7. of strip clubs and other poor decisions

I went to work Friday morning with anticipatory anxiety about my ill-conceived plans to get drinks with Liam later that day, but I tried my best to shove that to the back of my mind and focus on my clients. Melody (the soon-to-be empty nester married to Todd) emailed me unexpectedly, asking if I was available for her to come in for support—she was having an emergency of some kind. It sounded serious. Luckily, I had a cancellation that morning and could offer a free two hours between ten and noon. I always try to accommodate clients needing emergent support, especially couples in high conflict.

Melody entered my waiting room shaking, completely flushed, and on the verge of tears. Her small frame looked even more fragile with her thick brunette hair pulled back into a messy ponytail. She wore no makeup on her naturally tanned but wrinkle-free, satiny skin. She said she felt like she was going to be sick, so I turned off the overhead lights in my office, leaving the light of two floor lamps to ground us into a space of more warmth and comfort. When she sat on my couch, she divulged the details of a very upsetting Thursday night, during which she found out that Todd secretly went to a gentleman’s club for a prolonged period of time, alone, on a “work trip” the next state over. Unbeknownst to Todd, Melody had the ability to track his cell phone’s location via their family phone plan with Google. She witnessed him leaving his hotel after telling her he was eating dinner. He drove to an address that, through a quick Google Maps search, she found was home to a sketchy strip club with private lap dance rooms. His cell phone’s location returned to the hotel about two hours later. Throughout this excursion, Todd gave only terse responses to Melody’s texts—a divergence from their typical banter.

The salt in the wound was that one of the couple’s main sources of conflict is money—Todd tracks Melody’s spending like a hawk. Yet, he somehow found it appropriate to fund a trip to a strip club all while putting up a front in our therapy sessions that he was dedicated to working through his marital issues. I was as dumbfounded and shocked as Melody to learn about his ulterior motives. But I saw the screenshots. She had proof. And Todd has a long history of sneaky, self-sabotaging behavior. I sat with Melody for 90 minutes, offering her snacks—she hadn’t eaten anything since Thursday afternoon—and a space to process the options she had before her. She didn’t take me up on the snacks, but we did form the skeleton of a plan. Her main goal was to avoid falling into the familiar cycle they perpetuate when arguing (i.e., Melody making snide comments as a way to make Todd feel her pain, and Todd gaslighting her as a way to deflect blame and guilt). Having visibly calmed down, Melody left my office right before noon with a plan to approach her husband when he returned home later that day. Despite emailing her to check this morning, I’m still in the dark about how things went. That’s one of the challenges of being a therapist—we only get to spend an hour a week with our clients. The remaining time is theirs to navigate on their own as we wait patiently to join them again.

I was grateful to be able to provide extra support to Melody, and I also appreciated that the long session consumed a portion of the nervous energy I had running through my own system all morning. The rest of my workday Friday went pretty smoothly thereafter. Nonetheless, the second I finished meeting with my last client of the day, I was again flooded with anxiety and guilt about the inevitable mistake that was awaiting me at the Mexican restaurant on Main Street.

Pulling into the restaurant, I saw Liam’s black four-door Jeep Wrangler already parked in the parking lot. A chill and sudden need to use the bathroom ran through my tense body. I sat in my car until my upset stomach settled enough to walk in. This was a terrible idea.

I entered the restaurant to see that he had just sat down moments before me—a brunette waitress was walking away from the table, leaving behind a heap of food and drink menus on the high-top in front of Liam. I slid onto the stool, facing him from across the table. His large brown eyes danced with excitement, as if he also knew this was a terrible idea, but that the night was too enticing to not see through.

“Hi,” was all I could manage before sifting through the menus to find the alcoholic drinks list. I had decided hours ago that I couldn’t be sober for this . . . my mental health, Noel, and Dawn Patrol would just have to wait until I was more fully prepared to let go of my main source of comfort—alcohol.

