Page 1 of Choosing Hope

Chapter One

Spencer

“Let’s start with how much you think your childhood shaped the decisions you’ve made.” Dr. Klein prompts me.

I lean back in the chair, already regretting coming in today. I suspect that’s her favorite question. She asks as if a neat little confession will cure me, and an answer is waiting just beneath the surface.

I shrug. “How long have you got?”

She gives me that neutral psychologist smile. The one that makes you feel seen and studied all at once.

“I’m not sure. Maybe a lot. Maybe not at all.”

“You said on the phone the other day that your parents weren’t...emotionally involved.”

Now that’s generous.

“The phrase ‘emotionally involved’ implies there was some effort on their part. Duncan and Julie Barton-Jones didn’t dabble in things like effort. They were too busy polishing their reputations—too busy hosting parties, closing deals, and surrounding themselves with other people just like them.”

Dr. Klein’s eyebrows shoot up, almost colliding with her hairline, perhaps unused to such a scathing view of an individual’s parents.

“If they’d ever taught me anything, it was that love was a performance. Something to display when people were watching, and discard when they weren’t.”

My mind whirls with a catalog of memories that would help support my opinion, but I don’t want this woman’s sympathy. I’m a busy man; this process needs to be efficient. I have no intention of spending the next few months sitting in this office while she picks over every incident of my father’s rejection.

I’ve employed Dr. Klein to help me save my marriage. In the past few months, Sophie and I have been spiraling, the distance between us widening until it felt like we were strangers. A few weeks ago, I confided in a trusted friend. I admitted I’d been toying with the idea of walking away and setting Sophie free.

I told him how convinced I was that she'd be better off without me. He didn't agree. But he simply urged me to get professional help. The idea stuck, and as things kept unraveling, it started to feel like my only option.

On the surface, the solution is simple.

Go home at night. Stay out of my sex club.

And most of all, stop fucking women who don’t wear my ring.

But while all these things would certainly help, they won’t come close to solving the problem.

The catalyst is my relentless erotic thoughts about my best friend.

Dr. Klein’s job is to fix me. To release these desires from my mind and allow me to move on with the woman who, through no fault of her own, has fallen in love with a fuck-up.

Once she’s done that, I’ll never darken the doctor’s door again.

I clear my throat, leaning my head back on the headrest of the most comfortable chair I’ve ever sat on.

“When I was six, an Italian boy, named Carlo came to live with us. I’d seen him several times before on brief holidays, because his father and mine are best friends.”

Dr. Klein has gone quiet, and I glance up at her, half expecting her to have left the room.

“Our fathers have known each other since high school.”

She bobs her head and scribbles something down on her pad.

“Since Carlo and I’s birthdays were only weeks apart, our parents decided without consultation with us, that we should be friends. When he arrived, they put a new bed in my room, rather than giving him one of the other twelve bedrooms in the house.”

“What was your reaction to that?” she inquires.

“Initially, I resented his invasion of my privacy, but the animosity didn’t last long. The sound of his weeping that night seemed to cleanse any negativity. In truth, it was nice to have company.”