An Unforgivable Love Story

by B. L. Berry

  He’s not at all what I was expecting.

  “Thank you for agreeing to meet with us on such short notice, Dr. Hall. I’m Sharna and this is my husband, Simon.” He gestures to the white leather couch against the wall and I take a seat, noting just how soft and supple the material is. My heart sinks when Simon sits on the other side and not in the middle next to me.

  “It’s no problem. And please, call me Dr. Bob from now on. Dr. Hall is my father.”

  Simon wipes his palms over his pants as his leg bounces at a blistering pace.

  His nerves are shaking the whole damn couch. Instinctively, I reach out and squeeze his knee, forcing him to stop.

  “Now, before we begin I want to lay down a few ground rules, so to speak.

  Always remember that I’m not here to make things better between the two of you — that’s your job. You need to allow yourself to be your true self. Our time together only works if you’re honest with one another. And if you keep an open mind and stay pure of heart, I think you’ll be amazed at just how much progress you can make together. My goal is to help you both communicate more effectively, understand each other better. It is with that understanding that you’ll find your marriage becomes stronger.”

  “You will absolutely lose your mind trying to understand me,” Simon quips. My mouth drops and I gasp in horror at his uncalled for remark. Did he really just say that?

  “You don’t think I’m capable of helping you?” Dr. Hall tilts his head, already trying to read Simon’s thoughts.

  “I’m not sure there’s anything capable of helping us at this point.”

  What? My eyes snap to his and my stomach turns at the admission. I feel the adrenaline surge my veins and I’m not sure if I’m rendered speechless from his openness or from the fact I feel completely blindsided right now.

  “Interesting. What makes you say that, Simon?” Dr. Bob props his head in his hand and I notice how his forehead wrinkles when he’s analyzing our every word.

  “Things between us haven’t been good for a while now,” he admits.

  This is news to me. I knew we were disconnected, but for him to openly imply that he doesn’t think our marriage is salvageable cuts deep. I bite my tongue and do everything I can to avoid crumbling into a tearful mess.

  “And what about you, Sharna? Do you think marriage counseling can help?”

  “I do,” I hate that my voice is feeble and sounds so unsure. “At least I hope it can.”

  “Well, believe me when I say I hope it can, too. The most important thing I want you both to understand is that whatever we say here in this room, stays here in this room. I want this to be a safe place where you can open up and say what’s on your mind. Try not to hash things up at home unless it’s done in a healthy, productive manner — you can’t use your words here against each other at a later time. But most importantly, for this to work, you both need to want to be here and want for things in your marriage to improve. Do you both want that?”

  “Yes,” I say and then turn to see Simon nod silently, eyes diverted to the floor. “Good.” Dr. Bob reaches over to his desk and picks up a legal notepad then clicks his pen open. “So tell me, Sharna. Why do you feel you need couples therapy?”

  I look at Simon. He simply raises his eyebrows at me as if to say, “Go ahead.”

  “Well, to be honest we really haven’t been seeing eye to eye on much lately. And I’m feeling really distant from him. He’s around, but it’s like he’s not even there.”

  “And we’re expecting,” Simon interrupts. “Sharna suggested therapy to help us before the baby comes.” He waves his fingers in air quotes, making a mockery of this whole process.

  “Ah, congratulations to you both.” Dr. Bob offers a warm smile, not focusing on Simon’s backhanded comment. “Had you been trying to conceive for a while? Often times marital stress comes with big changes like this.”

  “Actually … no. This child is a welcomed surprise.” Instinctively, my hands move to my stomach. I know this baby isn’t going to fix things. It won’t fix us. But hopefully we can fix ourselves before the damage is done.

  “How wonderful,” he exclaims, clapping his hands together. I try to smile but it’s hard knowing that this child isn’t as well received by Simon as I wished.

  My husband shifts uncomfortably on the couch. “Actually, children were never in the plans for us.”

