It's 6:42pm when I pull my truck into the parking lot of Venus Veritas Therapy - tucked behind the Publix on Gold Hill Road, because of course Fort Mill's "therapy row" is next to a grocery store and a nail salon. I sigh and take my ball cap off my head to run my hand through my hair. "Fuck," I mutter to myself in the cab. "FUCK." My wife Susan and I have an appointment in exactly 18 minutes, our first, with a damn marriage therapist. How did my life come to this?
Backing up slightly: Hi, I'm Ed. Nice to meet you, wish it was under better circumstances. I married my college sweetheart, the only woman I've ever had sex with, at 22 years of age. Now, six years later, we're still childless and things are stale. If I'm being honest, they're worse than stale. They're crumbling, I just don't want to admit it fully. It's not entirely my fault, but it's also not entirely her fault, but neither of us can figure out how to build the bridge to fix it, and so we're giving this dumb shit one try before we get the lawyers involved and split everything down the middle.
I see Susan's car already here and I wince. I was supposed to have swung by the house to pick her up, but I got held up on a job site after one of the fucking trades accidentally nail-gunned his foot to the stairs, and now here I am, almost late and she had to drive herself. I'm sure I'm going to get an earful about this. I unbuckled my seatbelt, hopping down to the ground, and strode quickly across the parking lot, praying that nobody I knew from work was nearby.
They would give me no end of shit if they knew I was seeing a fucking marriage counselor. And if the tables were turned, I would too, so it was only fair. Even if I was now trying to pretend I was invisible as I scurried across a wide open parking lot on a bright summer evening. In case you were curious, it's really fucking hard for a 6'3", 230 pound guy to look invisible. It's not fat, it's muscle, I used to play college football and can still bench 375 on a good day, but it just means that I don't sneak. At all.
I walked into the lobby and sat in a chair next to Susan, muttering "Sorry I'm late," as I did. We met as freshmen in college, 18 years old and brand new adults, learning how the world worked. Within a matter of weeks, we were head over heels in love with each other, lost our virginity to each other, and fucked like rabbits the entire four years of college. I worked my ass off at a friend's construction business on the side, scraping up enough money to propose to her when we graduated.
She said yes, we got married, and our future was bright. We were going to have kids, get a nice house in the suburbs, and life was going to be perfect. Instead, we had a series of miscarriages and each time, she got a little more distant from me. The first time in college, the absolute panic of studying for finals and taking her to a clinic at the same time, almost praying it didn't work out because it would be so crazy - and then the tears and immediate regret when the doctor confirmed it was a failure. Then later, each one felt like another ice pick stabbed into my heart, and I couldn't take it anymore. I know it's hard on her, harder than it is on me, but nobody ever talks about how hard it is on the guy ever. Each one felt like my heart was being ripped out - I had so many hopes of my own children, coaching their sports teams, teaching them to change the truck's oil, how to ride a bike, and every time things didn't work out the way they were supposed to, I tried a little less hard to keep the magic alive.
So now here we were, twenty eight years old, and sitting in the fucking lobby of a therapist, some dried up crusty broad who was going to have us woo woo talk about our feelings and shit, and I was going to have to write an expensive check, and then our marriage was still going to fall apart. Probably. Even if I really fucking wished it didn't. And speaking of therapists, what the fuck kind of name was Venus Veritas, anyway? Love and Truth? Felt like a stripper pole meeting a therapy couch. I sighed, picking up a dog-eared copy of Field and Stream that happened to be here, and flipped through idly.
I guess I could have asked Susan how her day went, but it felt easier to just do this until we had to go talk to this person. I could have kissed her hello, but we'd kind of stopped doing that a while back. I don't even remember when, just one day we didn't, and then we fell into the habit of not. This waiting room smelt like cotton candy incense, such a strange vibe. I noticed Susan's knee bouncing, her usual "I'm impatient and trying not to let you know" tell. She was still heart-stoppingly beautiful, blonde hair, blue eyes, big tits on a medium-sized body that looked so damn petite next to me, the way I used to pick her up and throw her against the wall and we'd fuck for hours.
