Before I could accuse Jonathan of tampering with our session, a man dressed in an all-white tunic stepped in front of us.
“Ahhhh,” he said, smiling. “The future Mr. and Mrs. Statham. Welcome to Waldo pre-marital counseling. I’m Dr. Choate and I’ll be assisting you through the first stage of unity today.”
“Wait a minute. I’m sorry.” I shook my head. “We’re supposed to be meeting a Dr. Clinton. Is this the wrong floor?”
“No. You’re in the right place. This is it.”
“Then where is Dr. Clinton?”
“He retired last week. He didn’t send you an email?”
I shook my head.
“Oh, well sorry about that. The company decided to hire me in his place the same day that he left. After all my success with the Zen rituals at Statham Industries, they thought I was the best choice.” He reached out to shake Jonathan’s hand. “That’s why it’s an absolute honor to bestow my new and exclusive Zen practices with the man who made me a household name.”
Oh god...
He instructed for us to take our shoes off and then he led us over to the bean bags.
“So...” He put on a pair of glasses and looked at a sheet of paper. “Miss Gracen, I see that you’ve signed up for the two hour session. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“And when asked what you wanted the main focus to be on...” He flipped the paper over. “You said that you two are having problems in the intimacy department?”
Jonathan quickly turned his head to face me, raising his eyebrow.
“NO. I never said that. I said that—”
“Ah, ah, ah. It’s right here. My secretary never makes a mistake.”
“You don’t even have a—”
“Shhh.” He leaned forward and pressed a black pen against my lips. “Don’t be ashamed of your bedroom problems, Miss Gracen. Every couple has them in some form or another. That’s what today‘s all about.”
I could feel Jonathan glaring at me, begging me to look his way so he could say something, but I kept my eyes straight ahead.
“If you’re hurting about something—anything at all, no matter how small it is, these next two hours are the perfect time to let it out.” He took a deep breath. Then he shut his eyes and slowly exhaled. “Let it all out.”
He sat like that for at least two minutes—shut eyes, Indian style, head tilted up to the ceiling, and I signaled to Jonathan so we could leave and end this joke of a session, but Dr. Choate’s eyes suddenly flew open.
“Now that that’s done,” he said. “Let’s get down to business. Why are you here today, Mr. Statham?”
“To help fix my fiancée’s intimacy problems.”
“See that, Miss Gracen?” Dr. Choate nodded. “He wants to fix things too! So, on a scale of one to ten, how satisfied are you with your current sex life, Mr. Statham?”
“Twenty.”
“Okay, that’s great. Miss Gracen, how about you?”
“Twenty,” I whispered.
“Hmmm. I see...” He wrote something down and held out two notecards. “I want you to write down your honest expectations for sex after marriage. Is it going to be the same as it is now? More? Less? Well, definitely not less because Miss Gracen clearly isn’t satisfied.”
“Thank you, Dr. Choate.” I snatched my notecard from him, still avoiding the intense glare that was coming from Jonathan.
I wrote down “same” on my notecard and waited for him to speak again.
“Okay, now toss your cards into the fire pit.”
What? We both crumpled them up and threw them into the small fire.
“Now,” he said as he handed us two more. “This time I want you to answer the question that is printed on the notecard and be as honest as possible. And actually, could you address them as ‘Dear Future Husband’ and ‘Dear Future Wife’? We’re going to toss them into the fire again as soon as we’re done, but make sure you take this seriously.”
He reached behind him and turned on a small radio—a radio that played the sound of ocean waves, and then he shut his eyes again.
There was only one question on the card: What’s one thing you wish you could change about your current intimacy exchanges?
I looked over and saw Jonathan scribbling away, but I couldn’t think of anything. I suddenly felt guilty for suggesting this session in the first place. Whether I wanted to believe in my current fairy tale or not, there was nothing I would change. Not a damn thing.
Sure, he and I argued about things from time to time—me working late so often, him being so damn controlling, me redecorating every room in his house, but for the most part we were great. More than great.