“Are you going to?”
She shrugged helplessly. “He thinks that’s how we’re going to get our sexual mojo back,” Shayla said, disdain lacing her words. “As if it’s as simple as lingerie.”
“The simpler answer would be for him to remain faithful. You might find that more alluring.”
“Yes,” Shayla said, holding out her hands to emphasize the obviousness of that answer. “Yes. I would.”
“Perhaps he could even stop staring at other women as if he wants to undress them when you’re together,” Michelle added, reminding Shayla of something else she’d once told her about her husband that understandably bothered her.
“That too.”
“Or,” Michelle began, taking a pause, waiting to make sure that Shayla was completely focused. That she was hearing and listening. Because sooner or later, they were going to need to get to the heart of the matter. To the truth of Shayla’s feelings for her husband. Or rather, her lack of feelings. “Or perhaps it doesn’t matter what he does anymore.”
“Because he cheated? I mean, I don’t need a degree in psychology to know that,” Shayla said sharply, speaking in an admonishing tone for one of the first times to Michelle. It didn’t bother her. Sometimes, patients needed to lash out. She was a useful dartboard, and she willingly took the hits when needed.
“I’m not saying because he cheated,” she said, in a gentle but firm voice, keeping her focus fixed on Shayla’s brown eyes. They were sad, tinged with tears, and red with hurt. “I’m talking about how you felt long before he ever started straying.”
“I felt fine,” Shayla said quickly. Too quickly.
“Shayla.”
Her client crossed her arms, looking away, her sharp nose in profile now. Shayla was dressed to perfection today, as always—decked out in crisp linen pants, leather heels, and a pretty peach silk top. Michelle had started to understand that her clothes were part of her uniform. The everything-is-together look.
Michelle began again. “Were you ever in love with your husband?”
The answer was instantaneous, like a viper hissing. “Of course,” Shayla said, and Michelle swore she could see fumes.
The truth hurt though. The truth was like a wicked slap when you were least expecting it. But Shayla needed to start thinking hard about her heart, and whether she’d ever truly given it to that man. They’d talked about her lack of interest in sex, to how it stemmed from long ago. Michelle was willing to bet the house that Shayla had never truly felt any sort of spark for him.
She leaned forward, clasped her hands together, and tried again. “Tell me then what it felt like being in love with him.”
Shayla sputtered and gasped, like a car engine rumbling, trying to turn over, but failing until finally she stopped running.
“I don’t know,” she whispered, and then they talked more, digging deep for the next fifty minutes.
At the session neared its end, she was still in tears, but they were starting to dry up.
“What do I do about the fact that I’ve never truly loved him?” Shayla asked.
“We’ll have to deal with that next time,” Michelle said. “But I promise you, we will deal with it. And we will figure out a way for you to navigate all the things you’re learning.”
“I’m scared,” she said quietly.
“Of what this might mean?”
Shayla nodded. “And how he’ll react. He gets unhinged at times. Paranoid, even.”
Unhinged was not a good word.
“How is he paranoid?”
“He went through my email once when he thought I was cheating on him. I never was, but if he thinks something is up he might snoop.”
Michelle nodded, glad for the warning. She’d dealt with this before with spouses. “I will help you through it all.”
Shayla left first, mouthing a heartfelt thank you. As Michelle gathered her purse and started to shut down her laptop, a sense of calm washed through her. She’d done something positive for a long-time patient. She’d held her hand, metaphorically, and helped her walk into the dark, dangerous woods of the unknown. As she closed various browser windows, she spotted a few new emails that looked important, but she resisted the urge to check. That was why she had a phone. Well, two, really. Anything that had come in at seven o’clock on a Friday could be dealt with later. Once her computer was off, she locked the door and left, checking her work email in the elevator.
She scrolled through some notes from colleagues, answering a few brief ones on the ride down. As the elevator doors opened at the lobby, she clicked on the next note and nearly squealed for joy. One of the European journals she’d submitted her paper to loved her research and wanted to talk to her about the next steps for publishing it.
Michelle beamed, because this journal was the European equivalent of Psychology Today. To have an article run there had been a dream of hers, and would be a huge career high. She’d been wanting this, craving this, hoping for some sort of placement for her research. This could serve her quite well in her field, and earn her more recognition. But more importantly, this placement had the potential to spread her findings far and wide. Which, in turn, meant that more of her colleagues would be aware of how to better help patients struggling with love and sex addiction.
Equal parts pride and happiness filled her as she let those words echo through her body—next steps. Then she saw there was more to the note. She read on.
We are so excited about your research and findings that we want to introduce some of them at our upcoming conference. I know this is completely last minute, but one of our speakers fell through for our conference in three weeks. Perhaps the timing is fortuitous though. Would you be available to keynote? The conference is in Paris, France, and all expenses will be covered, as well as a stipend supplied.
Sincerely,
Julien
Excitement roared through her veins. And a tiny touch of nerves too. As she walked through the lobby, she re-read the email, and replied with the only answer there was, yes, when she smacked right into a tall man with dark hair in need of a cut, and square black glasses.
“Are you okay?” he asked, as if he were dreadfully concerned that he’d just walked into her.
“Yes, I’m fine,” she said, even though she winced slightly from the bump. His hand was on her elbow, steadying her, and she stared at it.
“Oh,” he said, and it registered. Time to stop touching. “I’m so sorry.”