The Breakup Doctor by Phoebe Fox Read Free Book Online Page A

down beside him.
    Kendall wasn’t much of a reader. If it wasn’t the Wall Street Journal or SmartMoney magazine or Golf Digest , he never cracked a spine except his own. So I tried to be happy with his compliment.
    But his reaction stirred something unpleasant in the region of my gut usually reserved for my mother’s cutting remarks.
    â€œWell, you know,” I sallied, loitering near him against the arm of the sofa, “therapy in general is basically telling your most personal issues to an objective, uninvolved listener.”
    He looked up from his ice cream. “Oh, absolutely. I know it works for some people.” He put down his bowl and flicked on the TV.
    I leaned over to take his empty dish and carried it into the kitchen.
    â€œA lot of people, actually,” I called over the breakfast bar as I rinsed it in the sink. “I think I’ve helped a lot of people in my practice.”
    â€œI know, babe,” he said, not taking his eyes off of Kudlow and Company . “For people who need that kind of thing I bet you’re great.”
    I turned off the water and regarded the back of Kendall’s carefully combed head. He’d promised to come home early tonight to celebrate my first column. I had dinner ready and on the table at six o’clock. At six thirty-three he’d swept in with a bouquet of carnations, full of apologies, plopped the flowers and his briefcase down on the breakfast bar, and sat across the table from me to wolf down cold salmon and braised broccoli with slivered almonds. At six fifty-four he’d made an occasion of unfolding the paper and sitting on the sofa to read my article, but I could see his eyes flicking to the clock on the DVD player to make sure he didn’t miss the beginning of his show.
    A surge of irritation swelled up in me. I wiped my wet hands in jerky movements on the kitchen towel, then walked back into the living area, still clutching the towel in taut fingers. I planted myself right between Kendall and Kudlow.
    â€œWhat ‘kind of thing’ are you talking about?” I asked testily.
    I was sure I saw him visibly swallow the urge to shoo me out of the way like a gnat, but he met my eyes with an apologetic smile. “I didn’t mean anything by it, Brook. I wasn’t belittling what you do.”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œI wasn’t, Brook. I’m sorry—I’m an insensitive ass.”
    â€œSometimes.” I wasn’t ready to be mollified. “You could at least take ten minutes to be happy for me. To pay a little attention to me , instead of”—I gestured behind me at the TV—“some old balding banker.”
    â€œHe’s not a banker.”
    â€œThat’s not my point.”
    Kendall sighed and looked down into his lap as if he wished he had a manual lying open on it entitled, “How to Handle Your Girlfriend.” When he looked back up, though, his expression was clear and conciliatory.
    â€œBrook, I’m sorry. I had a crazy day, and one hell of a long week. I took off as early as I could. I’m sitting right here. I guess I’m not sure what you’re looking for from me.”
    What was I looking for? He did come home early. He read the article. He complimented it—sort of. He was here, with me, instead of at the office.
    So why did I feel...incidental? Invisible? As though I hadn’t had his full, involved focus on me for weeks. Not since he’d asked me to move in.
    As soon as the thought occurred to me, the lurch in my chest told me that was it: This thing was hanging between us, unspoken, leaving me stuck in limbo, mentally checked out of my own house, but not really sure I belonged here yet either.
    Not talking about things didn’t mean they weren’t there, swelling up and waiting to explode. I couldn’t keep letting his suggestion sit on the back burner of my mind, unresolved because of my own relationship baggage. Kendall