Page 175 of Fault Lines
I said nothing, hands locked in my lap. Cam just nodded, eyes never leaving the plant that was almost a replica to the one in the waiting room.
She continued, “Today isn’t about assigning blame or rehashing the past. It’s about figuring out if you can move forward in a way that’s healthy for both of you.” Her gaze flicked to Cam, then to me, then back again. “So, why don’t we start there? What are you hoping to get out of this, Olivia?”
I hadn’t expected to be put on the spot so quickly. I swallowed, stared at the stitching in the couch cushion, and said, “Honestly? I don’t know. Maybe I just want to know that if I give this another try, I won’t end up hating myself for it.”
Dr. Stiles nodded, making a note. “That’s a fair goal.” She turned to Cam. “And you?”
He hesitated, lips parting and closing twice before he found the words. “I want her to know I’m not the same person I was.” His voice was rough, not with anger but with the effort of making a confession. “I want to prove that I can be better. For her, but also for myself.”
I glanced at him, surprised. He looked tired, but not defeated.
Dr. Stiles scribbled something, then said, “You know, most people assume therapy is about fixing what’s broken. But sometimes it’s about figuring out if there’s anything left worth fixing.” She set her clipboard aside and crossed one ankle overher knee. “Cam, we’ve talked a lot about your history—your family, your habits, your expectations. Olivia, I’d like you to know that he’s made more progress than most clients in half the time.”
Cam flushed, a muted pink at his neck.
I tried to smile, failed, and said, “That’s good to hear.”
She nodded. “It is. But as you both know, progress isn’t the same as perfection. Cam still has work to do. He’s acknowledged that. The question is: can you trust the version of himself he’s trying to build? And maybe more importantly, do you want to?”
She paused, let the words settle.
I looked at Cam. He was fidgeting with his hands, thumbs digging into his palm, but his jaw was set.
I answered honestly: “I want to. I just don’t know if I can. I don’t ever want to question if I’m good enough for someone again. I want to be enough. And know it.”
Dr. Stiles seemed to like this answer. She smiled, soft and a little sad. “That’s honest. And it’s okay to not know. The thing about relationships—any relationship—is that there’s always a leap of faith involved. No one can guarantee the other person won’t hurt you again. But if you’re both willing to work—really work—there’s a chance to beat the odds.”
Cam nodded, but I could see the tension in his posture, the way he hunched forward like he was bracing for impact.
Stiles let a silence bloom, then said, “Olivia, is there something in particular you’re afraid of? Something that would help to get on the table today?”
I took a breath, exhaled. “I’m afraid of being stupid. Of trusting him and ending up right back where I started, or worse.”
Cam’s face pinched, but he said nothing.
She said, “What would it look like, to you, if Cam really changed? What would you need to see?”
I thought about it. “I’d need to know he wasn’t just putting on an act. That he wouldn’t turn into a different person the minute he felt insecure, or alone, or… angry at me.”
Stiles nodded, then turned to Cam. “Do you think that’s possible?”
He didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was so soft I almost missed it. “I don’t know if I’ll ever stop being insecure. Or angry at myself. But I don’t want to take it out on her anymore. I’m trying to learn how to be… enough. Even if I never have everything I thought I wanted.”
He looked at me then, really looked, and in that moment I saw the old Cam—the one who’d driven three hours to see me in college, who once learned to bake sourdough just because I’d mentioned it in passing, who’d held my hand through the worst nights of our life together.
Stiles watched us, silent for a few seconds, then said, “One thing I’ve found helpful is letting your partner read your process—literally. Cam, would you be willing to let Olivia read some of the journal entries you wrote during our sessions? If she’s comfortable?”
Cam blanched, as if she’d asked him to read a diary entry aloud in front of Congress. “All of them?”
“Maybe just the ones that feel important. The ones about your relationship. You’ve worked hard to articulate your thoughts in writing—maybe it would help her to see it, unfiltered.”
He glanced at me, as if to ask whether I wanted this. I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
“Yeah,” he said, after a long pause. “Okay. I can do that.”
Stiles smiled, genuine now. “Good. We’ll set that as a goal.”
She checked her watch, then said, “We’re almost out of time. Any last thoughts?”
