Page 42 of The Gathered Fragments of Us
"I know."
"So what now?"
He looked at me. "I think we should see someone—like a therapist, I mean."
I know surprised was splashed across my face. "Really? You’d do that? Go to couples' counseling?"
“There is something here that broke between us. Yes, I'm so much at fault, I can't even explain it. But I also recognize that rebuilding what we had—or building something new—I'm not… I just…I don't—I don't want to fuck it up any more than I already have Felicity.” His voice was fierce.
I wanted to believe him. That he was willing to do this. God, I wanted to believe him. But wanting and trusting were two very different things.
"I can't," I said quietly. "I can't just take your word for it anymore, Caden. Not after everything."
His face fell, but he nodded. "What do you need from me?"
"Time," I said. "And proof. Real, sustained proof that this isn't just another crisis you'll solve and then forget about when life gets busy again."
"I'm in. I mean it, Felicity. I will do anything and everything for the rest of our lives if that's what it takes to prove it."
I wrapped my arms around myself. "I'll find someone. A therapist. Make the appointments."
"Let me look? Is that okay? I don’t want you to have to do it. I fucked up, I should have to do the work. I can call the insurance and get a list. Then how about you and I talk through the list together and decide together."
"That's good. I like that. Thank you."
We stood there in the kitchen, the weight of everything unsaid hanging between us.
"The food smells good," I said finally, because I was hungry and exhausted.
"It's probably overcooked by now."
"I don't care."
But as he moved toward the oven, I added quietly, "I'm still sleeping in the guest room."
He stopped. "Okay."
"For a while. Maybe a long while."
"I understand."
"This conversation—tonight—it's not forgiveness, Caden. It's just acknowledgment that we both see the problem now."
"I know."
We ate mostly in silence. The food tasted like memory and effort and something I couldn't name. When we finished, I stood up.
"I should unpack."
"Do you need—"
"No. I can handle it."
Upstairs in the guest room, I sat on the bed and looked around at the space that would be mine for now. Maybe for a long time. Through the window, I could see my garden in the moonlight—overgrown but still there, still growing despite neglect.
I unpacked slowly, hanging my clothes in the closet. I put the new ones from Miami in the front. They made me smile. Nomatter what I was feeling right this moment, I could still smile at the thought of what this last weekend meant for me.
At the bottom of my suitcase, I found the receipt from the hotel spa and a few other mementos from my trip. The postcard I'd mailed to myself wouldn't arrive for a few days—with the postmark timestamping the end to my experience there—leaving with me a future reminder of the woman who'd remembered she was worth celebrating.
