Mind Games 21

Continuation of https://www.literotica.com/s/the-day-the-wi-fi-betrayed-me from Travis prospective.

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A week before the first counseling session, I found myself staring at my phone, debating whether or not to make the call. Traci had been my rock through all of this, and part of me hated adding one more thing to her plate. But if anyone would understand--or at least call me an idiot if necessary--it was her.

I hit dial, and after two rings, she picked up. "Hey, Dad."

"Hey, kiddo," I said, leaning back against the couch. "Just checking in. Haven't talked to you in a bit."

She huffed playfully. "You mean since three days ago?"

I chuckled. "Okay, okay. Maybe I just miss my little girl."

Traci's voice softened. "I miss you too. How are you doing?"

I sighed, hesitating. She must have caught it, because her tone turned sharp, but gentle. "Dad. You're holding something back."

I smirked. "Damn, you got good at that whole reading minds thing."

"Please. You're like an open book missing half its pages. Spill it."

I sighed. "So, uh... Monica's lawyer is dragging this out. Throwing up roadblocks. Only way to get this thing over with is if I agree to ten counseling sessions."

Silence.

Then, Traci exploded.

"What?! Dad, that's insane! She cheated! What's there to work out?! 'Oh, let's go talk about our feelings while ignoring the fact that she was hooking up with the next-door gym rat?!'"

I grinned, letting her go.

"You don't owe her anything! This is just her trying to manipulate you, and I swear, Dad, if you actually--"

I laughed. "Traci. It's not my idea. It's just the easiest way to stop her lawyer from dragging this out for months."

There was a pause. Then a sigh.

"...Damn it. Okay. That makes sense."

She exhaled sharply. "I'm sorry, Dad. I just--I know you'd never take her back, but I hate that you even have to sit in a room with her."

I nodded, even though she couldn't see me. "Same here. But it's temporary."

Traci was quiet for a second, then her voice softened again. "She doesn't deserve you, Dad."

I swallowed, the words hitting harder than I expected. "Thanks, kiddo."

And somehow, just hearing that made the counseling sessions a little more bearable.

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Post-Monica, Month 5

I pulled into the parking lot, staring at the dull, beige office building in front of me. The first day of counseling. Mandatory sessions. Monica's pick. I had no say in the matter, according to my lawyer. "You could fight her choice, but that means dragging this out longer," he had said. And that was the last thing I wanted. I wanted this divorce done.

I sighed, rubbing my temple. This wasn't about fixing things. Monica might have some delusion that these sessions could lead to reconciliation, but for me? This was paperwork. An obstacle to clear before I could finally, truly move on. I wasn't here to heal our marriage--I was here to sign off on its death certificate.

I stepped inside, giving the receptionist my name. The waiting room was quiet, sterile, with the faint scent of lavender and cheap coffee lingering in the air. Monica wasn't here yet. Typical. Even in our mandatory last chapter together, she was late.

I sat down, leaning back in the chair, letting my mind wander. I had started rebuilding. Piece by piece, moment by moment. Work was steady. My kids were thriving, despite everything. And Maggie? She was a complication I didn't mind. Maybe it would be something more. Maybe not. Either way, it was my choice. For the first time in years, my life belonged to me again.

The door opened, and I glanced up. Monica finally arrived. She looked surprised to see me already there. I didn't say anything.

Just nodded.

Let's get this over with.

Monica walked in, her gaze flickering over me as she hesitated at the door. She was dressed casually, jeans and a sweater, no makeup, her hair pulled back in a way that made her look younger, softer. Contrite. Like she was trying to play the part of the woman who just wanted to fix things.

She offered a small, cautious smile. "Hey, Travis."

I sighed. Not out of anger, not even out of frustration--just exhaustion. Five months ago, I would have never imagined us here, sitting in a counseling office, trying to dismantle a marriage that once meant everything. There was a time when she could flash a smile and I'd drop whatever I was doing, drawn to her like an idiot moth to a flame. Now? Now, I just felt tired.

I gave her a terse nod. "Monica."

She took the seat across from me, smoothing her hands over her jeans before trying to make small talk. I wasn't interested. My responses were short, clipped, offering her nothing. When it became clear I wasn't biting, I grabbed a random magazine from the nearby coffee table, flipping it open. I didn't even bother looking at the title.

