The Golden Couple(2)

Marissa sips hers; she looks more like a white-wine kind of woman. But Matthew tosses his back easily.

“We’re here to talk about Bennett, our son,” Matthew says. He looks at his wife.

I don’t betray my surprise, even though Marissa didn’t mention a child in her initial phone call.

She reaches for her husband’s hand. “Actually, sweetheart, that isn’t exactly why we’re here. I need to tell you something.” Her voice quavers again.

The shift in the room is palpable; it’s as if the temperature plummets.

Here it comes: The Confession.

I wait for it as Matthew stiffens, his features hardening. He doesn’t blink as he stares at Marissa. “What’s going on?”

His wife blindsided him. She lured him to me on false pretenses. Not the best way to begin our work, but maybe it was the only way to get him here.

“I’ve wanted to tell you this for a while. I just didn’t know how.” A tear rolls down her cheek. “I broke your trust, and I’m so sorry.”

He pulls his hand away roughly. “Cut to the chase, Marissa.”

She swallows hard. “I slept with someone,” she blurts. “Just once. But—”

“Who?” Matthew’s question cuts like a knife through the air.

She covers her flat stomach with her hands, as if she feels its blade.

This won’t be the first time I’ve helped a couple through an infidelity. Back when I was a licensed therapist—instead of a consultant, which is my title now—I saw iterations of it nearly every week: the wife who had an affair with a coworker, the husband who cheated with a neighbor, the fiancé who had a fling with an old girlfriend. But something about Marissa’s revelation feels different.

Or maybe it’s Matthew’s reaction.

Typically, spouses experience shock when confronted with news such as this. Anger doesn’t descend until later.

Matthew’s rage is immediately palpable, though. His hands clench into fists, the plastic cup crumpling in his grasp.

“It wasn’t anyone you know,” Marissa whispers. “Just a man I met at Pinnacle Studio.”

“What?” Color floods his cheeks. “You fucked a guy from the gym?”

She bows her head, as if she feels she deserves his coarse language.

I lean forward. It’s time for me to reenter this scene. “Matthew, I know how hard it must be for you to hear this.”

He whirls to look at me with blazing eyes. I lean closer to him, meeting his gaze unflinchingly.

“Really? You know?” He spits out the words. “Were you in on this, helping her set me up to get me here?”

I lift up my hands. I’m not going to give him an answer, but I can absorb his rage. I’ve dealt with angrier men than him.

Marissa raises her head. “Matthew, she didn’t know why we were coming. And I was scared that if I told you at home—”

She doesn’t finish her sentence. My eyes drift to the mangled cup in his hand and wonder if Matthew’s emotional outbursts are ever accompanied by physical ones.

Matthew stands, towering over his wife. She stares up at him beseechingly.

Their body language speaks volumes: she’s frightened.

What I need to find out is if she’s scared of losing her husband or scared of him.

I rise unhurriedly to my feet. I don’t shout, but my tone carries force. “Do you love your wife?”

Matthew turns to look at me. His face is twisted; too many emotions are tangled up in his expression for me to determine which one is now dominant.

He doesn’t answer my question. I maintain eye contact. With men such as Matthew, it’s important to demonstrate assertiveness.

“If you love your wife”—I enunciate every word—“then please sit back down. I can get you through this.”

He hovers, on the brink of a decision. I could say more to sway him. I could let him know I’ve worked with many couples who’ve endured far worse issues than infidelity. I could tell him about my success rate, which is even higher now that I’ve shed the constraints of traditional therapy and created a new method, one that’s all my own.

But I don’t. I wait him out.

“I don’t see how talking about bullshit like my issues with my father and my dreams can help us get through this,” he says.

If I had to lay down odds on whether he’ll storm back out through the door, I’d put them at fifty-fifty.

“Matthew,” Marissa begs. “Avery’s not like that. Please, give this a chance.”

He exhales, his rigid shoulders softening. Then he plants himself on the couch, as far from his wife as possible.

I reclaim my seat as well.

What Matthew doesn’t know is that I’ve just made a decision, too. The Bishops intrigue me; I’m going to take them on.

“Here’s how this will go. You have ten sessions.” Knowing the time frame for our work together is essential for a client. What they can’t know is my agenda.

In my process, each session has a title, beginning with The Confession, then cycling through Disruption, Escalation, Revelation, Devastation, Confrontation, Exposure, The Test, Reconciliation, and concluding with Promises.

“You cannot skip our sessions or be late. No traffic excuses or last-minute deadlines. In between our appointments, you can talk about your son, your careers, the weather—really anything. But it’s best if this space remains pure, so I recommend avoiding discussing what will come up here. I also suggest you don’t reveal information about our time together to anyone else while our sessions are ongoing.”