by Chloe Liese
“What, Aiden?”
He swallows nervously. “The other night, at the art gallery. Your drink wasn’t… There wasn’t any alcohol in it.”
I blink at him, trying to piece together what he’s asking. Then I realize. He wants to know if I’m pregnant. “Well, we’d have to have sex to make a baby.”
He flinches.
“So, no, Aiden. I’m not pregnant.” The truth comes burning out, fiery and bitter. But then something happens that makes that hurt double back on itself: Aiden’s shoulders drop. Like he’s relieved.
My mouth falls open. “What was that?”
“What?” Aiden says. “What was what?”
“You just… Aiden, you just sighed like you dodged a bullet.”
“I…did?”
“You did.” I spring up from the bed and take a step closer to him. “You just relaxed.”
He scrubs his face. “Fine,” he grits out, low and tight as his hands drop. “I relaxed. Forgive me for feeling a bit of relief that you’re not pregnant while on the brink of leaving me. Forgive me that I’d like shit figured out before we have a baby in the mix—”
“Because it always has to be figured out, before—God forbid!—we do something out of passion or desire or love. Fuck’s sake, Aiden!” I stomp away, ripping off my shirt with my back to him.
I hear him suck in a breath, feel his response to me from across the room. Screw him. I don’t care. He can have blue balls for eternity. I’ve certainly been suffering enough the past two months.
After tugging on a bra, I pull the shirt back over my head and stomp down the hall. Stepping into my sneakers, I grab my purse.
“Where are you going?” Aiden asks sharply.
My car. Then In-N-Out. Where I will order a large fry and a strawberry milkshake and eat my feelings in the parking lot while cry-singing along to my aptly titled Allllll The Emotionzz playlist. It’s going to be cathartic as fuck.
“None of your business.” I sweep up my keys and charge toward the door.
“Freya,” he calls, following me through the foyer, “don’t walk out on me. Stay and fight. That’s what we do. That’s what we’ve always done.”
I freeze, my hand hovering over the door handle. Peering over my shoulder, I meet his eyes. “You’re right. We used to. But then you quit. Now I’m quitting, too.”
“Freya!”
I drag the door shut and yell over my shoulder, “Don’t. Follow me.”
“This isn’t exactly what I had in mind for fika,” Mom mutters, browsing swimsuits, “seeing as that was the fastest sit-down coffee and muffin I have ever had, and we barely talked.”
I smile sheepishly at her. “I’m sorry. It’s just nuts at work right now.”
And I knew if I came home and had your cardamom-infused coffee, the kladdkaka cake that you know I love, I would have bawled my eyes out and told you everything.
And I’m not telling her shit. Because we’ve set a date for this anniversary getaway vacation. The one week that worked with everyone’s schedule—mostly to fit around Willa’s soccer career and my dad’s ability to get away from his patients—is a nauseating, all-too-soon one week away. I’m not monopolizing my mom’s emotional energy with concern for my marriage this close to her getaway. And I’m certainly not ruining her vacation with it, either.
Aiden and I are going to be the picture of bliss for this trip. Smile, kiss when absolutely necessary, hug, act normal. My brothers are already sworn to secrecy and understand that I don’t want to ruin what’s supposed to be a gift to our parents with my drama. Everyone’s on board with my plan for things to run smoothly.
Is it bad timing? Yes. Is it pretty much the last thing we need? Yes. Since the blowup in our bedroom, things are stilted and uncomfortable between Aiden and me. We’re about to start marriage counseling—which is making me nauseous just thinking about it. Then there’s planning for a trip which involves changes in routine, new environments, and additional expense—which exacerbates Aiden’s anxiety. On top of all that, when I can barely hold on to hope that my marriage is salvageable, I’ll have to spend a week pretending things are infinitely better than they are.
It sucks, but it’s what needs to be done.
“And how is Aiden?” Mom asks.
I use sifting through swimsuits to buy myself time. “A bit stressed from work, but okay.”
“And you two? How are you?”
My head jerks up. “What?”
