Push

26. He Took a Swing

💔 CONTENT WARNING 💔
Therapy session discussing suicidal thoughts.
Violent assault.

TOBY

Wednesday.

They say you can't teach an old dog new tricks, but I learned three important lessons that day.

Lesson one.

You're not supposed to sit down in front of a psychologist, blurt out that you cheated on your wife, and then demand they fix you.

To Dylan's credit, he was a lot calmer than I was. Only one of his bushy gray eyebrows rose above his thick-rimmed glasses before he put down his notebook, handed me a glass of water, and explained he couldn't fix me because I wasn't broken.

"I know you've got all those diplomas"—I waved my hand at the gold frames on the back wall—"but I think you might be wrong about that."

Dylan sank back into his leather chair. He rested an ankle on his knee, and I got an eyeful of his rainbow-spotted socks. Then he did that doctor thing where they tilt their head and watch you like they can read your mind.

"Toby, how long have you thought something was wrong with you? That you needed to be fixed? Has it only been since you were unfaithful to your wife?"

My gaze dropped to my hands. "I..." My shoulders hiked around my ears. "I don't know." I sighed. "Maybe... Always?"

"That's a very long time. How does that make you feel?"

I eyed Dylan suspiciously. "You're one of those guys who wants to talk about feelings?"

"You don't want to talk about how you feel?"

"I don't know how I feel." The tension gripped around my throat made the words come out too sharp. "If I knew, do you think I would've done so much fucked up shit to hurt my wife?"

Dylan did the head-tilting thing again. "Okay, let's forget feelings for now. Maybe you could tell me why you want to fix yourself?"

"Easy. So I can be a good husband... A good dad... A decent person. I'm none of those right now."

"And when you've achieved that—being a good husband and good dad—what does that look like? How would your life be different?"

"Gwen would love me. She'd smile when I come home. She'd let me touch her... Cuddle her..." We'd sleep in the same bed. We'd have sex. We hadn't since... forever. I exhaled a sharp breath. I wasn't telling Old Man Dylan any of that. He'd think I was a damn creep. "Forget it. It's stupid. Selfish." I rose to my feet. "I don't even know why I'm here—"

"Toby." Dylan was on his feet, too. His palm shot up. He didn't want me storming out of his office. "This is a lot. I'm not bullshitting you when I say that you've taken a huge step coming here today. Can I ask... Are you into sports?"

"Ah—yeah? I played footy growing up."

"Okay." Dylan eased back down into his chair. "Imagine you're the captain of a footy team."

"Easy." I grinned. "I was."

"I believe it." He quirked a smile. Were psychologists allowed to smile? "So, you've been called up to play in a tournament where you can win a million dollars, but you can't pick your team. On the day of the match, you rock up. One of the guys has a broken arm. Another guy can't pass for shit. You've got someone sitting on the bench who's jack of the whole thing. Do you play the game or go home?"

That was a no-brainer. "I play."

"Even though the team isn't the best?"

I shrugged. "Well, if you don't play, you've already lost your chance at the million, right?" I sat down. Brainstorming sports. Yeah. Not so bad. A complete waste of money, but I was here anyway, right? "What if all the other teams are shit, too? Plus... I reckon I could rally the team. Maybe they just need the right guy out the front to motivate them. Show them how it's done."