God … she has no idea how long I’ve waited to see these tiny glimpses, these moments where I know she’s feeling more than resentment. She’s feeling guilt. Not just about Lucy’s accident—she’s fighting all the things that went wrong leading up to the moment Austin drowned.
“Josh is having a guy make his house wheelchair accessible.”
“Oh? Is Josh in a wheelchair now?”
“Emmett …” She frowns, but it’s more of a scowl. “What is your problem with Josh?”
“He stole my wife.” It comes out so quickly and so automatically, it takes me a moment to realize I said the words. Should I regret saying them? I’m struggling with this so much. How did this day come? The day that I have to feel guilty for loving her.
“I’m not your wife.”
“You’ll always be my wife.” I can’t help it. My heart won’t let me lie about this.
Her head inches side to side. “You’re delusional. You stole me from a guy on our first date. How ironic that you now feel like someone has taken something that you thought belonged to you. Poor Emmett.”
Rubbing my lips together, I grunt. “Josh will never make you happy.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.” I shrug.
“Why would you say that?”
“Because you never would have married me if Josh was your type.” I take two steps closer to her, and she squirms with nothing but a brick wall behind her.
“Don’t touch me,” she whispers.
I can’t begin to describe what those words do to me. It’s not so much what she says, but how she says it. Not a warning. It’s a plea.
I think I could press my lips to hers and put my hands on places of her body that would make Josh feel sick to his stomach. I could do it, and she wouldn’t stop me. She doesn’t hate me by choice. She does it out of necessity. She knows we’re everything or nothing, and right now, we’ve been forced into the middle where it’s impossible to deal with the feelings—the emotional ones and the physical ones.
When she’s with him, in his bed, in his arms, she thinks of me. That’s the only way she can be with him.
“Please don’t touch me,” she repeats her plea, fisting her hands at her sides.
“I already am,” I whisper.
Tatum closes her eyes as if she can will me away. I take pity on her, turn, and jog home in spite of the rain.
Chapter Seventeen
THEN
Andi had a friend who was a child psychiatrist. Tatum didn’t see why Lucy needed to see someone. She thought she could mother her through the grieving process. Ironic, since Tatum could barely keep herself functioning after Austin’s death.
Eventually, her parents and mine convinced her it might be a good idea, and Tatum agreed. We met with the psychiatrist before Lucy did. We—and by we, I mean I—went through the events of the day that Austin died. Tatum tried to hold it together while sitting as far away from me as possible on the love seat by the window overlooking downtown Kansas City.
“Could I have a few minutes alone with you?” I asked Dr. Kane when she said she had no further questions for us.
Tatum gave me a suspicious look that I ignored.
“I’ll meet you in the car.” I handed her the keys.
After another disgruntled look, she snatched the keys and headed to the car.
Dr. Kane shut the door. “You want to tell me the real story now … don’t you?” The very observant doctor gave me a sad smile and returned to the chair adjacent the love seat.
I rested my elbows on my knees, hands folded in front of me. “How did you know?”
“I have a gift for reading people. You were very easy to read as you told the version of the story that I assume you’ve decided is the best version for Lucy …” She twisted her lips. “Maybe even for Tatum. I’m not sure it’s the best version for you.”
“So what’s the real story?” I asked.
She crossed one leg over the other and folded her hands in her lap, long fingernails perfectly painted in light pink and white tips. “I don’t know. That’s what you’re going to tell me.”
“Is this confidential?”
“Lucy is the patient.”
“I don’t want Tatum to know.”
“But Lucy can know?” She cants her head to the side.
“Lucy does know. Well, sort of.”
“Please, Emmett … enlighten me. We all want what’s in Lucy’s best interest.”
I cleared my throat and started from the beginning, which was the day in the delivery room that Tatum made me promise to love our children more than her—more than us. Dr. Kane didn’t flinch, didn’t give anything away like my words surprised her. If anything, she nodded slowly a few times, conveying she understood and maybe approved. I wasn’t sure.
“Did Lucy believe you? When you told her it was your fault? Or do you think she wanted to believe you because it meant she didn’t have to take responsibility for it?”