“Marriages have their ups and downs, of course,” she says, eyes returning to the rack ahead of me. “Your father’s and mine certainly has.”
I tell my heart to stop trying to pound out of my chest. “Really? You guys have never seemed anything but…perfect.”
“Sometimes, Freya, we see what we want to see rather than what’s really there. Your papa and I have struggled. But we’ve tried to handle it in ways that are appropriate for our children. And through our struggles, we’ve learned how to do better. You see the fruit of that labor.”
My stomach knots as I waver, as I come so close to telling her everything. I love my mom. I trust her. And I know she’ll have wisdom for me. But I just can’t bring myself to dredge up this unhappiness right as we’re heading into their celebration. Afterward, when we’re back, and things settle down. After that, I’ll tell her.
“Hm,” Mom says, lifting a sexy black two-piece and holding it toward my body. “This one has you written all over it, Freya. What do you think?”
I open my mouth to answer, but before I can, a saleswoman gathering tried-on clothes from the rack outside the changing rooms says, “Oh, that’ll look beautiful on you.”
She says it to my mom. My mom who has Claudia Schiffer’s looks—long and lean, wide eyes and dramatic cheekbones. While I have my mother’s pale eyes and bone structure, her light blonde hair, and the faintest gap between my front teeth, I am absolutely my father’s side of the family from the neck down—broad shouldered, muscular, with full breasts and hips and thighs.
A Scandinavian waif, I am not.
Even with increased portrayal of diverse bodies, even with the fact that lingerie and swimsuit shops now feature curvy models working their merchandise, this still happens all the time. Those offhand comments and reminders that people just can’t wrap their heads around the fact that I can be full-figured and actually not want to cover myself up. The concept that “someone like me” could wear a two-piece is apparently revolutionary. If I wear something that no one would think twice about a skinny person wearing, it automatically makes me a body-positivity warrior, instead of just a woman wearing what she damn well pleases.
Usually, it doesn’t bother me, because I’m aware that there are people out there who are simply unaware that they’re upholding body-shaming or are otherwise downright assholes. I try not to worry about them. But for some reason, this cuts. I’ve been here a dozen times. This woman’s rung us up before. It’s different when it’s someone who knows you. It hurts.
“This,” my mother says icily, “is for my daughter.”
The saleswoman falters, her eyes switching to me, before taking a long sweep of my body. She blinks a few times. “Oh!” she says, nervously. Her cheeks pink. “Silly me. I didn’t think we stocked that in her size.”
“What?” my mom says. Her voice is subzero.
The saleswoman’s color drains faster than I can mutter Oh shit under my breath, because I might be a mama bear, but I learned it from the best, and I’ve got nothing on her. The sight of Elin Bergman provoked when she sees one of her children threatened scares me, and I’m the one she’s protecting.
“I’m sure it’ll look great!” the woman says awkwardly, trying—and failing—to cover her tracks.
Mom rolls her eyes and shoves the swimsuit on the rack. “Come on,” she tells me in Swedish. “I’m disgusted with her. We’re going somewhere else.”
The saleswoman’s eyes ping-pong between us. My mother is cool and calm as ever, but she has subtle ways for messing
with people when they piss her off. Americans can’t stand when people speak in different languages around them. It betrays our intrinsic egoism—we’re always convinced it’s about us. The irony, of course, is that Mom plays right into it.
“Mom, I don’t have time—”
“For this, yes, you do,” she says. “Besides, it’s on the way back to your office.”
I glance over my shoulder as the door falls shut behind us. It’s my mom’s favorite boutique. Not too fancy or pricey, just locally owned and stylish. Now that we’re out of earshot, I switch to English. “But you love that place.”
Mom links our hands together. “I did. Until that. No one makes my beautiful Freya feel like she’s anything less.” She winks at me and squeezes my hand tight. “Besides, I know just the place.”
Aiden
Playlist: “From the Dining Table,” Harry Styles
Freya’s barely spoken to me since she came back from wherever she went three nights ago. Then again, I’ve been quiet myself, even though I know she’s still pissed I wouldn’t level with her. Yeah, no, I still haven’t told her I shit myself and then her brothers abducted me. Sorry for wanting to maintain a sliver of dignity.
