Aaron
The doctor discharged us a couple of days later and suggested we go to therapy-to help us cope with losing the baby.
He had no idea how much Joan needed it.
She’d seen someone die right in front of her, been caught in a shooting spree, lost our child, and seen me covered in blood. Even though she wasn’t saying much, I knew it had left scars on her.
I promised myself I’d go with her to every session.
That’s why I was opening the car door for her, helping her in before getting into the driver’s seat and pulling out of our compound. It was our first meeting with the therapist.
She stayed quiet, staring out of the window like she wasn’t really seeing anything. It had been happening a lot.
A tight feeling grew in my chest, and my grip on the steering wheel hardened.
“Hey. You good?” I asked.
She turned to me, her eyes dull, missing the usual spark.
She pressed her lips together and nodded.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” she muttered, looking away.
My jaw tensed.
The rest of the ride passed in silence. A few minutes later, we pulled up in front of the therapist’s office-one of the best in the field.
She stared at her hands as I killed the engine.
I looked ahead at the building, giving her a moment.
She was hurting, and it killed me that I couldn’t take that pain away.
After a minute, she sat up straighter and glanced at me.
“We going in or…?” she asked, raising a brow.
I studied her face-the exhaustion under her eyes, the way her shoulders slumped.
“After you,” I said.
She forced a small smile and stepped out of the car. I followed, walking beside her into the building.
Dr. Morrissey had flown in from Australia. Her reputation was solid. At $500 an hour, she wasn’t cheap, but I’d pay anything to fix what was breaking between us.
The receptionist greeted us with a smile and led us to the office, offering us seats before stepping out.
I took in the space.
A few paintings hung on the walls, giving the room a cozy feel, but the bright white walls stung my eyes. Then again, therapy rooms weren’t meant to feel dark and heavy.
I glanced at Joan. She was staring at her nails like they were the most interesting thing in the world.
I swallowed hard before reaching for her hand, intertwining our fingers.
She looked up at me, her beautiful eyes looked tainted with an emotion I couldn’t fathom.
I gave a small nod and looked away. I just needed to hold on to her.
The door creaked open, and Dr. Morrissey walked in with a bright smile.
She looked to be in her early forties, her dark hair pulled into a bun with a few white strands peeking through. She wasn’t tall-maybe 5’1, 5’2 at most.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” she said as we stood.
Her gaze flickered to Joan before settling on me. She held out her hand, and I took it in a firm handshake.
“Mr. Thompson. Nice to finally meet you in person,” she said with a small nod.
“Nice meeting you too,” I replied, my voice steady.
She looked at Joan again, her expression softening. Her smile widened.
Then she turned back to me. “Your wife is beautiful,” she said warmly.
Joan gave a shy smile, and I didn’t correct her. Wife, fiance-what difference did it make?
Dr. Morrissey reached out and gave Joan a light hug, rubbing her back.
“Nice to meet you…” she trailed off, waiting for Joan’s name.
“Joan. Joan Madison,” she said.
The woman nodded, then glanced at me before returning her gaze to Joan.
“I’m Kate Morrissey. Most call me Dr. Morrissey, but Kate works just fine,” she said, walking to the couch across from us.
“Nice to meet you, Kate,” Joan said.
“Please, have a seat,” she gestured, and we both sank into the plush couch.
She checked her watch, then picked up a notepad and pen.
Her gaze moved between the two of us, her polite smile never fading.
“Alright. Who am I speaking to today?” she asked.
I turned to Joan. She met my eyes, and I raised a brow slightly.
“Both of us, actually,” I said.
I caught the flicker of surprise in Joan’s eyes before shifting my focus back to Morrissey.
She looked just as surprised. “I wasn’t informed this was a couple’s session,” she said.
I hadn’t known either, but I wasn’t about to leave Joan alone in this.
“Okay,” she said, drawing out the word as she jotted something down. Then she looked at Joan.
“I’d like to start with you,” she said gently.
I nodded in agreement.
“Joan, how are you feeling?” she asked.
Joan’s gaze dropped to her hands again. She nodded a little, pasting on a smile before lifting her eyes.
“I’m fine… good,” she said.
Kate pressed her lips together, studying her quietly.
“Joan, this only works if you’re honest with me,” she said, her voice gentle.
Joan exhaled through her nose, her jaw tensing.
“I want to know everything. Whatever you’re feeling-just say it,” Kate encouraged.
For a moment, Joan didn’t speak. Then, in a quiet voice, she said, “I lost a baby.”
An ache went through my chest. I squeezed her hand.
Kate’s face softened. “I’m really sorry. Do you want to talk about it?”
Joan sniffed and nodded.
“I feel guilty,” she admitted, her voice breaking.
She blinked quickly, trying to keep the tears back. “I feel like a bad mother… like I couldn’t protect my babies.”
She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. “I was careless and stupid, and now I…” She swallowed hard. “Now I lost one.”
The conversation stretched on for over an hour. Kate asked questions. We answered.
By the end of it, I realized just how broken we both were.
Joan had been carrying guilt, abandonment issues, and a childhood that had left scars.
And me? I’d been forced to be tough since my parents died. I had my own resentment-toward life, toward Joan’s father.
And hell, I didn’t even feel guilty for killing the people who had hurt her.
I’d never killed before. I’d always handled things differently-through technology, through control.
But here we were, two broken people trying to piece ourselves back together.
And broken pieces had a way of fitting together.
I just hoped we’d find a way to make it work.