Page 31 of October: The Odd Ones, Stories of Love and Grovel

"I understand why you hesitate to bring it up, Thomas. You see how hard October is trying to heal; you don't want to reopen wounds. But silence doesn't erase pain, it preserves it. Left unspoken, this becomes a black cloud hanging over your marriage, and it will stay there, hovering quietly over every conversation, every touch, every moment, no matter how much you love each other."

She turned to October.

"October, I want you to ask him every uneasy question still burning inside you."

Then, to me.

"And I want you to answer honestly. Without trying to soften it, without explaining it away. This isn't about reconciliation, it's about understanding. It's about giving October the whole truth, so she can decide what to do with it. So you both can move forward, not simply 'move on.'"

She folded her hands, her gaze steady but kind.

"When you're ready, October."

She took a breath and then said.

"Okay, then... I need to know. Did you love her?"

My shoulders dropped. I shook my head right away, without even needing to think.

"No. Never. Not even close."

October's eyes stayed on mine, patient but unflinching.

"Then why did you enjoy spending time with her?"

I drew in a breath, felt the shame burn hot at the back of my throat.

"Because it felt... easy,"

I admitted, my voice catching.

"At the office, everything else felt like it was falling apart. But that part, those hours, those meetings, felt controlled. She was always kind to me, always supportive. She made me feel competent again."

My voice cracked as I kept talking.

"And it wasn't just about feeling liked by her. It was the ripple effect: my dad looked at me like I was finally doing something right, the other colleagues respected the results we got. I was suddenly... relevant. Useful, and I liked that. God, I really liked that. It made work lighter, and it made me feel... needed. I know how selfish that sounds. It was selfish. I'm so, so sorry."

October's next question was soft but direct.

"Was she ever forward? Did you ever reject her?"

I swallowed. The memory still makes my stomach turn. "Yes,"

I said, my voice low.

"The first time she touched my arm outside a meeting, I stepped back. I told her it wasn't appropriate. But... I didn't end the friendship. I told myself it was harmless, that was the biggest lie I told myself."

She nodded, her eyes clouded but steady.

"Did you have lunches or dinners, just the two of you?"

I nodded, shame washing over me.

"Mostly coffee breaks ."

Her voice wavered, but she asked anyway.

"Would you have ever stopped if you hadn't discovered what she did with your dad?"

My chest tightened. I looked up at her, raw and honest.

"Yes, because the moment I really woke up was when you called her my mistress,"

I admitted, my voice shaking.

"Hearing those words come from you, your voice, the hurt under it, it cracked through all the compartments I'd built in my head. That's when it stopped being a harmless 'maybe this is too close' and became 'Thomas, you're betraying her.'"

A humorless laugh caught in my throat.

"I was flabbergasted. At first, I thought you were being dramatic. Cruel, even. I told myself, she's a colleague, maybe even a friend. Someone who makes work lighter and makes my dad see me in a better light but has nothing to do with you."

I exhaled slowly, voice rough.

"But you were right. You saw what I refused to see. I wasn't sleeping with her but I was already betraying you. Quietly. Thoughtlessly. Intimately. I carved out space in my heart and time in my life that should've belonged to you."

My eyes fell to where our hands lay intertwined, her skin warm beneath my touch. I traced slow, deliberate circles over her knuckles, small, steady movements, as if I could anchor myself there, keep from drifting under the weight of everything unsaid. Then I sank down onto my knees in front of her, gently gathering her hands in mine, holding them like something precious and breakable.

"I promise you, October,"

I whispered, voice almost breaking.

"I will never put you in that position again. Not the position of wondering if you matter less. Of doubting your place in my heart. Of feeling like someone else could come close."

I paused, words catching in my throat, and then added, more quietly, almost a vow:

"Never again,"

I said, my voice low but certain.

"Never again will I make you doubt how I feel about you or what you mean to me."

October just kept looking at me, silent, her gaze steady and unflinching, saying more than words ever could. God, I wished I could undo what I'd done, take every bit of that pain from her and carry it myself, if it meant freeing her from it. Watching her hold it all inside like that, knowing I put it there, tore something open in me I don't think will ever fully close.

Dr. Mireille leaned forward a little, her hands resting lightly in her lap, eyes moving between the two of us.

"The way I see it,"

she began, her voice calm but deliberate.

"two things made it easier for you to drift into emotional infidelity, Thomas: complacency and boundaries, and let me be clear, these aren't excuses. Nothing justifies what happened. But understanding them matters, so you don't repeat the same patterns."

She paused, letting the words hang between us, like dust catching the afternoon light.

"When you love someone from such a young age,"

Dr. Mireille began, her voice calm but unflinching.

"that love can start to feel indestructible. Thomas, that's where the danger crept in for you, not out of malice or disregard, but because you were so certain of what you shared that you stopped tending to it."

She leaned in slightly, her gaze steady yet gentle.

"You trusted so deeply in how much you loved her, and in how much she loved you, that you thought nothing and no one could threaten that bond. So you stopped offering the very reassurances and tenderness that built it in the first place. The quiet 'I'm still here,' the small gestures that say: you still matter more than anything."