With a disgusted sigh, I put the magazine back down. This wasn't helping things at all. I glanced at my watch, then at the clock on the wall. They both showed 6:57pm. Almost time for this shit-show to begin. I stood, pacing slightly.
"Quit pacing," Susan idly snapped at me. "It makes you look nervous and I thought real men didn't get nervous." Grumbling to myself, I sat back down, refusing to give her the point on that one. I may have had a few nerves, but that didn't mean I was nervous. Anyone would have nerves talking to a therapist about their marriage, okay? Catching a glimpse of myself in the waiting room's mirror, I noticed a scowl on my face underneath the stubble of the day. Shit, we look like a pair of strangers waiting on root canals.
Finally, the door opened and the therapist walked out. I say that, but it kind of under-sells it. A 30-something woman in a sleek black pencil miniskirt, a white button down, sexy librarian glasses, fishnet stockings, and high heels walked out. She had pale skin, black hair, and a pink stripe running down one side of it. What the fuck kind of marriage counselor is this? I thought about glancing at Susan to get her reaction, but that would have required looking away from this stunning woman, and I realized only a little too late that was probably the trap I'd just fallen into. Shit.
"Mr. and Mrs. Hayes? I'm Fiona. Your appointment is with me tonight." Even her voice is amazing, I realize, and suddenly there's a lump forming in my boxers that wasn't there a few minutes ago. Awkwardly, I shuffle to my feet, glancing over at Susan who is looking at me with mild disgust and I realize she's caught me checking out the marriage counselor. Sighing in defeat, I follow her into the office where the two of us are forced to sit next to each other on a love-seat, while Fiona sits opposite us, crossing her legs at the thigh, a stiletto dangling idly from a heel as she pulls out a legal pad and a pen, starting to jot down notes. She pulls out a small hourglass, the sand in it seeming to shimmer a pink color as she flips it to start, but when I blink and stare at it, it's just sand.
We talk for a while, running through our history, but it feels so bland. For this, I pay $200 an hour? At one point, she starts peppering us with questions like it's a quiz show. "In a word, what's one thing you each miss. Ed, you first?"
"Spontaneity." Yeah, I miss when Susan would just walk up to me, drop to her knees, and deep-throat me because it's a day that ends in Y and we're young and horny. Or when she would be sorting the laundry and I'd walk up behind her, put her on the dryer, and fuck her while it vibrated her to multiple screaming orgasms. Those were the days.
"Great word, Ed." Did I just get praised? I kind of liked that, but still, weird feeling. "Now you, Susan."
"Feeling wanted." I roll my eyes. That was two words, Susan. Way to fail the assignment.
"Also great, Susan." Psh, my word was better. Not that we're keeping score, I guess. That would be counterproductive. We talk some more, answering more questions to the best of our ability, and I realize I don't have a clue how this is supposed to help us. All we're doing is talking, and not even necessarily talking about our relationship so much as just answering questions. Who knows, maybe at some point the stripper really will love you, if you pay her enough. And maybe the therapist really will solve your problems, I chuckle to myself.
Fiona gives me a sharp glare, as if she heard me say that out loud, and I wince, startled. I glance at Susan, who was still talking, and confirm that I definitely did not say that out loud, but Fiona looks annoyed at me. Cutting Susan off slightly, she keeps her gaze on me, but addresses both of us.
"Mr. and Mrs. Hayes, I just want to confirm that you're both actually interested in the potential of a positive resolution here? That was one of the first items on my questionnaire that you both filled out, and it is vital to my practice that you were truthful on that one item."
"Of course," I say instinctively, then pause for a second, thinking through my answer. Ultimately, I decide that yes, I am being truthful. It would be easier to let this fall apart, walking away and paying alimony, but some part of me deep down doesn't want to let Susan go. So I say it again, firmer this time. "Yes, I do."
"Yes," I hear Susan's voice next to me, a sudden conviction that I hadn't heard in what feels like years, and I turn and glance at her, a bit of surprise on my face. "Yes, I'm interested." Well, how about that. It actually sounds like she's being honest about it, which I probably wouldn't have put money on, but it's a nice ego boost to hear that.