For a few minutes, Monica kept trying--little comments, small observations--but I didn't engage. My eyes were on the pages, not reading a single word.

After a moment, she let out a dry chuckle. "Okay. So are you really this mad at me, or are you just deeply invested in Vanity Fair's exclusive article on the rise and fall of competitive goat yoga?"

I glanced down. Sure enough, that was the actual article.

I snorted, finally looking up. "Listen, Monica, the scandal surrounding Baa-bara the Instagram-famous goat is the only thing keeping me going right now." I shook my head, flipping the page. "Apparently, she was doping. Performance-enhancing kale. Disgraceful."

For a moment, she almost laughed.

But I didn't smile. Didn't give her that old familiarity.

Because we weren't those people anymore.

And I wasn't letting her back in.

The silence stretched between us, broken only by the occasional rustling of my magazine pages. Monica sat there, shifting uncomfortably, clearly debating whether to try again. Eventually, she did. Of course, she did.

"How are the kids?" she asked softly. "They... haven't reached out."

I exhaled through my nose, finally setting the magazine down. "Traci and Francis are adults," I said evenly. "They make their own choices. And right now? They're choosing not to talk to you."

Monica winced like I had slapped her. She swallowed, blinking rapidly. "And Beth?"

I sighed. "I'll ask her to call. That's all I can do."

That was the truth. I wasn't going to force my kids to forgive her, to pretend everything was fine just because she was finally feeling the weight of her own choices.

Monica's eyes welled up, her lips pressing together as if she was trying to keep herself from breaking down. She sniffled, her shoulders shaking slightly.

I didn't look away. I didn't comfort her. I just nodded toward the side table. "Box of tissues is right there."

She let out a soft, broken laugh, shaking her head. "Jesus, Travis."

I shrugged, picking my magazine back up. "Hey, at least I'm still helpful."

And with that, I turned the page, waiting for this session to begin.

The door to the counseling office swung open, and a couple walked out. Well, one of them walked out. The woman looked happy, almost glowing, like she had just won an argument she'd been waiting to have for years. The man? He followed a few steps behind, looking like he had just watched his entire soul leave his body.

As he passed me, he met my eyes and, without breaking stride, mouthed one word.

"Run."

I smirked, shaking my head. Yeah, that's not a good sign.

Before I could dwell on that ominous warning, a woman stepped out into the waiting room. Late 40s, maybe early 50s, with sharp eyes and a practiced smile. She greeted Monica by name before turning her full attention to me.

Her smile didn't say "nice to meet you."

It said "I have already assessed your weaknesses, and I will be dissecting them at my leisure."

"You must be Travis," she said smoothly. "I'm Dr. Willow Carr. But please, call me Willow."

I met her gaze and smirked. "Oh yeah. This is gonna be fun."

Willow's smile widened. "I'm sure it will be."

She gestured for us to follow. Monica stepped in first, eager.

I took one last look at the waiting room, let out a sigh, and followed.

Here we go.

Willow flipped open her notepad, scanning over her pre-session notes before meeting my eyes with a calm, measured expression. "Before we begin," she said, her voice smooth, almost rehearsed, "I just want to make sure we're aligned on what brings you both here today." She glanced briefly at Monica before continuing. "Monica has expressed that she wants to explore reconciliation and believes this divorce is a mistake brought on by misunderstandings. She feels that time, reflection, and open communication could help you both find a way back to each other."

I kept my face neutral, but internally, I felt every alarm in my head go off at once. This is worse than I expected.

I should have listened to my lawyer. He had warned me. "If you let Monica pick the therapist, you're not getting a neutral party--you're getting someone on her side." I had brushed it off because I just wanted this over with. Now, sitting in this office, hearing this completely skewed version of reality, I realized I had walked into an ambush.

Willow folded her hands in her lap. "Travis, is there anything you'd like to add before we begin?"

I almost said no--because that's how I got here. By letting Monica dictate the narrative. But no. Not this time.

I cleared my throat, sitting up slightly. "Yeah," I said, my voice controlled, steady. "I think Monica left out a few details. Like how we ended up here in the first place." I smiled, all politeness and sarcasm wrapped into one. "But I guess that's just a minor oversight."

Willow didn't write anything down. She just watched me.

I could already feel my soul trying to leave my body. And we weren't even ten minutes in.