“How’d you get an appointment so quickly?” Freya asks, her eyes darting around.
The counselor’s office building is fancy. An entire wall of glass windows allows us a view of the water, trees swaying in the summer breeze and evening sunshine bathing everything in buttercup light. It smells like eucalyptus and green tea and world peace. I’m so damn desperate for this to be our solution.
Opening your mouth would be a great solution, too.
Easier said than done. I’m hoping an expert will help me figure out how to do it. Because I don’t know how to confess all of this to Freya, how to tell her all my fears and inadequacies and trust that won’t send her packing or giving up before we’ve even started.
I know I’m not acting like the person I was when I married Freya. To her, I’ve always been Aiden: ordered, diligent, attentive. Now I’m chaos and pinballing, work-obsessed, and despicably distracted. I feel so fucking broken. And I’m terrified to be broken before my wife.
“Aiden?” she presses.
I snap out of it. “Sorry. Dr. Dietrich is friends with my colleague, who put in a word for us. That’s why she made an exception to see us after normal hours.”
“What colleague?” Freya asks.
“She’s a friend in the department.”
“She?” Freya stops in her tracks. “Who is she?”
I stop with her, gently taking her by the elbow to the side of the room so we don’t block the door. “She, as in the counselor? Or she, as in—”
“Your colleague, Aiden.”
“Oh. Luz Herrera.”
Freya’s eyes narrow. “And you’re close enough with Luz that you’re swapping contacts?”
I open my mouth and pause. Searching Freya’s expression, I lean in. “Why are you asking that?”
No answer.
“Are you suspicious?” I ask tentatively. “I told you I’m being faithful to you, Freya.”
Freya’s jaw tightens. “Of course not.”
“Okay.” Blinking away in confusion, I gesture us toward Delilah Dietrich’s office. Freya walks ahead of me.
“You’re not answering me,” she says.
I’m still processing her intensity. Even if she isn’t suspicious, she’s curious. She cares, which is a good thing, isn’t it? If she was ready to kick my ass out for good, she wouldn’t care who I was “swapping contacts” with.
“We’ve joint mentored a few students,” I tell her. “One of them had some mental health struggles, and when Luz and I were working to support them, Luz was quick to find a recommendation. She explained that it came from Dr. Dietrich, her friend, and that was how she got the student cared for so quickly. At one point in our conversation, Luz mentioned Delilah’s an exclusive couples counselor. That’s all.”
“Hm,” Freya says, her eyes slipping away.
Before we even sit in the chairs in Dr. Dietrich’s waiting room, our therapist sweeps in, a halo of frizzy silver curls, wire-rimmed glasses significantly magnifying her eyes.
“Good evening, dear ones,” Dr. Dietrich says, lacing her hands together. She’s wearing a floor-length dress in sage green, ragg-wool socks, and Birkenstocks. Clutching her sand-colored knit sweater around her, she waves. “Come on in. Right this way.”
Dr. Dietrich steps into her office and putters around her desk, which is a hot mess, lifting a mug of tea from a piece of paper, which sticks and rips when she separates them. The disorder of it makes me wince. Freya, however, is going to feel right at home in this cheerful chaos.
“Comfortable?” Dr. Dietrich asks as we settle in, blinking owlishly through her glasses.
Freya nods. I take off my sweater and try to ignore the shit all over Dr. Dietrich’s desk. She seems to notice my attention to it as she sits back and smiles.
“Make you uncomfortable?” she asks. “My organized disorder?”
I shift on the sofa, wanting to do what I’ve always done with Freya, which is wrap an arm around her and tug her close. Bury my nose in her hair and breathe her familiar lemony summertime scent. But I can’t. Every atom of her body screams don’t touch me.
So I interlace my fingers and shove my hands between my knees.
“A little,” I admit.
Freya rolls her eyes. “He’s such a neat freak.”
“If by ‘neat freak,’ you mean I keep our house organized so you can actually find stuff.”
