Lies You Wanted to Hear by James Whitfield Thomson

sessions were my refuge, as if she were the only person on the planet who would let me be completely honest and give me an honest response. Today I was of both minds. At lunchtime, I had gone to a clinic and peed in a cup, my period long overdue; tomorrow I’d call them and find out what I already knew. I still hadn’t told anyone and figured I might as well start with Carla.
    Carla was vintage Cambridge, one of those stringy earth mothers who dressed in neo-peasant cotton, no makeup, long salt-and-pepper hair, two broken teeth on one side, which gave her a goofy smile. She had worked for an international aid organization in Africa and was married to a Nigerian man with skin the color of carbon paper. I had no idea what Carla’s credentials were; there were no framed diplomas or certificates on her walls, just a great collection of African masks.
    I arrived at her office a few minutes early and sat in the anteroom and thumbed through a copy of Newsweek with President Carter’s beer-swizzling brother Billy on the cover. Behind the closed door, the woman who had her regular appointment just before mine let out a manic laugh. Ten seconds later, Carla’s office door swung open, and the woman came out with her arm in one sleeve of her coat, a look of horror and relief on her face as if she’d nearly been run over by a bus. She and I had been nodding at each other every week for several years but had never exchanged more than a hello. I hated to admit it, but it always made me feel better imagining her problems were worse than mine.
    When I went into the office, Carla paid me a rare compliment, saying I looked “becoming” today, and I wondered if I had acquired a bloom in the early stages of my pregnancy, never mind that I’d been throwing up every morning for the past two weeks. We made small talk for a few minutes, and I told her Matt was taking me to New York for a big weekend.
    “Lucky you,” she said. “To do what?”
    “I’m not sure. It’s a state secret. He was really cute about it. Told me to be sure to bring an evening dress and a couple of casual outfits. That’s all he would say.”
    “You think it’s something big?”
    “You mean some life-altering question? He’s been dropping hints. I think he’s going to ask me to move in together.”
    “What will you say if he does?”
    “I don’t know. Maybe? It’s a big decision.” As if having his baby weren’t.
    “What’s holding you back?”
    “He’s a good man, Carla. I don’t want to hurt him.”
    “Give him a little credit. He knows what he’s getting into.”
    “Not really.” She didn’t catch the hint, or chose to ignore it.
    “You and Griffin never actually moved in together, did you?”
    “Not officially.” He spent most nights at my place but never gave up his own apartment.
    “So moving in with Matt would be a big deal for you?”
    “Very.” My eyes shifted to the wall behind her desk. “I see you’ve got a new mask.”
    She turned to admire it. “Yes, it’s from the Igbo people.” The face was white with stark black lips and two black pipes protruding from either side of its mouth, black rings around the eyeholes, a black dog perched on top of its head.
    “I love it,” I said. “It’s really scary. The masks are such a neat part of coming here.”
    “Some of my clients tell me they’re put off by them.”
    “Yeah, I can understand that. Too many eyes watching you.”
    She smiled and said, “Let’s get back to Matt. Tell me again why you’re hesitant to move in with him.”
    “Like you said, it would be a big deal. Plus, I’m not sure I’m in love with him.”
    “Have you told him that?”
    “I haven’t said I was. I guess that’s the same thing.”
    “But he’s told you?”
    “Once.”
    “And you liked hearing it?”
    “I was touched, yes. Granted, it was two minutes after he told me his mother died, but I give him an A-plus for courage. He knows how skittish I am.”
    “Skittish maybe. But