Page 47 of The Wedding Situation Romance

Quinn: I’m aware. But I think we need to have a little chat before the next wedding. Make sure we are on the same page.

Reid: Sounds invigorating. Wednesday?

Quinn: Perfect.

I set my phone down and reach for my coffee. We need to have a heart to heart before the next wedding about his behavior. Or, in this case, a head-to-head. Because while we haven’t had sex or anything, the lines are blurring. Blurring enough that thinking about him makes my nerves tingle.

Suddenly, the front door chimes, and I switch hats. I don’t have any appointments with clients today, so it must be someone new.

“Hello,” I call out with a smile as I round the corner. But I stop as soon as I see the woman. She is in her forties, if I had to guess, based on little things like her style and her hands, and the skin on her neck. But based on the wearisome look in her expression, her frown lines that seem to weigh her entire face down, and the hollow look in her deep blue eyes, she looks almost fifty.

“Hi…” she stutters out. “I…need help.”

“Okay,” I usher her over to the couch and hand her both a bottle of water and a box of tissues. Then I ask the first and most important question when people, well, women I should say, come to me looking this distraught. “Are you in danger?”

“No…no, it’s nothing like that. I’m just…I’m just…I’ve hit a wall,” she says, and I sit down next to her. Now that I know she is at the end of her line and not being threatened, I can relax a little. AndI do know the signs of women who are in danger and need help or security. “Am I interrupting anything?” she suddenly asks. “Do I need to make an appointment? I don’t really know how this works.”

“Lucky for you, I’m free all day today. You came in at exactly the right time,” I smile and the woman nods but she’s still rigid. She’s still frowning. “Why don’t we start with your name?” I ask.

“Ashley,” she answers.

“Hi Ashley. I’m Quinn. Now tell me about this wall,” I say.

“I’ve been married for seventeen years. Since before we could drink. Not that we didn’t. We snuck beers at parties and things. Like you do,” she says, and she does crack a smile, but there’s no joy in it.

“As everyone probably did,” I smile too.

“And things…things were good. I just…I don’t know when things got…not good,” she says.

I nod, tugging a tissue from the box and handing it to her gingerly.

“I don’t think it’s abnormal for the timeline to be blurry,” I console her. “Life gets busy. People change. People grow. Do you have kids?” I ask.

“No,” she shakes her head. “We tried, we just…it didn’t happen. My fault,” she whispers down at her lap, tearing the tissue into little pieces.

“Not your fault,” I tell her soberly. “Have you talked about counseling?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “I mean. I’ve mentioned it, but it never developed into a conversation.”

I nod again, and she looks over at me.

“Shouldn’t you be…taking notes or something? So you can go over them when I leave to calculate if my marriage is fucked up enough to qualify for help?”

She’s bitter, but I still smile. “I don’t operate that way,” I say. “This isn’t a scholarship program. It’s more like…people come to me needing help. People who can’t afford counseling, but need it to save their marriages. And after getting to know them, I match them to the therapist in my book that I think will be the best fit. No notes needed. I just listen. Full attention. Good intentions.”

“I’m sorry,” she sniffles. “I’m being a bitch. I know. It’s a side effect of being?—”

“Between a rock and a hard place,” I finish Ashley’s sentence for her, and there’s another grimace.

“He filed for divorce without even telling me he wanted one,” she goes on, reaching for another tissue to turn into confetti. I’m going to have to break out the Shark for this one.

“So you didn’t see it coming,” I say softly, but Ashley snorts.

“Nope. I mean yes. I mean…we have communication barriers, Michael and I. I’m bad at saying how I feel and he’s bad at asking what I need. And don’t get me started on sex…”

“You don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to, Ashley,” I tell her.

“He never wants it. I almost questioned if he was getting it from somewhere else, but that would imply he had an interest in theactivity. His excuse is that his job is very demanding. I think he’s just…lazy.”