Water Under the Bridge: A Psychological Thriller | Book 1 | The Water Series (Ebook)

Chapter One

AFTER

Your face crumbles as the judge hands down our sentence. I am fascinated by the way your expression changes, as slowly, recognition takes over that unlike the rest of your affairs, this one isn’t going to be a one-and-done deal. Turns out, lucky us, the great State of Texas is having a go at a pilot program designed to drop the state’s divorce rate. 

But you aren’t feeling very lucky. Not at all. I can tell by the way you pinch the bridge of your nose. You’ve always hated not getting your way. It doesn’t matter anyway. I want to tell you—whatever political agenda bullshit this latest program entails—I can assure you and the rest of Texas, it won’t save us. Even if I were the kind of man who believed in miracles, you and me, we’d need a miracle plus a Hail Mary. You’ve said it yourself, where we are concerned, there is no hope. And this is why you plead.

“Excuse me, your Honor—,” you start, and you pause for effect, always the performer. “This really isn’t necessary,” you profess and then you swallow, and I like it when you’re unsure. You go on. “My hus—Jude and I—,” you tell him, and you look over at me, and my god, Kate, you’ve always done indifference so well. “I think we can both agree we’re ready to get on with our lives.” 

You refer to me as your husband—or almost, anyway—and for a moment, I recall what it felt like before your words were laced with poison, back when there was nothing but hope. 

I listen to you say your piece, and this time is no different than all the times before, only this time, we have witnesses, and you know how I’ve always hated that. You must know this because you sink back in your chair, proud.

Your pride doesn’t last long because when the judge lists out the terms of our captivity, you glare at your attorney, willing her to save you, but she won’t—she can’t. You almost choke when he orders six months of marriage counseling, which includes weekly appointments. Your hand flies to your throat, and I remember what that’s like, holding you in place, having it all in the palm of my hand. I’d give anything—maybe even your life—to know what that feels like again. 

The good news here is the judge and I seem to be on the same page as he informs the two of us that a therapist of our choosing must sign off before the court will grant our divorce. You hold your breath as he speaks, and I remember what that felt like too.

I try, for you, though… I do. I wait for him to finish, and then I tell him that you’re right, we’ve made our decision, and as I speak, you sulk, but isn’t this what you’ve always wanted, to be right? It’s hard to look at you, sulking or otherwise, and it never used to be this way. 

You’re tanner than the last time I saw you. But then, I guess time away did you good. You said you needed your space, and I let you have it. But you have to know, Kate, it was hard not to follow. Maybe I should have. But it was all the same to you—you made up your mind, and your decision settled mine. 

Nevertheless, if there is such a thing as a clean break for you and me, it isn’t looking good, and it certainly won’t be handed down today. This judge does not cease his interminable vendetta against your freedom. He does not relent. You aren’t happy, and I can’t recall the last time you were, even though I try. It’ll come to me, the memory of you, but this courtroom is too stuffy, and you know how I’ve always hated an audience. 

The judge looks away, and you look on, defeated; it’s clear, even if you refuse to let it show. As he jots something down, you bite your lip, a tell—you still believe there’s hope. But I know better. When he looks up, holding a pen and our future in his hands, you tell him you’d be better off dead, and he looks surprised, as though he’s missed something. He has. A lot of somethings. He asks if there’s a history of violence. No, you tell him, it was just an expression. Although a part of me wonders if you’re right about that too. Maybe there’s truth in what you say. Maybe you would be better off dead, and I can’t help but wonder if I have it in me. 

* * *

You text, and there’s something about seeing your name light up my phone that still gets me even after all this time. You’re all business with your words, and I remember how much I’ve always liked this side of you. You write that our first therapy session is on Tuesday, and it’s so like you to take control, so like you to try and set the pace. But you are mistaken, Kate. Our first therapy session is Monday, and you seem to forget that I’m always one step ahead. You cease with the texting and ring me instead because you like to be the one calling the shots. You’re ready to pounce when I offer formalities I don’t mean—meanwhile, I’m just happy to hear your voice. You sound exasperated, and I wish I could see your face. No one tells you how much you can miss a person’s face. You rattle off instructions, but we don’t talk about things, not really, and I wonder when we stopped talking. 

We’re talking now, that’s what you’d say. But I won’t— because no one’s really saying anything. Nothing worth saying, anyway. Eventually, after I’ve refused to take the bait because I won’t give you my anger as freely as you give yours, you relent, and you agree to the Monday appointment. You’d never admit it, but you like it when I put you in your place. Better to get it over with, you tell me with an edge. The sooner to see you, my dear, I think. But I don’t say this. I give you what you want. I always have.

* * *

You sit cross-legged with your hands folded neatly in your lap, and I hate how pretty you look. Your hair is up, neat and orderly, different, and I study that spot on your neck, the one I know so well. It’s your weak spot, and given the chance, I’d dive right in. But we’re here, not there, in more ways than one, and I hate that this middle-aged doctor is checking you out. I don’t know why you had to wear such a low-cut top, and I recognize the look he gives you. He has a weakness too. But he thinks he’s the one in charge here—I can tell by the way he wears it via the chip on his shoulder—when, in reality, he lacks a real MD behind his name. He’d better watch himself. I’ll kill him if I have to. He isn’t old, the way I’d imagined, and I silently curse myself for not doing more research on something so important.

“Dr. C.” That’s how he introduces himself, and it’s clear he’s the kind of fellow who believes in make-believe. What a joke this is—what a joke he is. We would laugh about this, you and I, if things were different. If now were before. But it isn’t, and no one’s laughing.

“So…why don’t you tell me where things went wrong…?” he urges, and I want to hate him, and I almost do, but I admire his directness. I, too, am eager to get to the point. 