Her voice softened, but there was an unmistakable weight beneath it.

"But love isn't a monument that stays standing just because you once built it strong. It's something that asks to be chosen every day. And the moment you began giving attention, even small pieces of yourself, to another woman... that certainty you had—that nothing could shake what you shared—became the very thing that allowed you to hurt her."

Then, her expression grew firmer, the softness edged with something sharper.

"And the second part,"

she said.

"is boundaries—especially at work. There is a reason why many affairs begin at work. Not necessarily because someone stops loving their partner at home but because the work environment itself can create an illusion of intimacy and validation that feels separate, safer somehow, from the real mess and weight of family life."

She folded her hands, her gaze steady.

"But that separation is false. It's a dangerous convenience your mind creates, a way to compartmentalize feelings: here, I'm admired and understood; there, I'm needed and obligated. And while it can feel harmless at first, it's exactly that split that becomes fertile ground for betrayal."

She paused, letting her words sink in.

"Affairs don't usually start with grand declarations. They start with a thousand tiny permissions: a text answered late at night, a private lunch, a story shared that really should have been told at home first. You have to guard your marriage not by building walls around it but by keeping your emotional doors open to each other, so they don't swing quietly open to someone else."

Dr. Mireille turned slightly toward me, her voice calm but edged with unflinching honesty.

"And yes, Thomas,"

she began, her gaze steady.

"I do understand how much you were shaped by your father's abuse. So many of your instincts, the silences, the guardedness, the desperate need for validation; they were forged in that environment. In that, you are a victim, and it isn't your fault. You didn't choose that childhood, and you didn't deserve it."

She paused, letting the words settle before her tone grew firmer.

"But the choices you made later, the texts, the coffee breaks, the attention you gave to someone who wasn't your wife, that part, Thomas, was yours alone. That wasn't your father's hand guiding yours. That was you, and it was a betrayal. A painful breach of trust, whether you meant it or not."

She leaned back, her expression softening just slightly.

"Understanding where your patterns come from is important. But it can't be an excuse. Because healing begins when you hold both truths at once: that part of you was hurt into being and another part chose to hurt back."

Hearing those words felt like something sharp slipping under my ribs. I wanted to look away, to pull back into the quiet self-defense I'd learned so well, but I didn't. Because every word, as much as it stung, felt like it belonged here. Dr. Mireille let the silence stretch, giving space for the weight of what had just been said to settle in the room. Then she turned to me, her voice calm but direct.

"So now, Thomas, what are the concrete steps you've already taken, and what do you intend to keep doing, to help rebuild trust with October?"

I shifted slightly in my seat, then took out a folded paper from my wallet, drawing in a breath that trembled just a little

"I already made a list,"

I began, my voice catching slightly as I unfolded the paper, my hands just a little unsteady. "

I've started reading some of the books you recommended, trying to understand not just what I did, but why."

I drew in a breath, steadying myself.

"So... first: being present,"

I said slowly, choosing each word with care.

"Not just for the milestones or the moments that look good from the outside, but in the everyday, ordinary spaces too. Being there whenever October needs me, or even just wants me close without her having to ask."

I paused, glancing at her, seeing the hurt still there in her eyes, and it made my chest tighten.

"Second,"

I went on, my voice quieter now.

"communicating, even when it feels uncomfortable. Talking about where I am, what I'm feeling, especially when it's something I'd usually keep to myself. More than that, listening to her anger, her sadness, the bitterness that's mine to carry because I'm the one who caused it."

I swallowed, feeling the raw edge of guilt in my throat.

"Accepting that it's mine to face. That I don't get to rush her healing, or decide when the hurt should be over. It's my fault she has this pain, and it's my responsibility to hold space for it, for as long as she needs."

I looked down at the paper for a moment, then back at October.

"And finally,"

I said, my voice low but firmer.

"reminding her, in every way I know how, that I'm hers. That I always have been, even during the worst of it, twisted as that sounds and that I always will be. Because love isn't just what you feel; it's what you show, every single day."

My chest felt heavy as I finished, the truth of it pressing hard against my ribs but also a quiet resolve. A promise I meant to keep, not just in words, but in the smallest, hardest choices from here on out.

Dr. Mireille listened quietly, then nodded once.

"Those are important steps, Thomas. But I'd like to add a few more, if October is willing. This will take courage from both of you,"

she continued.

"Because trust isn't rebuilt by words alone, it's rebuilt by consistency and vulnerability."

She paused, then said.

"I'd like you to start an honesty journal together. Once or twice a week, just a single page each, where you both write something raw and real. It could be a fear, a confession, a regret, or even something good you noticed about each other. No editing, no erasing. Then, you share it. Read it out loud if you can."

She leaned back, voice softer now.

"Because real trust isn't built by pretending the past didn't happen. It's built by facing it together, day by day, until it becomes something you can both carry without it weighing you down."