  “I see.” Dr. Bob writes something down and I lift my chin to try and read his note. Protectively, he crosses his legs at the knee and props the notepad up against it, effectively blocking my view.

  “And how do you feel about your baby, Simon?”

  “Honestly?”

  “Yes. Truthfulness is key,” Dr. Bob reiterates.

  My eyes volley between them and Simon watches me cautiously and wipes his palms across his thighs. And suddenly the ticking of the clock is the loudest sound in the world.

  “I’m scared as shit. I’m not ready to be a father.” He grows quiet for a moment and then suddenly his voice is booming. “We said all along that we didn’t want kids. I feel like I just figured out where my life is headed and now this. I’m stressed out about how much this kid is going to cost. Kids change everything and I’m not ready to turn my life upside down. I just don’t think I’ll be a good dad.”

  “Yes, well, children can be overwhelming. And your response to this pending news is perfectly normal.” It is? “But I believe that the vast majority of parents find that their children are worth every gray hair and stressful moment. And if people waited until they truly felt ready on an emotional and financial level, I’d venture to guess that by the time most of us start trying to have kids it would be too late. So while you’re not currently ready for this child to arrive, you do have some time to prepare yourself.”

  Without even realizing it, I’m nodding in agreement and Dr. Bob shifts his focus to me.

  “And how do you feel about it all, Sharna?” He temples his fingers at his lips and looks at me inquisitively. My eyes drift from Dr. Bob to my husband and back to our therapist again.

  “At first I was a little scared, mostly for Simon’s reaction. And rightfully so, apparently.” I say that last part under my breath. While his initial reaction was lackluster, his confession here was downright painful. “But now that it has sunk in, I’m really excited. I think that on some level, part of me has always wanted to be a mom. I know this child wasn’t planned, but that doesn’t mean I love this baby any less.” I smile inwardly, thinking about the amazing future ahead of us.

  “And how has the pregnancy been thus far? Are you feeling pretty good?”

  “Surprisingly yes. My morning sickness now isn’t as bad as it was those first couple of weeks. Though there were some complications recently.”

  “Oh?” Dr. Bob says, scribbling something else down on his notepad.

  “Y—Yes,” I stutter, cringing at the memory. I genuinely thought I was going to lose our baby. “I experienced quite a bit of bleeding and thought I was having a miscarriage. Fortunately it turned out to be a cervical infection treatable with antibiotics.”

  “I imagine that must have been terrifying for the pair of you,” he prompts.

  “It was,” I say. Simon simply responds with silence. “When I went to the hospital, I couldn’t get a hold of Simon.”

  “And how did that make you feel?”

  How the fuck does he think that made me feel? Is this guy for real? I curl my fingers into a tight fist and imagine myself crushing his words. I hate his gross overuse of that stupid phrase.

  “I was hurt and scared. Alone. And angry.”

  His brows pull together and he chews on the cap of his pen. Then he challenges, “Angry?”

  “Simon was ignoring me. Calls and texts went unanswered while I was alone in the emergency room!” The words come as a bullet train.

  “I wasn’t ignoring you, Sharna! I told you I was with a client when you called and I came as soon as I picked up your voicemail. Your phon
e didn’t get reception in the ER, so don’t try and paint me the bad guy.”

  I pull a tissue from the box, prepared for the onslaught of tears that never come. Ignoring Simon’s defensiveness, I open my mouth and justify my anger. “A small part of me felt like Simon was relieved about the prospect of losing our baby.”

  “Those are some loaded words,” Dr. Bob observes. He looks at the pair of us and Simon doesn’t deny it. I swallow hard at the realization that I’m right. “I am happy that the complications were treatable and hope that you continue to stay healthy throughout the remainder of your pregnancy. And what are your thoughts on how this baby will change things?”

  “I’m not sure I have thoughts on it, per se. I have acceptance of it though. I know that a baby changes things, changes everything, in fact. Hell, it has already changed my body. But all of that comes with the territory of becoming a parent and I’ve chosen to accept it rather than panic.”

