Page 12

T he next morning, I visited my local health clinic.

I needed a full STD panel and a referral to a urologist for a vasectomy.

Old Me hadn't contracted anything from Angie in my previous life, so I knew I was clean.

But Sloane had no way of knowing that, and I needed her to see me taking intelligent and reasonable steps forward.

The clinic smelled of antiseptic and something faintly floral, like lavender trying to smother the stench of bleach. I sat on the paper-lined exam table, its crinkle loud in the sterile silence, until a quiet knock broke through.

The door opened and a doctor whose badge read Laura Taylor, M.D stepped in.

She looked like she belonged on a park bench with a sketchbook rather than working at a clinic in a white coat: red curls pulled back into a ponytail, freckles scattered across her pale face, and eyes the color of a forest in spring. Her appearance was disarming.

"Good morning," she said, offering a gentle smile as she sat on the rolling stool across from me. She opened my chart. "Looking over your intake... a referral to a urologist shouldn’t be a problem." She flipped a page. "And I see you’re here for an STD panel. Married but… separated?"

I cleared my throat, already feeling the heat rise to my face. "Uh… yes. There was a new partner, and I want to make sure everything's clean before I do anything else stupid."

She nodded, professionalism intact. "Absolutely. We’ll get that going for you today. It shouldn't take long. Is there anything else you’d like to talk about while you’re here?"

I hesitated, then pushed the words out before I lost the nerve. "Do you have any recommendations for couples therapists in the area?"

Dr. Taylor tilted her head. "We do, yes. Depends what you’re looking for."

I glanced at the floor. “Infidelity,” I mumbled the word like it was gravel in my mouth. “I cheated. It’s for my wife. I’m worried about her.”

The room shifted into a strange stillness. When I looked up, Dr. Taylor was staring at me as if she were measuring something invisible in the air between us. Her brow furrowed. “Usually,” she said, “it’s the betrayed partner who asks about therapy resources.”

"It seemed like the right thing to do," I said.

She crossed her legs, setting the clipboard aside. “Tell me – what exactly are you hoping for? Because if your wife isn’t open to couples therapy, individual counseling could still be beneficial for her. Or for you.”

I nodded. “I agree. I want to give her every tool she might need to get through this. Even if," I struggled and took a breath, "even if I’m not in the picture anymore. ”

She studied me for another long moment, before she gave a small, noncommittal shrug. “A loving spouse,” she said. “Well except for the obvious.”

I huffed a short, bitter chuckle. “Yes, well… hence the STD test and the vasectomy. I know that I messed up.”

There was no judgement in her reaction, just the quiet matter-of-factness that I imagine comes from years of hearing confessions in a clinical setting. “Well, the STD test is a smart step towards ensuring you don't cause more harm. I recommend condoms until you get the test results.”

"Yes, ma'am."

She stood and jotted something down on her clipboard before turning back to me. “Look, I’m not a therapist, but I do want to mention something you may not be aware of. Have you heard of hysterical bonding?”

I blinked. “No. What is that?”

“It’s a psychological response that sometimes occurs after betrayal,” she explained.

“A kind of emotional whiplash. Despite the pain, the betrayed partner may suddenly feel intense intimacy toward the person who hurt them. Sometimes, it’s sexual.

Often, it’s confusing. It’s not inherently healthy, but it is common. ”

“So…” I trailed off, unsure how to even ask, “we shouldn’t have sex at all?”

She gave a quiet sigh. “I’m not saying that. But you need to make sure it’s something she really wants. Not just her trauma trying to keep her safe. You’ve been married for how long?”

“Seventeen years this year. We were high school sweethearts.” I swallowed the lump forming in my throat .

Dr. Taylor’s expression softened, the clinical edge in her tone losing a bit of its sharpness.

“Then keep this in mind: she is going through a traumatic experience. Right now, her body and brain might not be on the same page. If she seeks out physical closeness, it doesn’t necessarily mean she’s forgiven you.

It might be her survival instincts; her nervous system reaching for familiarity, for comfort.

” She paused, watching me carefully. “That push and pull you might feel from her? The hot-then-cold? That’s not manipulation.

It’s not cruelty. It’s her trying to make sense of something senseless.

