Page 27 of Until Tomorrow (Love Doesn’t Cure All: The Ashwood Duet #1)

Logan

I spent a week with Eva—no work, no chaotic outings, no dating apps, nothing.

Just me and her doing our thing at home.

It was the recharge I needed and gave me enough courage to go back to the university after work.

Amelia’s office was tucked in a corner in the same building where the seminar had taken place.

Finding it took work, but I managed to get there before her office hours ended.

I knocked twice, hoping she was in.

“Five minutes!” Amelia called out.

I stepped back from the door and leaned against the wall. I could wait five more minutes. I’d made it this far. As I waited, I took out my phone to read the text I’d gotten on the way over.

Loren’s name on my phone surprised me. Even though we’d exchanged numbers, I hadn’t anticipated him reaching out. Granted, outside of Elliot, I didn’t have a lot of casual friendships.

LOREN : Feel any better after talking to her?

I think so, yes.

LOREN : Good. Just keep talking. It’s funny how that’s the key to making progress, and people don’t realize that.

LOREN : It’s not my place, but I’m here if you need someone to talk to who gets it.

Honestly, talking things out with Loren wasn’t an option I’d considered. I didn’t know him well enough—or at all, really. But I knew his story, and I told myself that was all I needed to bridge that gap. All friendships started somewhere, right?

Did you feel like a wreck at the start? Or during? Or… I don’t know what I’m trying to say here.

LOREN : Absolutely. To have emotions is to be human.

How did you deal with them?

LOREN : I got a damn good therapist.

LOREN : I highly recommend you do the same. Some shit just needs extra help to be sorted out.

LOREN : Don’t make Eva your therapist.

That was the very last thing I wanted to do to my marriage. I’d already caused enough friction by jumping the gun on a divorce and not talking to her first. While I knew that it had probably worked out for the better this way, I wasn’t an idiot enough to tempt fate again.

That’s the plan.

LOREN : Don’t just make a plan. Execute the plan too.

I am.

LOREN : Good. We are all about that action.

Thank you.

LOREN : You don’t have to thank me.

“You’re Eva’s husband, aren’t you?” Amelia’s voice pulled me away from my phone.

I glanced up to see her watching me from behind a pair of crooked glasses.

The woman was eccentric with pens stuck in her loose updo, wild clothes contrasting one another, and a pin of a cat in a banana attached to her lapel.

“Yes, I am,” I said as I pocketed my phone. I offered her my hand. “Logan Ashwood. It’s nice to meet you.”

“It’s nice to meet you too,” she replied. Opening her door, she invited me into her office. “It was nice to see you and Eva at the community event last week. Did you enjoy it?”

I wasn’t sure enjoy was the right word for how I felt about that night.

“It was very informational,” I told her.

“That’s all I ever hope for. Sometimes people don’t realize what they’re looking for or what they need in their life until they have a little more information about the world, don’t you think?

” She sat behind her desk and gestured to the russet red plush chair across from her. “Please, take a seat.”

I did, taking the chance to survey her office space. For someone as eclectic as she was, her office was meticulously organized—rivaling my own. It was oddly comforting in its own way.

“So, what can I do for you, Mr. Ashwood?” she asked. “I’m assuming you aren’t here to survey my office.”

“To be honest, I’d like to hire you, Dr. Waterman,” I said, cutting right to the chase.

“ For what exactly?”

“Therapy.”

“Unfortunately, that’s not a service I’ve offered for a long time, Mr. Ashwood,” Amelia told me.

“Seven years, I know. But I do know you still upkeep your certifications, so technically, you can. I looked into you,” I admitted.

“That sounded creepier than I meant it to. It’s just…

Eva spoke very highly of you. I struggle with the idea of going to therapy.

It’s been a topic of conversation for years, and I haven’t found anyone I think I could trust enough to help me deal with anxiety.

And now… Eva and I have done a lot of talking since your seminar.

I don’t know what she told you about… my situation… ”

“Maybe it’s best if you tell me yourself,” she replied. “Sometimes the best thing you can do for yourself is let yourself have a moment of clarity. What you’re going through… there’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Even with my best friend being gay, I come from a family that just pretends that part of society doesn’t exist. The social groups I run in aren’t any better,” I told her quietly. “I’m conditioned to not talk about it.”

“Do you know how we combat the concept of people pretending we don’t exist? We talk about it. And we keep talking about it until they can’t ignore us anymore,” Amelia said. I nodded because it did make sense. “So, even if you start small and private, talking is important.”

“It doesn’t feel small.” Were we starting therapy now?

It sure felt like it. “I’m thirty-eight, I’ve been with the same woman my whole life, and I realized I’m attracted to men.

In some capacity. I don’t understand any of this.

And now I’m thirty-eight, married, and about to start dating again.

I’m… I’m scared. I’m anxious. I took a week off of work to try to recharge and get my head on, but I can’t keep doing that.

I need help, Dr. Waterman, but I want to talk to someone who gets it… not just someone with a degree.”

Well, that was a lot of word vomit. Shit. I shouldn’t have laid all of that out there. The ever-lingering silence as she scrutinized me did nothing to ease my mind.

“Here’s what I can do for you, Mr. Ashwood—”

“Please, call me Logan,” I interjected.

“I’ll take you on as a client,” she continued, “but rather than payment, I just ask that you let me record our sessions.”

“What?” My heart practically dropped out of my chest.

“ Your identity will remain completely confidential, and the recordings will only be used in my classes,” she assured me.

Or rather, tried to. I wasn’t reassured of anything.

“Contrary to what you may be feeling about your situation, Logan, you’re not an abnormality.

Experiencing sexual identity change is a part of life.

As society progresses, it’s becoming more and more common to see older individuals opening themselves up to those changes and accepting themselves.

I think it’d be beneficial for my students to hear your story as told by you.

It has less of an impact when it comes from their professor. ”

Sadly, that I did understand.

“And they wouldn’t know who I am?”

“Not unless you decide you want to come speak in one of my classes.”

“I don’t think I want that,” I said. “But okay. I still don’t mind paying.”

“Not necessary,” Amelia replied. “Leave me your number, and I’ll send you options on when it’s best to talk.”

“Can I ask you one question before I leave?” I asked as I wrote down my phone number for her. When she nodded, I said, “Is it really normal? To be confused about my sexuality at this point in life?”

“I hate the word normal,” she told me. “Normal is a subjective concept. My normal is being married to two women, having four cats, and a dog who thinks he’s a cat.

That’s my normal. Yours looks different.

Neither one of our situations is abnormal.

The concept of normality comes from believing life has to be lived in any one way.

What I can tell you is that it’s more common than you think.

We live in a society where young people are loud and proud and very active on social media.

They’ve become the face of a movement that challenges society deemed norms, but that doesn’t mean they’re the only ones going through it.

Sexuality is like any other part of our identity.

It can change. Or sometimes we become more comfortable accepting what was always there instead of burying it.

Where you fall in all of that is something we can discuss during one of our sessions. ”

Those words stuck with me as I left. I paused outside to take a deep breath and let the night air fill my lungs as the relief of figuring out a therapist settled in.

It was linear progress—something I could easily tick off a checklist. I liked trackable progress, especially because I knew the rest of this would get messy. Ridiculously messy .

“It’s okay,” I whispered to no one in particular. Maybe it wasn’t okay at that particular moment, but I had to believe that it would be.