Dec 20, 2025 | Who You Gonna Believe, Writing
Who You Gonna Believe: Chapter 6
Based on a true story.
Rodney was surprisingly amenable to couple’s counseling once the whole Lucy thing was exposed. At first, I thought he genuinely wanted to fix things, but what he really wanted was to control the narrative.
But I suppose if I’m being honest, image meant a little bit more to 26-year-old Emily than it does to 39-year-old Emily. The difference was that Rodney was afraid the world would know he had been rejected if we divorced, and I was afraid everyone would think I was easy to dupe.
“How did she not know that guy had issues?”
***
Rodney and I had been attending a non-denominational church in a posh north suburb of Indianapolis. It was a 25-minute drive from home, but Rodney liked Fellowship Point because it was attended by affluent, white socialites who drove luxury imports and shopped at Saks. He thought he looked rich—or at least well on his way to rich—by association. I liked Fellowship Point because the sermons were cerebral, not hermetical, and the piano was always in tune.
Lucky for us, Fellowship Point also employed an associate pastor whose job it was to guide troubled couples like Rodney and me toward the ideal Christian union. For free.
Pastor Tim was in his mid-forties. He had thick wavy brown hair, brown eyes, and designer eyeglass frames. The man was exactly what non-therapists expected therapists to look like. We met him at the church on a weekday, so he skipped the tie, opting for a Brooks Brothers shirt and dark slacks. He probably wasn’t the most qualified marriage mentor in central Indiana, but he did have a master’s in counseling psychology. Maybe, I thought, if he couldn’t help me find happily married again (and I suspected he probably couldn’t) he could introduce me to some new way of thinking that made staying married to a lying, cheating, emotionally manipulative psycho tolerable.
“So, what brings you to see me today?” Pastor Tim asked from behind a sprawling cherry desk. A wall-to-wall bookcase with leather-bound books and framed diplomas served as his backdrop. A picture of his family—the same photo from the church directory—sat on the corner of his desk, framed in gold. He held a hand out, gesturing for us to take a seat across from him. The richly upholstered couch coordinated perfectly with the deep greens and burgundies of the carpet and window coverings.
I was already crying as I sank into the sofa, blotting the corners of my eyes with a tissue I’d snagged from the end table beside me. As he closed the door behind him and took his spot next to me, I gave Rodney a look that said, “You’re why we’re here. Start talking.”
“I had a relationship with another woman,” Rodney said, no hint of shame in his voice at all. It baffled me how he could go months at a time without uttering a single truth. It also baffled me that when he was faced with the humiliating truth of, say, telling his pastor he’d cheated on his wife, he could deliver the lines as dispassionately as if he were describing the bristles on a toothbrush.
My stomach churned like it did every time a new person was brought into the loop, but I felt particularly exposed watching a stranger react, ladling on another scoop of pity. Already gasping my way though heavy sobs, I managed to explain to Pastor Tim that Rodney still had class with Lucy once a week until at least the end of the semester, and possibly until he finished his degree. “The program is small. Most students are on the same academic track until graduation.” Making sure not to gloss over Rodney’s misdeeds, I blurted, “I don’t trust him at all. We’re not just here about Lucy. Rodney lies about everything.”
I felt like a tattletale.
Pastor Tim thought I was using hyperbole to make Rodney look bad and offered to reframe my statement in a way that seemed more reasonable. “When trust is broken, we often—”
“No,” I said flatly, my anger sobering me up some. “You don’t understand. Rodney is a compulsive liar AND he does some cheating in his spare time. He didn’t recently take up lying to avoid the consequences of fu… uh, having a relationship with Lucy. He lies because he’s a liar.”
Pastor Tim’s eyebrows went up, so I knew that he was having an inkling. At least someone was finally having an inkling. It was maddening that people never believed me.
The leather executive chair groaned as Pastor Tim turned to face me more directly. His eyes softened with empathy. “I believe I can help you both find a path toward reconciliation, but this is going to be slightly more complicated than rebuilding after an affair. That’s complicated enough.” He looked at Rodney and said, “I’d like to recommend a psychiatrist, someone to help you analyze this from a more clinical perspective.
I gave Rodney an I-told-you-so look
.I wouldn’t say I felt hopeful at the end of the first session, but I did feel a little less hopeless. The three of us spent the rest of the hour devising a plan and scheduling weekly appointments. As I added the appointments to my calendar, I thought about how Rodney was going to have to explain the time off he needed to his boss. No doubt he’d lie. He’d probably tell his boss I was having a mental breakdown and needed him to be there.
Before we left, Pastor Tim handed Rodney the card of a psychiatrist, also a member of the church.
Rodney didn’t call the psychiatrist right away, so I threatened to walk if he didn’t schedule an appointment. Then trying to dangle a carrot I added, “If we work hard at it, I don’t see why we can’t survive this.” He agreed, and I even managed to go the next four days without guzzling Pepto Bismol. So great was the relief of pretending I wasn’t alone in trying to fix this thing. Maybe I’d even start sleeping again at night instead of reliving the day’s arguments with Rodney.
That’s the great thing about having a shit marriage in the age of texting. You can snipe at each other all damn day whether tucked away in your cubicle, hiding out in the back of a poorly lit lecture hall, or parked on I-465 waiting for emergency crews to clean crumpled steel and glass off the freeway. Then you go to bed at night and think about what you should have texted that asshole instead.