Trying to reclaim control in the only way she can. And that confusion is not her fault.”

I nodded slowly as the doctor's words settled.

She said, “Given how long you’ve been together, how much history you share, it’s almost impossible for you two not to react to each other.

That bond doesn’t just vanish, even when it’s broken.

Especially when you still love them. Your job now isn’t to interpret what every touch or glance from her might mean.

If you want to earn her trust back, your job is to give her what she asks for.

To be safe, consistent and honest. It's up to her to decide what closeness means, if it means anything at all.”

I nodded again, this time with a little more understanding.

“If the two of you do decide to reconnect physically, make sure it’s mutual, clear, and without pressure. Have the conversation first. Protect her peace, not just her body.”

My voice barely above a whisper I asked, “Are you sure you're not a therapist?"

She laughed at that as she handed me a pamphlet, a referral slip, and a lab order form. “I know the path back is a long and hard one,” she said as she opened the door. “But sometimes it’s not about the return. It’s about the path you take and the choices you make along the way. "

I left the clinic feeling better than I had when I'd walked in. I placed the pamphlet in the passenger seat and thought about how to broach the subject of couples therapy.

Just then, Sloane texted if I could watch the kids; she was going to be stuck at the clinic until late that night. I didn’t hesitate. I was already reversing by the time I replied, "Of course." Not because it was the right thing to do, but because I missed them. I missed being needed by them.

I took Violet with me to pick out groceries for dinner, relying on the Gluten Free app on my phone to help me navigate the shopping. Old Me had never gone grocery shopping and would have been clueless on how to find anything celiac safe.

On our way to checking out, Violet asked, "Can I pick out flowers for Mommy? Some that match the ones you sent to her?"

"She'd love that," I said with a smile.

So, when we returned home, Violet was excited to set daisies and lavender in a mason jar on the kitchen table, right next to the blue hyacinths and white roses. It was a small gesture, but it mattered to Violet. Her eyes lit up and it filled my heart to see her so happy.

While Violet helped me put away the groceries, she chattered away about the two large projects she was working on for her school's science fair: a diorama of the solar system and the classic baking soda volcano.

“I want you to help me build them,” she said, tugging at my sleeve. “Mom said I could do it on my own, but it’s more fun with you! You've helped Liam before with his.”

My throat went tight. Damn, this kid is amazing . I nodded. “Of course, baby girl. I’d love that.”

Violet beamed and skipped off to gather the materials for her projects. Liam, who had been hovering quietly near the fridge, finally broke his silence. "You don’t have to act like everything’s fine," he said, his voice flat and guarded.

Ah, yes. There is my angsty boy.

I turned to face him. The noise of the kitchen seemed to fade, and all I could hear were his words echoing in my head. “I’m not,” I said. "But I’m trying." It was the truth I knew they were tired of hearing.

He shrugged, arms crossed over his chest, a wall of indifference rising between us. His face was unreadable beneath that mop of dark hair, the years of silence and distance written in the slump of his shoulders, in the way his eyes refused to meet mine.

"Whatever," Liam said before he slinked away upstairs.

Violet hummed in the background, a sweet carefree melody that pierced through the stillness.

I knew the song well. Sloane used to sing it to her as a baby and I felt the pang of longing to hear her sing it one more time as Violet's voice carried into the kitchen.

The tune was a reminder of how much I missed her, how grateful I was to still have her here, even though the cracks in our family were too large to ignore.

I still didn't know what had happened to Violet in my previous life. I had never understood how she'd… vanished. One day she was there, then the next? She'd disappeared after meeting someone from an online game.

The memories of her disappearance, of losing her, of the years of never knowing what happened to her… those memories still tortured me. The police had found chat records between her and several other online friends, one of whom called themselves Prince_Harming.

That was who she had gone to meet.

This Prince_Harming person had given Violet a location and time.

When the police followed the address, it took them to an abandoned warehouse.

The only thing they ever found there were tire tracks and signs of a struggle.

It had been one of the first, one of the last, and one of the only clues in what faded away into a cold case.

I still had nightmares of losing Violet. Even now, over a decade later, I asked myself: did I cause it? Is it my fault she'd been driven away?