As anyone may have predicted, Liam ignored the fact that he ghosted me a few summers ago until I casually brought it up myself. I wanted to know why he couldn’t just tell me his feelings had changed. He claimed he didn’t know how to tell me he wasn’t ready for something more serious, which he felt we were turning into, so he chose instead to withdraw and hope I’d take the hint. If this conversation had happened in 2021 or even 2022, I would have probably had a very different, more enraged reaction to his immature excuse and the pathetic attempt at an apology that followed. But I, being an ever-so-slightly more evolved creature than I was back then, didn’t have the energy to trudge up my bitterness just for the sake of trying to make him feel worse in this moment. I chose instead to ask him why he wanted to meet up to talk this week.

He nervously ran his hand through his softly gelled, wavy hair as he stumbled over words that had clearly been on his mind for some time. Apparently, Lisa is more of an anxious “control freak” (Liam’s words, not mine) than I had picked up on in our intake. Liam shared that seeing me again made him realize not only how unhappy he was with the way their relationship had been going, but also that it was possible to be with someone who had more of a go-with-the-flow, free spirit like his. Side note: I’m not sure I would necessarily call myself a free spirit, but I can see how my “unserious” lifestyle four years ago may have led him to believe that about me.

Liam, citing my expertise as a couple’s therapist, then asked me how to break up with her and ask her to move out without hurting her. I was slightly offended that he would approach me seeking help, but I tried my best to carefully straddle the line between being a professional off-duty therapist and a single female in desperate need of my own validation. As someone who genuinely loves working with relationships, I did want to help Liam out. But the longer we sat there together, as the mariachi music grew louder and crowds got thicker with people getting out of work for the weekend, the larger my dilemma grew.

I had sipped one, then two, then a third skinny margarita across the table from the tall, handsome, dark-eyed goof that I cared so much for years ago, and my old feelings, shaking clean of their cobwebs, began creeping to the forefront of my fuzzy mind. I noticed, as he matched me drink for drink, that Liam’s smiles became deeper, as if the thoughts behind them were becoming weightier—more nuanced. I could tell this night together wasn’t going to end at the restaurant. By the time we were ready to get the check, I wasn’t equipped to stop the train from running over the cliff.

Long story short, Liam slept over Friday night. I feel less guilty about it than I otherwise might, knowing he’s unhappy with Lisa. But that does not excuse the fact that I slept with a man in a relationship while his sweet, unsuspecting girlfriend was at their apartment probably wondering how Liam’s work happy hour turned into an all-nighter. The terms we left things on are . . . up in the air. He claims he is going to break up with Lisa. I have no expectation of that meaning he’s interested in pursuing something with me, although his almost overbearingly affectionate behavior Friday night would indicate differently to an amateur.

When Liam left my house to walk the quarter mile back to his Jeep that was still in the parking lot of the restaurant—Phil waving to him from his front yard as he picked up sticks in his raggedy boxer shorts—my hangxiety began to set in. After eating a big breakfast, I walked to pick up my car from the parking lot and went to the gym to try to sweat out whatever was left of the margaritas in my system. GD was out of town for a family event over the weekend, so his presence was unfortunately not around for me to distract myself. I spent the remainder of the day rotting on the couch, watching an enthralling true crime docuseries, and eating Indian food I had delivered to the house. I took two Advil PM and went to bed at 8pm on Saturday—the escape of sleep was more enticing than staying awake with my demons any longer.

On Sunday, I awoke to two missed calls from Noel that I have decided to ignore until I can think of something better to say than “I caved under the pressure of meeting up with an old flame.” I hadn’t heard from Liam the rest of the day Saturday, so by Sunday I anticipated that a second ghosting and familiar rush of dread and shame were on their way. Instead, to my surprise, he texted me to say he would like to see me again once things with Lisa are figured out. I didn’t ask him if he was going to tell her about Friday, but I wish I had. Part of me is honestly scared that if she finds out, she will report me to the Maryland licensing board—after all, I did technically sleep with a client, which is a massive ethical violation as a therapist. Time will tell, but Liam doesn’t strike me as someone who would add insult to injury during the breakup by telling Lisa he also cheated on her . . . especially with me.

It’s Monday now and I’m not sure what the week ahead will bring. As winter and the holidays slowly start creeping in, I find myself wanting to retreat both physically and mentally. Escape. Run away. Maybe book a trip. Maybe impulsively buy some Eagles tickets for this Sunday’s game . . . pulling up Ticketmaster now.

Anything at all to focus on something else—to keep me from facing reality and the fact that I’m still here, alone.

Eve