Willow gave me a calm, patient smile--the kind designed to make me feel like I was being unreasonable. "Travis, this isn't about assigning blame," she said smoothly. "It's about finding a way back to each other."

Oh, for the love of--

She went on to outline the ground rules. No interruptions, no accusations, and an open mind. Then she turned to Monica, giving her an encouraging nod.

"Monica, why don't you start?"

I immediately knew where this was going.

Her eyes barely left me as she launched into our history.

She talked about when we first met, how we had been inseparable. How we had danced together, won competitions, traveled, built a life together. She talked about our kids, our struggles, how life had gotten "complicated." She even teared up when she talked about the night I kicked her out--as if she were the victim in all this.

Willow didn't interrupt her once.

She just took notes.

The entire hour was Monica painting a beautiful, tragic story, carefully curated to make me look like the one who gave up.

Not once did she mention Rick. Not once.

By the time Willow finally looked at the clock, I was barely holding onto my patience. "That was a great first session," she said, closing her notebook. "We'll pick up where we left off next week. Same time."

I stood immediately. "Great. Can't wait."

Monica gave me a hopeful smile.

I didn't return it.

I left quickly, heading straight for my car.

And as I sat behind the wheel, hands gripping the steering wheel, I muttered to myself, "This is going to be a long ten weeks."

The following week, I found myself back in the waiting room, exactly where I didn't want to be. Monica sat across from me, stealing occasional glances like she was waiting for me to say something. I wasn't. I had perfected the art of avoiding conversation, and once again, I grabbed the nearest magazine from the coffee table.

I flipped it open without looking at the cover and immediately found myself staring at a two-page exposé on the underground world of competitive duck herding.

Oh, come on.

I resisted the urge to groan and instead focused all my attention on it, pretending like this was the most riveting thing I had ever read. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Monica shift uncomfortably. She knew exactly what I was doing. Good.

Then, the door opened.

A different couple walked out this time. The woman looked happy, her hand clasped tightly around what I assumed was her husband's. The man? He was smiling, but there was something... off. His expression was a little too polished, a little too Stepford husband, like he had been programmed to respond that way.

I cursed internally. This does not bode well.

Then, Willow stepped out.

"Monica," she greeted with a warm nod before locking eyes on me.

"Travis."

She said my name calmly, smoothly, like she was reading the title of a book she had already memorized.

I felt her stare burrow right into me, and I had to fight the urge to shift in my seat.

Yep. This is a trap.

I sighed, closing the magazine of absurdity, and stood. No turning back now.

As I followed them inside, I mentally prepared myself for another hour of psychological gymnastics.

And, once again, I took the same seat.

Because if I was going to suffer, I might as well be comfortable.

Willow started the session by recapping last week, her voice smooth and even, like she was reading from a script. "Before we begin," she said, folding her hands neatly in her lap, "I want to remind you both that the same rules apply. No interruptions, no blame-shifting, and an open mind."

I internally scoffed. Yeah, sure. That's worked out great so far.

Then, she turned to me. "Travis, today, I'd like to hear your perspective. Start from the beginning--when you first met Monica, through your marriage, and up until the day she left."

I nodded slowly, steeling myself, and then I started talking. From the beginning. I told her about meeting Monica, dancing together, getting married, raising our kids. And then, when I got to the hard part--the affair, the betrayal, and throwing Monica out--Willow started cutting in.

Several times.

Every time I spoke about how I felt, she'd stop me. Challenge my perspective. Question whether my interpretation of events was fair.

At one point, I had enough. I leaned back in my seat, arms crossed, and let out a dry chuckle. "Huh. Weird. I don't remember you interrupting Monica once last week."

Willow didn't miss a beat. "That's because Monica wasn't placing blame on you for the breakdown of the marriage."

I raised an eyebrow. "She cheated on me. With the neighbor. What exactly does she think caused the breakdown, Willow? A Wi-Fi outage?"

That set the tone for the rest of the hour.

It was back and forth, Willow redirecting, rephrasing, and deflecting, Monica sitting there quietly, watching like a spectator at a tennis match.

By the time the session was over, Willow sighed, closing her notebook. "This session could have gone better," she said, not even looking at me. "We'll pick up next time."

I forced a smile. "Can't wait."

