Hmm. We’ll see.
My heart is beating hard, and it seems to be in my throat and I don’t honestly know why. I stare at her words, and every one of them is designed to be flirtatious, to engage me. Somehow, that feels shamefully good.
My wife works so much that we rarely see each other. And here is this girl, this much younger girl...throwing herself at me via message. It’s flattering.
It’s also pathetic that it somehow makes me feel validated.
God, I’m such a therapist. Can’t I turn it off for one fucking moment and simply enjoy that I got hit on by a hot young girl?
Jesus.
I turned her down. I’m good. But that doesn’t mean that I can’t stare at her nude picture a little while longer. I mean, she sent it to me. She wanted me to look at it. I shouldn’t feel like such a perv.
I run to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face, a physical effort to switch gears, to get the forbidden picture out of my mind. Because it is forbidden. I’m married, and there comes a point where fantasies aren’t good or healthy.
When I come out, Ginny is back.
“Hey, boss,” she says cheerfully, a sandwich in front of her. “Your one o’clock is here.”
“Send her in,” I instruct.
I sit down in my office, stick my phone back in my pocket and get back to business as usual.
My patient comes in, rife with overeating issues, and my afternoon begins.
*
Once again, Corinne works late and doesn’t come home in time for dinner. Michel arrives instead, with his hands full of takeout. We spread out at the kitchen table and eat our weight in Chinese food.
“Don’t you think that’s enough?” Michel raises an eyebrow at me over the top of my scotch bottle. I scowl at him from across the kitchen table.
“No.”
He rolls his eyes. “You know Corinne throws herself into work this time of year, more so than normal. It’s her way of dealing with things.”
I sigh.
“You don’t know what it’s like,” I insist to him, gulping down the amber liquid. “It sucks. I’m a therapist, and I can’t help my own wife. And she won’t come home long enough to let me try.”
“I know,” he says sympathetically. “I know. I’m not judging you. I just think you might want to limit yourself to maybe five drinks. Six is a little over the top.”
He’s wry, and I gulp down my sixth drink. The room spins a little, and I squeeze my eyes closed.
“Why don’t you go to bed, and I’ll clean up our dinner dishes on my way out,” my brother suggests. I don’t argue. I slap his back on my way past, heading down the hall.
“I love you, man,” I call over my shoulder.
“I know.”
I drop onto my bed, and I hear the back door close ten minutes later and Michel’s truck rumbling down the road. I think I’m going to go right to sleep, but I don’t.
I stare at the ceiling.
I miss my wife.
I feel empty. Cold. Alone.
I already miss the huge rush that I had this afternoon when Zoe sent me the picture. It was amazing, like the hit of a powerful drug. As a therapist, I know what it was. Dopamine is the hormone associated with pleasure. It’s a spark plug in your brain, something that triggers pleasurable feelings and assigns them to objects. It is a drug, so to speak, and as humans, we subconsciously do things to access that pleasurable feeling.
Feeling empty, I want to experience that again, to fill the void of my wife’s absence. To eradicate the anxious feelings that consume me lately.
So I use my phone to pull up some porn.
It’s harmless, faceless. Anonymous.
I go from site to site, one after another.
After a while, I realize something.
All of the girls I’m looking at look the same.
Like Zoe.
Fuck.
I close out of the porn sites because they make me feel like shit, but at the same time, I get a surge of adrenaline. Because Zoe is a real live person out there who wants me. I have proof in my hand.
I pull up her picture and stare at it again.
Between the dopamine and the scotch, I feel drunk on life, and I swear to God the room almost spins with it.
I’m embarrassed to realize as I stare at the picture that I’m not even looking at the girl’s eyes. I don’t have to. This is porn, in a way, and I don’t have to make a personal connection, and I don’t have to behave decently. I’m behind closed doors with a picture that a young flirt sent me.
I stare at her tits, and at her hand that is on her own crotch.
The dopamine rises in my blood and I ride that wave, and I’m almost blurry with it when I act on impulse and snap a picture of my erect penis in my hand.
Before I can think twice or clearly, I send her the picture.
Stunned, I watch my phone and see that my text was delivered.
Sweet Jesus.
The room comes into focus and what the fuck did I do?
I’ve never in my life done something like that. What the hell is wrong with me?
The reality of what I just did...the inappropriateness, the elicit nature of it all... It slams into me and I feel sick. Just in time for three bubbles to appear.
Dick pics don’t do it for me. What else ya got?
God.
Holy shit.
Holy.
Shit.
I’m so far beyond pathetic that it’s ridiculous. I feel like a complete dumbass. Who in the hell does something like this? I’m utter, utter scum.
I text back and I do the only thing I can do.
I lie.
I’m sorry. That was meant for my wife. Your number was pulled up and I made a mistake. I’ve had one too many drinks.
I wait.
Nothing.
Still nothing.
So I add, I’m sorry. Please disregard my text.
Finally, after what seems like forever, there are three bubbles.
I wait.
I feel like shit. Like pathetic shit. And finally, words appear.
Too late.
10
Now
Corinne
“You don’t want me to see my husband.”
I repeat Dr. Phillips’s words, astounded.
He nods. “Just for now. I want you to focus on yourself, rather than on how your actions might affect him.”
“How does that make any sense at all?”
Jude is my rock. My world.
Dr. Phillips shakes his head. “It’s not that we don’t want you to see your husband. It’s that we want you to take a few days to not worry about him, but to think of yourself. It’s standard procedure, Dr. Cabot.”
“Does Jude know? Did he agree to this?”
“He doesn’t like it much, either. But he does agree that you should be focusing on getting better at the moment.”
I feel deflated, like a balloon that has been stomped on.
“I don’t really know how to operate alone,” I admit. “It’s been Corinne and Jude for so long. Focusing on me, and me alone, seems foreign.”
Dr. Phillips nods. “Exactly. Which is why you need some space. Your husband will be waiting for you when you’re ready.”
I swallow and contemplate that. Why do I feel so anxious about that? Of course he will be. He’s my husband. In sickness and in health, for better or worse. We took vows.
“This might cheer you up,” the psychiatrist mentions, and I narrow my eyes. “You do get to have a visitor today.”
“I can have visitors, just not Jude?”
Dr. Phillips shifts his gaze. “While we feel like Jude might be distracting, I do think it might be beneficial for you to not be alone at this juncture.”
I’m still, and when I speak, my words are slow. “Who is it?”
“Your friend Lucy. She’s very concerned about you. She calls and checks on you every day. We’re truly trying to help you, Dr. Cabot.”
He sounds so sincere, yet so clinical.
“Fine,” I say simply. “I’m happy for the visitor. But don’t forget. I’m here on my own volition. No one in their right mind would hold me here if I change my mind.”
“No one plans to,” he agrees. “You’re here because you know it’s best.”
“For now,” I reply carefully.
Dr. Phillips nods. “For now.” He stands up. “Let’s go out and meet your friend.”