His Sweetheart Therapist Called My Love Fake—Fine, We're Done

My boyfriend, Dashiell Kensington, had been born with a condition that made emotions difficult for him to understand. He relied on Rosalind Voss, his childhood friend and a therapist, to interpret every emotional signal from the people around him. When I got upset because Dashiell stood me up, she said, "All she feels toward you is anger. There's no love there." When I worried because he worked late and wouldn't answer his phone, she said, "She's monitoring your whereabouts. That's a classic controlling personality." Eventually, Dashiell started believing I didn't love him, too. To prove Rosalind wrong, I spent our three years together never losing my temper or asking for anything. Then, on Dashiell's birthday, Rosalind gathered everyone in his circle in a private room at the club. She said this would be my final test. If I saw photos of her and Dashiell in bed together and didn't break up with him, that would prove I really loved him. Then she would allow Dashiell to propose. I stood outside the room, clutching the ring I'd had ready for so long, and heard her say: "A woman who really loves you wouldn't be this obedient for three years, like some little pet dog wagging its tail." "It's an act, and nobody puts on an act without expecting something in return." Someone laughed. "Ros is a licensed therapist. If she says it's an act, it's an act." I pushed the door open, and their laughter cut off. Dashiell stayed silent for a long time. Then he looked up at me. "So you've been pretending all along. You never loved me—you just wanted to be Mrs. Kensington, didn't you?" The ring suddenly felt so heavy in my palm that I could barely breathe. I didn't answer. I turned and walked out. If he was always going to question my love, I would save it for someone who actually deserved it. ... By the time I left the club, the ring was warm from being clenched in my fist. I'd planned to ask him on his birthday, "Dashiell, will you marry me?" It was the strongest proof of my love I could think of. After all, not many women proposed to their partners. But now, I raised my hand and hurled the ring into the river. The instant it left my fingers, a hand shot out from behind me and seized my wrist. "What did you throw?" Dashiell asked close to my ear, his voice low and urgent. I turned to him. "None of your business." Dashiell frowned. He couldn't read my expression. Happiness, sadness, anger, disappointment—to him, they all looked the same. Signals he couldn't identify or categorize. Instinctively, he looked behind him. Rosalind stepped forward. "This is textbook emotional manipulation, Dash. She wants you to feel guilty." His friends caught up with us. Someone chuckled. "What did you just throw, Selene? Something Dash gave you?" "She obviously waited until he was here to do it. Classic guilt trip." "Ros just explained it. It's called emotional blackmail." Dashiell stood there without objecting. He almost looked relieved. Rosalind had interpreted my emotions for him. He didn't have to struggle to guess. He didn't have to admit he couldn't understand me at all. Finally, he spoke. "Are you done making a scene?" Looking at him, I suddenly felt as though the last three years had been one long mime act. I'd stood onstage, frantically trying to make myself understood, while he sat in the audience with someone explaining every gesture. Except his interpreter had had an agenda from the very first day. Every time I got angry, Rosalind said I felt only anger, not love. Every time I worried, she said I was monitoring him, that I was too controlling. Every time I went quiet, she said I was giving him the silent treatment, waiting for him to cave. Every time I cried, she said I was putting on a show, using my tears to manipulate him. Eventually, Dashiell learned the routine. He stopped asking what I was thinking. He simply turned to Rosalind and asked, "What does she mean by that?" After a long silence, I finally spoke. "Dashiell, we're done." For a moment, everyone went quiet. Then Rosalind laughed. "What did I tell you?" She moved beside Dashiell, her voice certain. "She knows you were going to propose tonight, so she's making the first move to take control. Give in now, and she'll hold this over you for the rest of your life." "Oh, now it makes sense," someone said. "Selene, you really had us fooled. Always so quiet, and you were the one with an agenda all along." I turned to Rosalind. "Who gave you the right to tell people how I feel?" "Do those professional ethics of yours let you stand here and make this shit up?" His friends started in again. "Why are you taking it out on Ros, Selene? She's just looking out for Dash." "Exactly. Without Ros, Dash would have no idea what goes on in your head." "You just threatened to break up with him. What is that if it isn't trying to force his hand?" I looked at Dashiell. I wanted him to say one word in my defense. He didn't. He stood beside Rosalind, his brow deeply furrowed, still unable to understand what I felt. Finally, he said, "Ros is just helping me understand you. Stop assuming the worst of everyone." The last trace of warmth in my chest went cold. I stopped arguing and walked away. Then I called my childhood friend, Soren Caldwell. His voice was gentle and calm. "Have you decided?" "Yeah. Book me a flight. I'm coming home."