CHAPTER 15
It was the morning of Ian Henshaw’s first appointment. Jennifer sat at her desk, on edge. Aubrey was in her office, tense. She would normally be nervous as hell, but she had been treating rough brutes for a while now, and she was as ready as she could be for the stubbornness and anger of the man she was supposed to tame.
“I might have to break him like a young colt,” mused Aubrey.
The hour had arrived.
Ian Henshaw III entered the office. Jennifer fumbled a bit signing him in. She buzzed Dr. Prentice and sat uncomfortably until she came to her office door.
“Ian? Please come in.”
Ian gave her a nod and stepped into her office while Dr. Prentice held the door for him. The door closed, and Jennifer let out a sigh of relief.
“Have a seat, Ian,” Aubrey gestured to one of her Italian leather chairs.
Ian said nothing.
Aubrey noticed Ian’s sparkling blue eyes were flat. His jaw was clenched, and his muscles were taut. Not the fantasy Dr. Aubrey Prentice had imagined, but this was reality, and he was her patient.
“I thought we could get a chance to know each other, Ian. I’m not sure whether you want to be here or not, but your grandfather seems to think the mental health program I’ve developed is working well.”
“So he says.”
“He’s worried about you, you know.”
“I know.”
“Normally, I would start a session with a question like ‘Why are you here?’ But we can skip the pleasantries and get right down to business. “What do you want to accomplish with therapy?”
“Well, according to my grandfather, I need to save my marriage, learn to lead a multi-billion dollar company, and get along with my brother and sister. If you think you can accomplish that, I’m all ears.”
Aubrey smiled lightly, professional, unshaken, the picture of calm authority. If anything, the simmering hostility rolling off Ian gave her something to work with. A moldable force was easier than a passive void.
“Well,” she said, crossing her legs slowly, “I can’t accomplish any of that without your participation. Therapy isn’t a magic trick. You don’t come in broken and leave fixed. It’s work, real work. And from what I understand, you’re no stranger to that.”
Ian let out a humorless laugh. “You have no idea.”
“Then help me understand,” she said, leaning forward just enough. Not flirtatious, yet, but intentional. Present. “You listed three enormous expectations. Marriage. Leadership. Family. Which of those feels like the heaviest weight on you right now?”
Ian looked at the floor. His fingers flexed once on the arm of the chair, knuckles whitening.
“The marriage,” he said finally.
Aubrey was unsurprised. Marriage was always the wound that wouldn’t clot.
“Tell me why.”
“I don’t know how to talk to her anymore,” he said. He slumped in his chair, deflated. “Anything I say seems wrong. And anything she says is sarcastic. I hear it like it’s an attack. Even when it’s not.” He shook his head. “I don’t know how we got there.”
Aubrey waited, letting that silence sit long enough so that he could feel her concern. Her caring assessment.
“You care about her,” she said.
“Of course I care about her.”
“But you don’t feel cared for.”
Ian put all of his shields up. He refused to be the bad guy.
“No,” he said, defensively. “I don’t.”
“That must be frustrating,” Aubrey said.
“Yeah. It is.”
She let the moment ride. She wanted to establish an understanding with Ian that she wasn’t quick to judge or assume that she understood his situation. She postured herself as the grounding, logical mental health professional in the session.
“Here’s the good news,” she said. “Your goals are big, but your problems aren’t impossible. The pressure you’re under can be broken down into manageable pieces. But I need something from you to help me do that.”
He looked at her warily. This was going to be a test of wills.
“What’s that?”
Aubrey laid it on the line. “I need you to open up to me. This conversation is only between you and me. So don’t put on this macho bullshit with me because it won’t work. If I’m going to help you, you have to cooperate.”
Ian shot her a look. “No one talks to me like that.”
“Maybe it’s time they did. Look, Ian, we can do this the easy way or the hard way. It doesn’t matter to me. But your grandfather is expecting a call when we’re finished.”
“Son of a bitch,” he said. Fine, he said, “You win.”
Aubrey smiled. Ian Henshaw III was not going to bully her around.
“Good,” she said. “Then let’s begin.”
Ian sat up straight, elbows on the armrests. His body language said that he was ready to cooperate, but only to a certain degree. He looked past her rather than at her. He wouldn’t meet her eyes.
Aubrey didn’t force the situation. That would only make him lock down harder. So she started as easily as possible.
“Why don’t we start with something simple? Tell me something small. Something about your week.”
This might not be good. She sounded like his wife.
Ian huffed out a short breath. His answer was quick, short. “I’m telling you I don’t want to do this. I’m being polite.”
“You don’t have to want to do it,” she replied calmly. “You just have to answer my questions. I’ll make it as painless as possible.”
He shook his head. “It’s not that easy.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” she said. “Just start anywhere.”
Ian drummed his fingers against the leather armrest. A restless tic that Aubrey filed away in the back of her mind. Then he said:
“I don’t want to talk about my feelings.”
Aubrey wasn’t giving up. “That’s fine. Then talk about something else. Something factual. What happened this morning? Last night? At work?”
He hesitated long enough to show he did have something on his mind. How could she get it out of him without pissing him off?
