant on George, then I should do something about it. Rather than depending on George to help me work through my problems, I could get a professional involved. Once I’d finished putting on my pants and t-shirt, I pulled up my therapist’s booking page. She was usually booked out for weeks, but she must havehad a last-minute cancellation as there was an appointment available later in the afternoon.I might as well take advantage of being here and see her face to face.I pounced on it before someone else snapped it up. A therapy appointment was long overdue. While it was healthy to be open with your partner about your struggles, it wasn’t healthy to expect them to fix them for you. That was something I had to do myself—ideally with a trained professional.

Speaking of trained professionals, George had sent me the worksheet from her therapist, listing various techniques for having difficult conversations.

Once I’d finished getting ready, I sat on my hotel bed and read through it again. All the tips made perfect sense when I read them, but they weren’t things I necessarily would have thought of myself. Things like expressing my perspective using “I” statements, such as “I feel” rather than directing “You” statements at the other person to avoid sounding too accusatory. Actively listening and paraphrasing to make sure I understood the other person’s point of view. Trying to remain respectful and calm, even when I didn’t agree with what the other person was saying.

I was reading the worksheet for a third time, considering how I could put it into practice with Tania and my parents, when my phone vibrated. It was Tania.

I’d texted her after I’d finished speaking to George last night, asking if she was free to discuss our asset split. I took in a deep breath as I read her message. It was really happening.

“I can meet you at 8:30 a.m. at Jean-Jacques, if it’s not too late notice?”

I checked my phone. It was just after 7:30 a.m. Plenty of time to catch the subway up to my old local French caféby 8:30 a.m. In fact, it’d only take about twenty minutes, leaving me with time to burn.

Assuming my parents were back from Greece—which they should be, according to their itinerary—they’d both be awake and likely reading the news at their dining table by now. I might as well get my conversation with them over and done with too. I wasn’t sure which one I was dreading the most, speaking to Tania or my parents, but tackling them both, one after another, didn’t seem like the worst idea. Then I could tell myself it’d all be over in two hours.

I made a coffee using the Keurig in my room and took a long swig. With the much-needed stimulant in my system, I took a deep breath and video-called my parents.

It rang multiple times, and I was almost about to give up when my parents’ ceiling appeared on my phone, followed by my dad’s nostrils.

“Hello?” I said.

“Who is it?” Mom asked, irritation clear in her voice.

“Hannah,” Dad replied.

Mom must have grabbed Dad’s iPad because the ceiling disappeared and was replaced with most of Mom’s face, frowning at me. “We’ve been trying to get a hold of you.”

My immediate reaction was to point out that they didn’t have a great track record of returning my calls either, but I took a deep breath instead.Stay calm and respectful, and practice active listening.“Not being able to speak to me must have been frustrating. I’m sorry. I’ve had a lot going on the past few days. How was your vacation?”

“Fine,” Mom snapped. “But the last thing we needed was to get back home to discover that not only are you and Tania getting a divorce but you’ve published fourfantasynovels”—she emphasized the word fantasy—“which you failed to tell us about. It was humiliating receiving the newsfrom a friend who read an article about it. Not only that, but it has overshadowed the publication of your father’s latest book.” Mom swung the camera over to Dad, who pressed his lips together, his face serious. He said nothing.

I resisted the urge to shake my head.Good Lord.It wasn’t like I’d revealed my identity on purpose to undermine my father. And surely there wouldn’t be much cross-over in readership between myfantasynovels and Dad’s academic literature?

“Honestly, I thought we raised you better than this,” Mom concluded.

I took another deep breath and bit back a snarky comment about how it had been Barb, not them, who’d raised me. Instead, for the first time in my life, I told my parents how I felt, trying to use all the skills in the worksheet. I explained how I’d felt they hadn’t approved of my writing dreams, why I hadn’t been comfortable telling them when I’d finally gotten a book deal, and how, when my books took off, I didn’t want to share the news with them because I was worried they’d only throw cold water on my success. And with Tania…well, I’d tried phoning them a few times since we separated, and they hadn’t returned my calls, and it wasn’t the sort of thing you just texted about.

“Well, we’ve been busy,” Mom said defensively, and I sighed. They were always busy. That appeared to be my parents’ only response to what I’d said, so there wasn’t a lot of opportunity for me to practice my active listening skills. I asked Dad about his book, and we spent a few more minutes engaging in superficial chit-chat before we hung up. I stared at my blank phone screen. It had gone about as well as I’d expected. There’d been no come-to-Jesus moment where we all realized the error of our ways and vowed to be closer, but it felt good that I’d been open and honest with them. I’d saidmy piece, made them aware of how their words and actions impacted me, and I couldn’t control how they responded. What I could control was who I chose to have in my life. Like George.

One down, one to go.

I checked the time on my phone. While I still had time to spare, I might as well start making my way up to Jean-Jacques.

The subway trip passed uneventfully. It was a strange sensation getting out at 79thStreet station, with its cramped staircase and arched skylights.I used to come here twice a day.I crossed Broadway and walked down 73rdStreet until I came to Jean-Jacques’s red, white and blue striped awning.

Paul, the owner of the café, who was placing a vase of flowers on one of the front tables, looked up as I walked in. “Hannah! We haven’t seen you in a while!” he exclaimed. “How have you been?”

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