You shrug, and then I do the same because I’m well-versed in the art of mirroring, but mostly because I want to know your answer. I’m glad he starts here because he doesn’t know us, Kate, this fake doctor. He doesn’t know that other doctors (both real and fake) have told us we’re not capable of love. But we were capable, you and I. We were. We weren’t make-believe like this guy. We didn’t pretend we were something we weren’t until we did—and that is the real reason we’re here, but I don’t say this. I let you lead the way. 

“Is there really any way to know, Doc—” you start and then you stop. You don’t call him ‘doctor,’ but you let him think he’s in charge, and I like that you’re on to him, too. You know his ability to ask a good question doesn’t make him a real doctor, and this is a good start. Already, we’re getting somewhere, you and I, and I’m starting to feel something that looks a lot like hope.

You are right, I tell him. There’s really no way of knowing where things went bad, no way to pinpoint exactly who’s at fault, and yet here we are, sitting in these chairs, talking to him instead of each other, both wanting nothing more than to be anywhere else, getting on with our lives. 

You nod, and we’re on the same page again, and all of a sudden the world seems less bleak. 

He asks how we met, and you crinkle your nose. 

“Does it really matter?” I ask. “It’s over,” I say. “Isn’t it best to let it be?” I add for good measure, showing that I, too, can ask good questions. You sit up a little straighter, but you drop your guard. 

“Perhaps,” he says, even though he and I both know he doesn’t mean it. Perhaps. Give me a break. He doesn’t know how much I hate that word, but you do, and I see the corners of your lips turn upward as he says it. It doesn’t matter, though. He isn’t fooling me with his half-hearted response. ‘Dr. C’ is a man used to being right. He likes control, he likes being in charge, he gets off on toying with people’s emotions, and perhaps I could show him the error of his ways. 

“And yet—,” he adds, as though he’s exasperated when he hardly knows what it means to lift a finger, “I want to go back to where it began.” He speaks to me as he looks at you, and I can’t blame him. They say living well is the best form of revenge. They are right, and in this case, it’s pretty apparent—I am bad at revenge.

“I think it would be a good idea for the two of you to tell each other the story of your coming together—in writing,” he says, looking from you to me and back, and I can’t be mad at him for staring at your tits when he has such good ideas. “I find writing helps clients come to terms with the dissolution of their marriage in a way that merely talking doesn’t…” he continues, pausing for added effect, and you cross your arms. “Writing can be reflective. I find it helps my clients to move on, and more importantly, it lends to healthier relationships in the future.” 

“I don’t write,” you tell him, as you shift in your seat—you little liar, you. You write all the time. 

“You wrote the text you sent me about this very appointment,” I say because he needs to know those tits he’s staring at are my tits and that we still talk. You give me that look, the one I know so well, and perhaps you are onto me. 

“Just give it a try,” the fake doctor insists, adjusting his glasses on his nose, and I’d pay money to prove they aren’t even prescription. “Trust me,” he says, and I don’t. I hope you don’t either. “It’ll save the two of you time talking to me,” he adds. It’s a small offer of condolence, and thankfully, he says something I like. Only this guy doesn’t know you like I do. He may have me convinced, but he hasn’t convinced you, and you are not soothed. I can tell by the way you check your phone every two and a half seconds. You’re distracted, and you don’t trust him. You don’t want to talk to him, and I hate that phone for getting more of you than you give to us. 

“What happens if I just don’t come back?” you ask, and this isn’t a threat—you genuinely want to know. You, always the stubborn one, always the one to test the limits, until suddenly, you just don’t.

“Well—” he says, and I can tell you’ve tested him. He’s intrigued by your defiance, and I will squash him if he gets any ideas…just like I will squash that phone of yours if you don’t stop staring at it. “It’s mandatory if you want to wrap up your divorce,” he tells you, and I like the direction he’s going. I like that he plays hardball, so I don’t have to. “Furthermore, you’d be violating a court order, and of course, that’s not something I’d advise.” 

You look over at me, and I smile, and you are so clever. You’re not the kind of girl who enjoys being backed against the wall—until you are, and that’s exactly what I’m imagining doing right now. I think he is too, and perhaps I’ll let it slide, but only because I can tell by your expression you understand he’s forcing you to come back here, back to me.

“Fine,” you say, and it’s too bad you’re not a mind reader. 

“I’ll give it a try,” you tell him, and you sigh. You check your phone again, and this is a new one, but then, you’ve always surprised me with your intelligence. You look up, only this time not at me, and I get that familiar pain in my chest I know all too well. “Now, can I go?” you ask, raising your brow, and you’re ready to pounce if the answer that comes isn’t the one you want.

“Yes,” he says, and you stand. You’re about to bolt when he stops you with the flick of a wrist, and I remember when I could do that. “That is—if you agree, Jude. I need a commitment here that you’ll both come prepared with something in hand by our next appointment,” he adds, and there’s authority in his voice when he speaks. You wait, and you listen, and this isn’t the girl I know. He’s looking at me now as though he and I are on the same team. We aren’t, and he can’t know how much you both love and hate authority, and maybe this is the answer to his question about where it all went wrong.

“Sure,” I tell him, offering my best smile. “I’ll come up with something for you, Doc,” I offer as though I’m his star student, when in fact, I’m full of shit. But he buys it, and you are antsy because you know I’ve won. “I’ll write you a whole book, if that’s what it takes,” I add for good measure. He smiles. “I’ll call it Water Under the Bridge,” I say, fucking with you. You shake your head at me. Then you roll your eyes and start for the door. I’m pretty sure you know he’s checking out your ass, and he’d better watch himself. There was a time when this wouldn’t have bothered me, a time when I believed in you… when I believed in us. 

Now is not that time. 

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