"Okay, great. In that case, I think we're probably done for our first session." Fiona stands, extending a hand to each of us and pulling us to our feet at the same time. I tower over my wife, and loom imposingly over this attractive woman. An almost electric shock runs through me and I wince, my hand tingling where Fiona was holding it, and I notice Susan having the same experience. This lady wasn't trying to electrocute us for having a shitty marriage, was she?
Sighing, I leave her a check for the session and walk back to the parking lot with Susan. "See you at home," I mumble as she climbs into her car, driving quickly from the lot. I get into the truck and sigh, checking my phone. Most of the work crew is at the bar; I could go there and grab dinner with them. Or I could go home. To my wife. My stomach turns, suddenly uncomfortable, and I decide to go home. Maybe things would be better tonight. Flipping on the radio, the first song up is our college makeout song. The song we lost our virginity to. Not tonight, I grumble, and flip the radio off, stabbing so hard at the button that I nearly break my finger.
I hit every red light on my way and by the time I pull into my garage, parking alongside Susan's sedan, I know it won't matter. The house lights are off, I have to unlock the inner door from the garage, and I scrounge leftovers and eat in the dark kitchen, alone. Leftover burgers from last weekend's grilling, where we did the obligatory "have the neighbor friends over" thing. They're fine, the wife works with Susan, but the husband is a computer dweeb and he and I have nothing in common. I can't even remember his name, he was just so boring. Forced socialization doesn't really do it for me.
As I walk by the bedroom, I see Susan lying in bed, curled away from the door, a book light on as she reads. She was probably reading one of those damned romance novels about Mister Sexy Billionaire fucking the perfect shy girl and turning her into an absolute degrading whore, leaving the readers with drenched panties and contributing to their marital complaints about their husband's "lack of passion" or some shit. "I'm going to go watch a movie," I tell her and she grunts in reply. I could be at the bar right now, I grumble to myself as I grab a beer from the fridge and walk into my man cave. One of the nice perks about working for a home builder is that I can get most of the upgrades for my own house at-cost, and the man cave we put in here is worth it in spades. I've got a great big television, a half-bath built in, a kickass sound system, and the most comfortable couch I could buy. I even squeezed in some gym equipment, just a squat rack, bench, and weights, but it's enough to get the job done. There's an old photo of Susan from college in a crop top and miniskirt, posing cheerfully next to me as I stand there in my football uniform, helmet in my hand. We were so happy, once. And now my favorite room in the house is on the opposite end of the house from the bedroom I share with my wife.
I slump into the couch and pick up the remote, flipping on the television, scrolling for a movie to watch. The algorithm seems to be recommending nothing but romantic comedies, and fuck that. Disgusted, I flip the television back off, grabbing my phone to surf social media instead. Finally, I come across a video that I settled in to watch. It's some influencer, but she looks almost like Fiona the marriage counselor, just younger - early 20s. She's barely clothed, doing all of the e-girl / OnlyFans dirty talk, and suddenly I'm hard, thinking about the stockings she was wearing and the sexy librarian glasses, and I'm grabbing a gym sock, and then I'm sighing, shame-faced as I'm tucking my cock back into my pants.
I strip in the laundry room, dropping the disgusting wet sock in the washer along with the rest of my things. Susan's scrubs from yesterday are folded on the dryer, still smelling like lavender gloves and that fucking dentist's office she works at. I shove them out of the way harder than I mean to, leaving them in a pile on the floor before walking back to the bedroom, the light now off as Susan is done reading. As I slip into the room, I see the faint glow of blue light from her phone, illuminating her face, and I sneak a peak. She's looking at one-bedroom apartments in Charlotte and I sigh, my heart sinking. Taking a quick shower to wash the dirt and grime from the day's job sites off my body, I toss on a pair of boxers and an undershirt, slipping into bed next to my wife, and close my eyes. Maybe tomorrow will be a better day. I'm not sure it can be worse.