  Dr. Bob goes off on a tangent about embracing the challenges ahead of us and doing everything we can as a couple to turn ourselves into a “strong family unit.” We talk a little about the past, mostly how we met and some of our favorite memories together. It’s not at all what I was expecting.

  And before I know it, our hour together is drawing to an end. We’ve talked at length about this baby and not nearly as much about us as I would have liked. Then, as if he reads my mind, he changes the subject.

  “One thing I like to do at the end of every session is a final thought, so to speak. So Sharna, before we go, if you could tell your husband one thing for him to remember the rest of this week, one thing for him to hold onto until our next session. What would you want him to keep close to his heart?”

  I sit back and think about this. I feel like the obvious answer is I love you. Falling in love with him was so damn easy. It’s holding onto that love that is harder than I ever imagined. Loving someone day in and day out is a choice. And I feel like I wake up every morning and choose him. But lately, I feel like he’s not making the same choice and I desperately miss the days where I felt his love radiating from his every fiber. And so I tell him the one thing that has been eating me inside for the past year or so.

  Slowly, I turn toward Simon so I can speak directly to him. The room falls quiet, even the ticking of the clock hushes in anticipation of my words. My voice is sincere, but barely above a whisper. “I miss us.”

  His elbows are on his knees and he’s leaning over, eyes affixed to the floor. But at my words, he turns his gaze to meet mine and truly listens.

  “I miss us so much, Simon.” My eyes gloss over with pending tears. He reaches out and grabs my hand tightly, seeming to understand the implication of my words. “But what I miss most about us is you. I miss the way you used to hold the door open for me. I miss how you’d send flowers just because. I miss how I’d be teetering on the edge of sleep and hear you whisper ‘I love you’ just before I’d surrender to the pull of slumber. My life is missing you.”

  Simon’s eyes are full of sadness and regret, presumably for lost time, for unnecessary pain, and for lies both spoken and silent.

  “I miss you, too.”

  “And what about you, Simon? What do you want your wife to keep close to her this week?”

  Simon says nothing. Instead, he gives my hand the tenderest of squeezes and that act alone speaks the loudest.

  Twenty

  Invalid

  “What are you reading?”

  Simon is in bed, leaning against the headboard, his bare chest exposed and comforter gathered around his waist. He grabs his bookmark from the nightstand, marks his page and closes the book.

  “Lady Chatterley’s Lover. Once you can get past the old prose, it’s really quite good,” he admits, his voice thick with surprise.

  And he’s not the only one surprised. I can’t remember the last time Simon actually read a book. His nose is almost always buried in the latest issue of some financial trade publication or the Wall Street Journal.

  “Oh? What’s it about?” I drop my robe to the floor and crawl into bed next to my husband.

  Simon takes a quick glance at the back cover and passes me the book. I take it from his hands and notice the worn-in spine and frail pages.

  “It’s about a couple. The husband returns from World War I and he’s paralyzed from the waist down. I haven’t gotten very far yet, but apparently he encourages his wife to have sex with another man since he’s an invalid. However, she ends up having a sordid affair with his gamekeeper in a lower class, falls in love with him, the whole nine yards. From what I understand it was quite taboo when it first released, banned in most countries. I’m told it’s as hot as it is miserable.”

  What the hell? So not only is he reading, he’s reading a piece of classic literature. Who is this man? I run my fingers over the cover and open the book to the first page.

  “A first edition? Did you find this at a used bookstore?”

  He pulls the book out from my hands and gently places it on his nightstand.

  “Nah, a friend loaned it to me.” His voice is soft and low.

  “And why was it so taboo?” I roll onto my side with my back to Simon and press up against his chest. My body willingly accepts the warmth radiating from his.

  “Because …” he lowers his mouth to my ear and slowly growls, “it was an intensely … sexy … book for its time.”

