Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 104288 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 521(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104288 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 521(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
I love her. I miss her. So damn much.
I have to send her something. I don’t mean to give her mixed messages, but I also can’t stand the thought of her fending for herself at almost seven months pregnant.
So every day, I have items shipped to her parents’ house. One day it’s a six-pack of locally made craft ginger ale and a meal for four from my favorite Italian market in Wilmington. Another, I send a Kindle Fire and an Amazon gift card so she can fill that Kindle with books, movies, and magazines. I send a cashmere robe-and-slippers set my sister recommended. Flowers.
I text her every morning to check in and make sure she received the gifts.
I don’t understand, she texted me back the first day. You said you couldn’t do this. Why are you sending me this stuff?
I didn’t have a good answer. I need to know you’re taken care of.
If that’s the case, be the man I thought you were and show up in person and TALK TO ME, she’d texted back.
I didn’t have a good answer for that either. I’m sorry.
She didn’t respond.
By the end of the week, I’m so miserable, and so desperate for sleep, I call my primary doctor and ask for meds.
Instead, he refers me to a therapist. Same one I saw after Katie was born.
Last thing I want to do is sit on that woman’s couch again. Overall, my experience with therapy was all right. I definitely felt better afterward. But the actual experience of it—the awkward silences, the deep dive inward—was excruciating.
But I don’t know what else to do, so I call her.
“Sounds like you’re in crisis,” Dr. Bramble says. “I can see you today over my lunch hour if you’re available.”
I’m sitting on that fucking couch again at noon. Clammy hands. Massive headache.
“Welcome back,” she says.
I scoff. My phone vibrates in my pocket. I ignore it.
We exchange pleasantries at first. She asks how Katie is. If I’m still enjoying fatherhood.
My phone vibrates again.
“Do you need to get that?” she asks.
I shake my head. “I want to be here. Fully present. I want to get better.”
“That’s going to take time.”
“Well.” I spread out my hands. “I got time, I guess.”
“Tell me what brought you in today.”
Reliving the past week is a special hell I am not prepared for. I tell her everything, and end with, “Thing is, I feel awful about how I’m acting. But I can’t stop it. I want to be better than this. The people I love deserve better. I just . . . can’t.”
“Your anxiety is holding you captive.”
I spear a hand through my hair. “Feels like it.” My phone vibrates again. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
“Maybe you should get that. I promise, I won’t dock you any points if you check your phone. You do have a daughter.”
My stomach drops. Katie. Fuck, I was supposed to pick her up from school today, wasn’t I? Jen had to work. Between the insomnia and my inbox and the fact that I can’t think about anything other than Maren, I forgot.
Fuck fuck fuuuuuck.
Digging my phone out my pocket, I see have three missed calls and a text from Katie’s teacher.
“Father of the year right here.” I hang my head. “I was supposed to pick up my daughter twenty minutes ago, but I completely spaced. Jesus, what is wrong with me?”
“You’re struggling with some pretty serious anxiety,” Dr. Bramble replies gently, “while also juggling a full-time job and the demands of single parenthood. You have a very full plate, Tuck.”
Stuffing my pocket back in my phone, I rise to my feet. “I’m sorry I have to cut our session short. I do want to continue. I just—yeah, let’s hope I’m in a better frame of mind next time. I’m sorry.”
“Tuck?”
“Yeah?”
“The anxiety you’re experiencing—we have to manage it. You do that through therapy and perhaps medication if necessary. Not by leaving the woman who made you feel safe enough to fall in love again.”
Closing my eyes, I feel a slight release in my chest. Like the fear that’s gripped me for weeks and weeks is easing a tiny bit.
This is what truth feels like. It’s nice.
“I’ll think on that.”
“Think on this too. Maren is not Becca. Having a baby this time is not going to be the same experience as having a baby the last time. It will be different in all the right ways. Don’t think of it as another tragedy waiting to happen. Think of it as a second chance. A chance to do love and parenthood with a partner who sticks around, who wants the same things you do. Because from what you’re telling me, you and Maren are very much on the same page when it comes to the things that matter.”
I spear my hand through my hair again. “She’s a good girl.”