“I find stuff,” Freya says defensively.
I cock an eyebrow.
“Most of the time,” she amends, glancing away and tilting up her chin a little defiantly. In the past, when she did that, I’d clasp her jaw and kiss her. First, a hard press of lips. Then my tongue, coaxing her mouth to open. Her hands would fist my shirt, and she’d nudge her pelvis against mine. Then I’d push her against the hallway wall, and we’d kiss our way to the bedroom.
My hands itch to do it—touch the line of her jaw, stroke her smooth, warm skin, and bring her soft mouth to mine. Because touch has always bound us together. But that’s part of our problem. Even the familiar, loving touch that said so much when I struggled to, not even that knits us together anymore.
We’re far past hugging and making up. I know that now.
Dr. Dietrich smiles before sipping her tea. “So you two are quite different personalities?”
“Ohhh yes,” Freya says quickly. “Practically opposites.”
I frown at her. “Why’d you say it like that?”
Dr. Dietrich sets down her tea. Freya doesn’t answer.
“I’m getting ahead of myself,” Dr. Dietrich says gently. “First, tell me why you’re here.”
Quiet hangs between Freya and me. Finally, I tell her, “I asked Freya to come, and she said yes.”
“And why did you ask her to come?”
“Because she kicked me out a few weeks ago—”
“I didn’t kick you out, Aiden,” Freya says, her voice tight. “I asked for some space.”
I exhale slowly, trying not to be defensive, to betray how much being asked to leave hurt. “You had a bag packed for me, Freya, and an airplane ticket—”
“To my family’s cabin which is like a second home to you,” Freya interjects.
“Let’s let Aiden finish his thoughts, Freya, then you can argue with him,” Dr. Dietrich says matter-of-factly.
Freya’s jaw drops.
I clear my throat nervously. “Freya asked me to leave so she could have some time and space to think. Since I came back, we’ve been in a holding pattern that I don’t want to stay in. I think we need help to get out of it. I at least need help. Freya agreed to come when I told her that.”
“Freya,” Dr. Dietrich says. “Go ahead. Let’s hear from you.”
Freya glances away, her eyes searching the view out of the window. “Over the past…six months, I gu
ess, I’ve felt a shift in our marriage, like our connection has been sand slipping through my fingers and no matter how hard I grasped, I couldn’t stop losing it. I tried to ask Aiden what was going on, but he’s been evasive. And I just felt…defeated. So I asked for space, because I couldn’t stand going through the motions anymore.
“If you had asked me when we got married if I could ever see our communication having so fundamentally broken down, that I would be this numb and hopeless, that Aiden could be disengaged and blindsided by my feelings, I would have laughed in your face. Yet here we are.”
Dr. Dietrich nods somberly. “Okay. Thank you both. So, Aiden, you said you think you need help getting out of your holding pattern. Can you share what you need help with?”
My heart pounds as Freya’s words echo inside my mind. My worst fears are confirmed—all my attempts to keep to myself the worst of my anxiety symptoms, to push and grind through this stressful season, to hide how deeply it was affecting me and shield Freya, has epically backfired.
But it’s not just your anxiety, that voice in my head whispers. It’s what anxiety’s done to your body. To your love life. And you’re too proud to admit it.
“I…” Glancing over at Freya, I want so badly to hold her hand, to tell her everything. But how? I stare at her, struggling for words.
“Yes?” Dr. Dietrich says gently.
“I mentioned on my intake form that I had a rough upbringing, which brings with it certain triggers. And I have generalized anxiety disorder.” The words rush out of me. “Well, the past few months, while things became…strained between us, my anxiety’s often been high.”
I thought I could fix it before she noticed, before she started asking questions and pushing me for answers. I’d managed my anxiety and accompanying symptoms better in the past. I could do it again. I just had to try harder. Fight it harder. Work out. Eat well. Exercise. Keep my sleep schedule. Breathe deep. Meditate on the drive in to work—
Yeah, which went so well when you had that panic attack and had to pull over.
“Why is that?” Dr. Dietrich asks. “What’s been elevating your anxiety?”