A Nice Guy

42

I grip the worn armrests of the plush armchair, knuckles white. I'm not sure what to focus on—the abstract shapes in the woven rug below me, the therapist's calm gaze, or the knot of worry tightening in my gut. The room is silent, filled only by the rhythmic tick of a clock on the wall. Finally, I force some words out, my voice rough. "I just... I don't know how to keep doing this."

His gaze lingers on my face, remaining calm and focused. Clearing his throat, he gestures with his hand as he speaks. "Doing what, Alex? What is this?"

I close my eyes, fighting off the wave of annoyance that rips through me. "I don't know—the right thing, I guess. Like, how do I do the right thing, consistently?"

I've been going to therapy for three months now, confining in Dr. Daniel Lee about how much of a shitty person I am. I'm vague during my sessions though, terrified of exposing myself and what I've done. Fearful of the judgement, sure, but mainly the possible consequences.

He removes his gaze from me, focusing on something to my left instead. He rhythmically flicks his pen between his fingers, as if pondering my question. He exhales. "There isn't always a single 'right thing,' there are definitely ways to approach situations that align with your values and what you feel comfortable with."

He explains that ethical decision-making is about considering potential consequences and weighing them against your own moral compass. "It's about navigating through the gray areas," he says, "because life rarely presents us with black and white choices."

I blankly stare up at the ceiling, attempting to process his words, but I'm failing miserably. My lips almost form a smile, threatening to laugh at his seemingly incomprehensible answer.

The session ends, and as always, I'm left wondering why I ever started going to therapy in the first place. I know why, of course. I go for Hazel. I told her I'd start going so that I can become a better person; a better partner to her, and a better father to Bonnie.

Honestly, even though I don't understand half of the things he says, I think Dr. Lee has been helping me become that better person. I've been able to accept that the things I've done are wrong, but not only that, I've allowed myself to feel remorseful about them.

I've been able to apologize to Hazel—genuinely apologize, for abusing her. I sat her down and poured my heart out to her, admitting all of my wrongdoings and finally taking accountability for my actions.

I've also apologized to Anna—in person. Of course she was against the idea at first, but eventually she met with me for coffee. I told her that she was right when she called me clinically insane, and that I'd started going to therapy. I apologized for the way I treated her, for the things I'd done to her.

I'm allowing myself to think about my past more often; about my mom, and the way she verbally and emotionally abused me once she found out she had cancer, but more importantly, about my dad, who sexually abused me for eight months before he died in the car accident.

I don't talk about my parents in therapy. Maybe I'm not ready, maybe it doesn't matter. My actions are mine alone, should I blame them on the abuse I endured? No, of course not. So I refrain from bringing it up—any of it. Maybe one day I'll open up about that part of myself. Right now, I have to focus on my family.

I'm engaged to Hazel. Yeah, I know. It's bittersweet. It feels like a step in my master plan that can finally be checked off, but I don't like to think of her and our relationship that way anymore. The plans, the manipulation, the toxicity of the entire ordeal makes me sick to my stomach now.

I've sold the car I used to stalk her in, by the way. I don't know if you remember it, but it'd been sitting in storage for months, untouched. It was always at the back of my mind, though. A constant reminder of who I once was. So I sold it, and used the money to buy Hazel's engagement ring.

It's currently October 19th.

I spray some vegetable oil across the face of a pan, then switch on one of the burners, setting the heat to low-medium.

I place a heavily buttered slice of bread face down, letting it sizzle against the pan as I place some slices of cheese over it. Hazel runs her hand down my back, a simple gesture of love that could bring me to my knees.

I glance at her; she's watching me, cradling Bonnie in her arm, her expression soft and calm. I muster a smile, but guilt creeps its way to my stomach, stealing the moment. Often it's difficult to look at her without every mistake I've made replaying in my mind, a relentless loop of self-criticism.

How is she able to look at me the way she does, how is she able to accept a life with me after everything I've put her through? I don't deserve her, and I don't deserve Bonnie. I hastily turn the burner off, retreating to the bathroom to hide my tears that are threatening to escape.

But she grabs my arm, freezing me in place. I bite my cheek, looking at the ceiling, praying that gravity will help keep my tears in place. I think to myself, when did I turn into such a fucking cry baby, anyways? But I know those types of thoughts aren't helping me grow as a person. I shake them off, feeling a tear roll down my cheek.

She inches closer to me, resting her palm on my face. "You're crying again," she whispers. "What's wrong?"

I laugh at her using the word "again," running a hand through my hair. I meet her gaze. "Just thinking," I reply. "About everything. You know."

She gives me this understanding look as she bites her bottom lip. Yeah, she knows. About everything. She's the one that had to endure it, and yet I'm the one going to therapy and constantly crying about it. What a man I am, right?

She looks back and forth between my eyes, a familiar sight that makes my breath hitch. "It's okay," she says, "I forgave you a long time ago."

She always says that. I never believe her. If you ask me, I think she's forcing herself to forgive and forget everything that's happened, maybe because it's easier that way, I don't know. It's not my place to question or doubt her, but I can't help but feel even worse about everything when she's so willing to leave it all in the past.

I wish she'd punish me somehow.

I wish she'd break off the engagement, move out and take Bonnie with her, or even just slap me across the fucking face. I want her to be hurt by my actions, otherwise what is there to regret? What is there to feel remorseful about? She's ruining the process that I'm supposed to be going through, she's making it harder for me to regret the things I've done by being so accepting.

And here I am, blaming her when it's really me that can't comprehend the act of forgiveness.

I realize I don't want to be forgiven, though. I don't want to be loved unconditionally, because I don't think I deserve it.

Every part of my essential being wishes she'd hate me. I wish she didn't give me what I wanted. I wish she said no when I'd proposed to her. I wish I was alone, being forced to regret my actions instead of being told that they've already been forgiven.

Later that night, standing over Hazel's sleeping body, I realize that therapy hasn't helped me as much as I thought it has, because I'm contemplating doing something awful again in order to get the reaction I think I deserve.

I feel tears well up in my eyes, thinking to myself, I'm not a nice guy, or a good guy. I'm not your friend, I'm not your perfect partner you wish I was. I won't be a good parent, or a good husband.

I watch her eyes flutter open, panic quickly setting in as my hand encircles her throat. A slow, unwelcome heat creeps through my body, igniting a discomforting warmth.

I press my lips to hers, silencing her protests.

And of course, I finish inside of her.