“I’m not doing this,” he muttered, pressing back. “You want me to spill my guts on day one? About my marriage? About Hope?” He shook his head. “No.”
Aubrey set her pad and pen on the desk.
“I’m not asking you to spill anything,” she said. “But I am asking you to give this a chance. I want you to answer one small question.”
His eyes narrowed. “Which is?”
“What’s the emotion you’re feeling right now?”
Immediate shutdown. He frowned at her, a warning.
“I don’t know.”
“Yes,” Aubrey said gently, “yes, you do.”
He looked her straight in the eye, daring her to push this any further.
“No. I don’t.”
“Then let me help,” she countered. “Are you angry? Frustrated? Embarrassed? Anxious?”
He looked away. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move a muscle. But he rolled his eyes when she said anxious.
Aubrey caught it.
Ian realized she’d caught it.
His voice came out low, nearly a growl. “I’m not anxious.”
“You’re allowed to be,” Aubrey replied, tone stable. “Sitting here, in a room with someone who expects honesty from you. A stranger who isn’t impressed by your last name. Someone who isn’t afraid of you.”
That last part got to him.
“I’m not intimidating,” he snapped.
“You think you aren’t,” she said, “but you walk through the world like you’re waiting for someone to challenge you. And people feel that. They react to that.”
Ian cleared his throat.
He didn’t like this.
He didn’t like being exposed.
He didn’t like how quickly she was getting to him.
“Look,” he said plainly, elbows resting on the arm of the chair, hands clasped together, “I’m not here to bare my soul. My grandfather wants progress, so I showed up. That’s it.”
“And showing up,” Aubrey said, “is a start. But it’s not enough.”
Silence.
He looked at the ceiling, then the floor, then at her. He couldn’t find anywhere in the room to direct his anger. He knew better than to direct it at Aubrey.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he said finally. Quiet, strained, almost ashamed.
Aubrey was back to being the caring professional. She spoke in a warm, grounding, non-threatening voice.
“You just did.”
Ian looked at her; this time, he forgot to be hostile.
“Did what?”
“You admitted uncertainty,” she said. “That’s a feeling. That’s honesty. That’s vulnerability.”
He looked at her, thrown.
Something in him softened.
Just a tiny bit.
Aubrey sat back, giving him space to breathe.
“So you don’t know how to do this,” Aubrey said. Good. That means you haven’t been heard for a long time. And we can work with that.”
Ian reflected on this.
He just sat there. Realizing he was a man who needed help, but didn’t want to admit it.
And for Aubrey Prentice, that was the first surrender she needed to get into his psyche.
“So, what do you want to talk about that’s in the realm of uncertainty?”
Ian looked around the room for any escape from opening up to Aubrey. He looked up at the ceiling, worked his mouth.
“My work week,” he said, flat, guarded.
“Yes,” Aubrey said. “Start there.”
Ian was drumming his fingers on the armchair again.
Aubrey could see the wheels turning in his head.
“It was the same,” he muttered.
“Meaning?”
“It was the same as any other week,” he said. Fighting with my brother. Trying not to punch my brother. Proving myself to my father. Dreading having to go home. Same shit, different day.”
There it is, Aubrey thought. Garden variety complaints, but something she could work with.
“Why would you want to punch your brother?” she asked.
“He’s smug,” Ian said. “He smirks when he thinks he’s winning. He likes to push my buttons.”
“Does he win?”
Ian was tapping his foot. It was taking everything he had to sit there and behave.
“He thinks he does,” he said. “That’s enough to make it annoying.”
“And how do you react?” she asked.
Ian shrugged like it didn’t matter. “I deal with it.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
But his voice wasn’t hard this time. Just tired.
Aubrey took up her pad and pen, carefully posturing herself as open and non-threatening. “Work sounds stressful.”
“It’s work.”
“And people expect you to lead.”
He looked like he was about to square off with her. “Is that a problem?”
“It’s a lot of pressure,” she corrected calmly. “Especially if you have someone like your brother undermining you.”
Ian looked away.
Bingo.
Aubrey continued. “How long have you been feeling that tension at work?”
A long pause.
A long, defeated pause.
Finally, he exhaled. “I don’t know.”
“That means a long time,” she said.
He stared her down. “You don’t know that.”
“You wouldn’t have hesitated if it were recent.” Aubrey remained calm, but she wasn’t going to let him intimidate her.
He glared again. But this time, it was the glare of someone caught in an admission of guilt.
“Fine,” he said. “It’s been a while.”
“Define ‘awhile.’”
“Years,” he muttered, barely audible.
This was progress. Reluctant, but real.
“And how did this week compare to others?” she asked.
He gave a humorless huff. “Same chaos. Same expectations. Same arguments with my brother, Trent. Same pressure from my family.”
“And how do you feel ending a week like that?”
He closed his eyes, as though the question physically pained him.
Aubrey waited.
“I don’t feel anything,” Ian said.
Aubrey was wearing him down.
“I don’t believe you,” she said. “Let’s schedule your next appointment. See Jennifer at the front desk.”
After Ian huffed out, Aubrey smiled, pleased with herself.
One of them was going to break, eventually.