Then, I bolted for the door, practically speed-walking to my car.

Because if I had to sit through eight more of these, I was going to need a much stronger therapist. Or a flask.

I barely made it to my car before pulling out my phone and dialing my lawyer. If there was a way to end this counseling circus early, I wanted to hear it.

He picked up on the second ring. "Travis," he greeted. "How was session two?"

I exhaled sharply. "Oh, you know, about as productive as arguing with a brick wall. Can we shut this down?"

There was a brief pause. "Technically? Yes. But that would delay things, which means more billable hours."

I scoffed. "Oh great, so I get to pay more to be miserable longer. Fantastic business model."

My lawyer chuckled. "That's why they call it the legal system and not the justice system."

I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Forget it. I'll do the sessions. Even if it means dealing with Willow."

"Willow?" he asked, curious. "That the therapist?"

"Oh yeah," I said, sighing. "Handpicked by Monica. Real piece of work. Spends the whole session challenging my perspective, questioning my reality, and generally making me want to gouge my eyes out."

My lawyer let out a low whistle. "Sounds like a blast."

"Oh yeah," I deadpanned. "Living the dream."

He sighed sympathetically. "Hang in there, Travis. Light's at the end of the tunnel."

I smirked. "Yeah. And it's a freight train."

He laughed, and we ended the call.

I sat there for a moment, gripping the steering wheel, bracing myself.

Eight more sessions.

God help me.

The next day at work, I was deep in my inbox, trying to catch up on emails when I sensed movement near my cubicle. I looked up to find Maggie leaning against the partition, arms crossed, her usual unreadable expression in place.

"So," she said casually, "how's the divorce circus coming along?"

I let out a long sigh, leaning back in my chair. "Well, yesterday's therapy session was a masterclass in psychological warfare. The therapist--Monica's hand-picked interrogator in a cardigan--spent the whole hour challenging my reality like I was on trial."

Maggie just shook her head, smirking. "Damn, Parker. You really know how to have a good time."

I gestured dramatically. "Oh, it's a blast. Say, any chance you could get this therapist renditioned to a black site or something?"

Maggie tilted her head, pretending to consider it. "I mean, I could probably make it happen..."

I perked up. "Really?"

She shook her head immediately. "No. Absolutely not."

I sighed. "Had to ask."

Maggie chuckled, then leaned against my desk. "How'd you get through the session?"

I rubbed a hand down my face. "I didn't. I just survived it."

Maggie gave me a knowing look. "You're smart, Parker. You handled that guy at the bar like a pro. I'm sure you can handle one therapist."

I gave her a pointed look. "That guy at the bar broke my ribs."

Maggie grinned. "Yeah, but he looked worse."

I laughed, shaking my head. "Fair point."

She glanced at her watch, then back at me. "Wanna grab drinks after work?"

I didn't even hesitate. "Absolutely."

Because after ten weeks of therapy ahead of me, I was going to need all the drinks I could get.

The following week, I once again found myself in the waiting room, doing my best to pretend Monica didn't exist. My weapon of choice this time? A random magazine from the coffee table. I didn't even bother looking at the title before flipping it open, but sure enough, I had chosen another absurd article.

"The Rise and Fall of Competitive Synchronized Sneezing: Can It Make a Comeback?"

I sighed internally. I really need to start bringing a book.

Monica, to her credit, didn't try to start a conversation this time. Maybe she had finally gotten the hint. Or maybe she just knew it was pointless. Either way, I wasn't complaining.

Then, the door opened.

A new couple emerged, and I immediately felt like I was watching a mob film.

The woman, probably in her mid-50s, had a look of steely resolve, her eyes fixed ahead like she had just won an argument so devastating that her husband would be questioning reality for weeks.

The man? He followed behind her like a prisoner of war.

As he passed, he glanced at me and gave a slow, deliberate finger-across-the-throat gesture.

Oh. Fantastic.

Before I could process the implications of that warning, Willow stepped into the waiting room, greeting Monica first before turning her gaze on me.

"Travis," she said smoothly, with that same calm, assessing tone that made me want to start flipping tables.

I sighed, setting down Sneeze Magazine and standing.

"Willow," I replied, matching her tone.

She motioned us inside. Monica went first, eager as always.

I followed, mentally preparing myself for another hour of psychological gymnastics.