She sat opposite him in his office—a tidy sterile room he’d painted yellow, probably in the hopes that patients would find it cheerful—trying not to notice the way he filled up his chair to overflowing. Almost as disconcerting as his size itself was the fact that it seemed to matter to her. Not that it was anything she could discuss with the good doctor. He frequently coaxed her to talk about their relationship, a topic she found entirely beside the point and nonetheless embarrassing.

Instead of talking about them, she should be telling him exactly what had happened in New Hampshire, the entire disastrous course of events, which, she’d promised herself as she drove out here, was what she was going to do, no matter how humiliating, demeaning, and painful. Berman had his stubby fingers laced together and resting on his belly and was gazing at her with his patented look of calm, benevolent inquiry, his head tilted toward his right shoulder at a nearly imperceptible angle. She loathed these awkward moments of silent staring, but she knew that if she didn’t allow them every once in a while, didn’t force herself to sit, speechless and utterly still, he’d think she was chattering to fill time and avoid an important issue. She wanted to be sure—and hated herself for wanting it—that he didn’t think of her as one of those neurotic time bombs she saw in his waiting room, pinched, nervous men and women sitting there, ready to implode.

The hideous vertical blinds over the window were directing sunlight in her eyes. Best not to start complaining about that, she reminded herself, or Berman would see the whole thing as another diversionary tactic. The session was almost half over and so far she’d managed to talk exclusively about Sarah, another useful time filler.

As the silence began to stretch thin, Berman’s eyes opened wider—his speechless “Well?”—and she saw that he was rapidly approaching boredom.

“I think I mentioned that I went to Dale’s wife’s family’s estate over the weekend.” She kept the tone casual, as if it were of little consequence.

“Yes, you did mention it.”

Of course he wasn’t about to ask her if she’d had a good time, something as direct and simple and conversationally normal as that, something as helpful as that. Better to hand her some rope and see if she used it to hang herself.