“What did you used to play?” Sanders asks as he spins the football in his hand. That’s not distracting at all.

“Everything,” Wilder says. “Isn’t that right, Pips?”

It takes everything within me not to flare my nostrils as I turn toward him and say, “Yup.”

“Like what?” Sanders asks.

“Go on, tell him,” Wilder encourages me, but for the life of me, nothing is coming to mind.

Absolutely nothing.

I’m drawing a blank.

All my mind can focus on is the stacks and stacks of boxes crowding the space of this office and the way Sanders keeps fidgeting with the football.

“No, you can tell him,” I finally say. Wilder likes improv; he can figure it out.

Smiling, Wilder turns toward Sanders and says, “Lots of games in the bedroom, if you know what I mean?”

No.

No, no, no, no.

I take it back. Ask me.

Now multiple games are flooding my brain.

Monopoly. Yahtzee. Kings in the corner. Bowling. Freaking slapjack!

Choose any one of those.

Not bedroom games.

“Interesting,” Sanders says. “I’m glad you’re comfortable talking about that.”

Uh, we’re not actually.

We are not comfortable at all.

I would like to have him ask the question again. I’m prepared with answers. Thanks.

“Would you say you’re adventurous in bed?”

That would be a no.

“Very,” Wilder answers. “We’ve done it all. Name the position, check. Name the angle, done it. Name the body part, licked it.”

Dear God in heaven.

I can feel my cheeks flame with embarrassment as a smidge of sweat starts to drip down my back.

“And would you say those games have died down?”

Wilder hangs his head and gently nods it. “Yes, they have.” He looks over at me. “Right, Pips?”

Can we just pause for a moment and take a step back, because this therapy session went from zero to sixty in what feels like five seconds. We’re discussing our sex life already? Whatever happened to gentle pleasantries?

I guess there are none when you’re paying by the hour.

I clear my throat and try to put on a neutral expression. “Yes, the passion has died.”

“Do you know why?” Sanders asks.

Wilder looks at me, waiting for me to answer as I nervously wet my lips and try to think of an answer. “Um…”

“She doesn’t want kids,” Wilder says.

What?

No!

You were the one who was supposed to not want kids, not me.

“I think she’s afraid that we might get pregnant.”

“That’s, uh, that’s not true,” I say.

“Babe.” Wilder levels with me, turning in my direction. “A few months ago, when you wanted me to pull out—that was you telling me you didn’t want kids.”

Christ.

What happened to sticking to the plan?