  “Are you reading old time erotica?” I tease as I look up and over my shoulder at his blushing face. One time I tried to get him to read one of my favorite dirty books aloud to me in bed. He couldn’t make it three pages without doubling over in a fit of laughter. What I thought would be sexy ultimately ruined my alpha male fantasies.

  Those were the days.

  “So what if I was?” he challenges with a crooked grin that touches the corners of his eyes. “Men watch porn. Women read it. Maybe I just wanted to see what the big deal was.”

  “The least you could’ve done was picked up something from this century.” I hook my bottom lip with my upper teeth and look over my shoulder at him. There’s an impish glint in his eyes that sets my insides afire. We pause in this moment in time before our lips collide together in a battle for control.

  But for him, I willingly surrender to his touch. Just like I always do. I can’t remember the last time he kissed me like this, but I welcome it whole-heartedly. It feels good to be in his arms again. To be close on this level.

  It feels like home.

  Simon’s hand splays across my stomach, his thumb brushing up against the underside of my breast. I grind my ass up against him and slip my hand behind me to coax his dick to life.

  “Yeah, right there, baby.” His breath is hot against my neck, chilling me to the core in the most pleasurable way possible.

  I roll over to face him and he playfully nips my lips with his teeth before plunging his tongue into my mouth for a deep, erotic kiss. I instinctively moan in desire.

  My fingertips trail around the elastic band of his boxer briefs and I stroke him over his clothes.

  But nothing happens.

  I’m touching him and he’s touching me and nothing is happening.

  Quickly, Simon strips my camisole off and flips me onto my back. He studies my body intently, starting at my eyes and makes his way down to my legs. He hovers over my belly for just a beat too long and I instantly feel insecure.

  I wish I were one of those women who were proud of their growing pregnant body. But I’m not. Perhaps my subconscious is shamed by the means in which we conceived, but I am just not one of those women who feels endless joy and is comfortable in her own skin. I drape my arm over my stomach to hide my imperfections.

  Simon brings his lips down to my chest and kisses in between my breasts before taking one of my nipples playfully in his teeth. He trails kisses across my collarbone, up my neck and behind my ear, causing my body to hum.

  Forget foreplay. I want my husband. And I want him right now.

  He closes his ey
es as I trail my fingertips over his chest, anticipating his next move. But he doesn’t make one. I grab his soft, cranberry-colored boxer briefs and tug them down his hips to reveal … nothing.

  His body doesn’t respond.

  I cup my hand and move my palm up his shaft, searching for something. Anything.

  Simon growls and balls his fists up tightly in defeat. And just like that, the energy in our bedroom shifts. The sudden absence of his touch feels like an abandonment. I crave his skin on mine but all I can do is look at him in disbelief — this has never happened to us before. His body is rejecting my body.

  “I … I can’t get it up.” He slams his head back against the pillow in frustration.

  “What do you mean?” I prop myself up on my elbow.

  “What do you mean, what do I mean?” He gestures to his nether regions in frustration and disbelief. “I mean that I can’t get it up. My soldier won’t stand at attention!”

  Oh my God.

  My stomach falls and my heart crumples into a heap inside my rib cage. I expected this to happen, but not this early, not this soon.

  Simon’s cheeks turn red and he rakes his hands down his face in embarrassment. But as embarrassed as he is, it pales in comparison to how horrified I am.

  He doesn’t find me attractive anymore. My body is changing and he doesn’t know how to deal with it. Neither of us do.

  “Now that I’m pregnant you’re not attracted to me anymore, are you?” I don’t know if I want to hear the truth. The truth has the power of crushing me or keeping me whole. And that one tiny sliver of hope is the most powerful thing in my world, so I’m going to cling to it for as long as possible.

  “Sharna …” he says, his voice lingering off into nothingness. He doesn’t deny it and he doesn’t concede, which is more painful than I thought.

  Swiftly, I crawl out of bed, pull my camisole back over my body and wrap my coral silk robe around my waist then retreat to the bathroom to take a few minutes to myself.

  What the hell just happened?