She waited, letting that sink in, then added gently:

"So, if October agrees, we'll begin. And if not today, then whenever you're ready. But remember: the work won't erase the hurt. What it can do is make space for something honest, gentler, and new to grow in its place."

*********

The ride home was quiet.

We have this routine: we go to therapy together, and then drive home together. Usually, we talk a little about the session, about the kids, even something ordinary just to break the tension.

But this time, neither of us spoke. My hand stayed on the wheel, but my mind wasn't really on the road. Every so often, I glanced over at October, quick, careful, like I was afraid she might disappear if I looked too long. The evening light made her hair look softer, almost golden at the edges, and for a second I could almost see us as we used to be.

When we finally pulled into the driveway and stepped out of the car, I reached into the back seat and took out a small wooden box I'd been hiding there all afternoon, waiting, heart pounding, for the right moment to give it to her.

"I, uh..."

My voice caught, stupidly.

"I got something for you."

She frowned a little, confused. "For me?"

I nodded and handed it over, my palms suddenly damp. She opened the lid, pushed back the linen, and then I saw it hit her. Four small glass vials: orris butter, pink pepper absolute, violet leaf absolute and the last, just a tiny piece of real oud wood, wrapped so carefully it almost hurt to look at it. Her hands trembled, her eyes went glassy with tears almost the second she read the labels.

Because these weren't just pretty words on delicate glass—they were some of the rarest, most prized materials in the perfumer's world:

Orris butter, pressed from the aged rhizomes of the iris plant, takes years, sometimes decades to produce. It's what gives the soft, buttery, almost suede-like powdery notes found in the heart of the most elegant perfumes. It's rare, expensive, and quietly magical: just a few drops can turn a blend from ordinary into something hauntingly beautiful.

Pink pepper absolute isn't just about spice; it adds a shimmering brightness and floral warmth, a fizzy effect that makes other notes sparkle. It's hard to extract, and its warmth feels both modern and timeless.

Violet leaf absolute, deep green and earthy, captures that almost electric sharpness of crushed leaves—the cool, fresh breath that keeps sweet compositions from becoming cloying. It's notoriously tricky to work with, but it adds life and realism, like breathing in real spring air.

And then oud—true oud. The rarest of them all. Formed only when certain tropical trees are infected by a specific fungus, creating a dark, resinous heartwood with an aroma unlike anything else on earth: smoky, animalic, sacred, almost painfully deep. Gram for gram, it can cost more than gold.

To anyone else, these might be curiosities, tiny luxuries. But to someone who loves scent, to October, they're pieces of a secret language. Tools to create something beautiful, personal, and entirely new. And more than that, they were proof he had seen her: what she loved, what she dreamed of making, even what she might become.

"How...?"

she managed, voice cracking.

"How did you even know...?"

"I asked around,"

I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

"Beth helped me. I know they're small, but... I thought maybe you could use them. For your work. For your shop, maybe."

She just stared at them like they were something holy. She whispered.

"Then.... how could you...how ..how?"

Then it broke from her in a way that was almost childlike and devastating; she lifted her trembling hand and pressed her palm flat against my chest. Her eyes were streaming, lips parted, breath shuddering, "How...?"

she whispered first, almost like she was asking herself. Then her palm pushed at me, not hard, but enough to make my breath catch.

"Then how could you?"

Another push, her palm coming back, her voice rising through the sobs.

"Then how could you?"

She kept saying it, almost chanting, voice cracking on each word, tears spilling freely, shoulders shaking so hard I thought she might fall apart in front of me. Every time her hand met my chest, it wasn't pain she was giving me; it was the truth of what I'd done. It landed deeper than any bruise could.

Before she could pull away completely, I reached for her, my hands closing around her trembling shoulders. I pulled her in, felt her fight me for a heartbeat and then felt her break, felt her weight come forward into me, shaking, sobbing. The little wooden box pressed awkwardly, almost painfully, between us, caught in the space where guilt met grief. Her tears soaked through my shirt, her fists bunching the fabric like she wanted to hold on and push me away at the same time.

"I know,"

I choked out, my voice hoarse, raw with shame.

"I know, mon amour. I'm so sorry. I'm so damn sorry. I am sorry."

She clung to me then and I held her back, tighter than I ever had, my heart pounding with guilt, grief, and a love so fierce it hurt.

I swear, I will never be the reason for this ache in you again. Never again.

We stayed like that, caught between apology and grief, her tears soaking through my shirt, my arms wrapped around her as if I could hold all the hurt inside her and keep it from spilling out. I don't know if it was seconds or hours; time felt stretched thin and fragile around us.

She stopped crying for a while then her voice came, raw and trembling against my chest.

"I want to try again,"

she whispered, every word breaking and brave all at once.

"But I want the man who made the plaque for me, who made that garden... who called the dog shelter after my flower... who learned French just to tell me he loves me in another language. The man who made that beautiful necklace, who makes me laugh, who makes me dream..."

"You got him,"

I whispered fiercely, pressing my forehead to hers.

"You actually own him. All of him. I swear to you, he's yours, all yours, forever."