***
But back to the shrink thing. After his second session with Dr. Born, Rodney waltzed in the front door whistling. I’d been home from my part-time job at the magazine for about an hour and was making dinner. Taubensee was napping on the kitchen floor, curled into a tight circle at my feet.
“I’m done!” Rodney chirped. His cheery disposition was a complete sham. I knew it instantly and my body reacted to the lie by trembling angrily. My shaking was imperceptible to the naked eye, though I physically pulsed with the negative energy Rodney brought into the house. Simmering rage wasn’t a metaphor, it was a literal, physical reaction. And I learned that if I let it bubble long enough, I could qualify for a clinical trial to test a new IBS medication.
Rodney dropped his messenger bag on the dining room table and loosened his tie. Then he flipped through the mail.“You’re done with what?” I asked. I couldn’t hide my disbelief, but I did my best to keep my voice even and calm—for my sake, not his. I tapped a wooden spoon on the side of the pot and dropped it in the spoon rest, then pivoted to face Rodney.
“I’m done with Dr. Born, with therapy. We had a great session today. I really learned a lot. He said that I don’t feel any emotions but anger, probably because Dad beat me. But I’m definitely not a sociopath and don’t need to be in therapy. So I’m done.”
“Really?” I was dubious, and more than a little insulted.
Without missing a beat, Rodney pulled a receipt from his shirt pocket. He was right to assume I didn’t believe him, but a total idiot if he genuinely thought his attending the session was the part of his story I questioned.
I turned back to the pasta cooking on the stove, choosing not to argue. I could have poked a million holes in the tale he’d obviously contrived on his drive home, but what would be the point? I’d had a long day at work, and no matter what anyone else says, avoidance is a legitimate form of self-care.
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Jun 27, 2025 | Who You Gonna Believe, Writing
Who You Gonna Believe: Chapter 2
Based on a true story.
I can’t deny marrying the guy. It’s a matter of public record. But recalling the moments I genuinely liked Rodney for the sake of telling this story is hands down the hardest thing I’ve ever attempted.
Rodney and I did not grow apart, discovering after many years that we were no longer compatible. We didn’t look at each other over coffee, eggs, and the morning paper and mutually agree that it was time to move on. He did garbage things to me, and I fought like hell for a couple of years to completely extricate him from my life. But I’ll get to all of that.
First, you need to know how things began, and I want you to know that I know how emotionally detached I am from The Beginning.
Some might say I’ve failed as a memoir writer to convey the truth as it was. I don’t know. Maybe I have. But just so we’re clear, it’s not my present disdain for Rodney that gets in the way of this retelling. It’s my knack for repressing memories—specifically the memories I would need to write more genuinely about the early days.
It’s a disability borne of an instinctive need to protect and preserve my own mental health, and I submit that if it weren’t for this disability-slash-superpower, I wouldn’t be here writing so awkwardly about my life circa 2003.
In fact, I probably wouldn’t be here writing at all. Delete
The thing that first attracted me to Rodney wasn’t his smile, it wasn’t his sense of humor, it wasn’t his brown eyes, and it wasn’t his education. No, the thing that really drew me to Rodney’s eHarmony profile was that he lived in Indianapolis—three whole hours away from the small-time Ohio River town where I’d grown up.
At 23, I was a college dropout living in Indiana and working in Kentucky as the secretary for the City of Henderson’s Parks, Recreation, and Cemeteries Department. It was a decent job, but renting shelter houses for family reunions and hunting for the graves of long-dead local celebrities with the president of the county’s historical society wasn’t really doing it for me. Back then I had two hands on the IBM electric typewriter and two eyes on the office door.
My first date with Rodney was dinner followed by a free concert in the park. (I don’t remember the name of the local band, but I do remember there was a fair amount of cringing.)
I suggested we meet at my favorite restaurant, O’Charley’s, for a meal before the concert started. That way, if the company turned out to be horrible—and I figured there was at least an 85% chance that it would—I could at least enjoy warm dinner rolls dunked in cheesy loaded potato soup.
Rodney rolled into the O’Charley’s lot in a 1999 red Dodge Dakota with a growling aftermarket exhaust system. (Present-day me wanted to throw in a joke here, but realized she didn’t need to.) I’d only been waiting at the restaurant entrance for a few minutes when he walked up and introduced himself, “Hi, I’m Rodney,” he said, flashing a wide smile just like the one in his eHarmony profile. He stood maybe an inch taller than me at about 5’7”.
He wasn’t overdressed for the venue, but he was better dressed than just about everyone else. His sky-blue dress shirt was starched and ironed. The top two buttons were undone, revealing the collar of a white crew-neck T-shirt underneath. Not only did his dress shirt have a place for those little plastic stays in the collar, he was actually using some.
Rodney wasn’t overweight yet, but at 31 years old it was apparent that overweight was in his near future. His hair was blond and straight, reddish at the temples, and thinning in back. His eyelashes were thick and light, and they grew up and away from his round eyelids in near perfect curls. Despite the hair line, his features teamed up with his round face for an overall effect that was something resembling a grown-up Campbell’s Soup kid.
“Nice to meet you,” I said. “Let’s get a table.” I have no recollection what I wore for that first date, but I do remember my wardrobe at the time, and it would have given off that working-Baptist-girl-from-the-Midwest vibe. So it was without a doubt clean, plain, and totally unremarkable in every way.
The hostess dropped us off in a cozy corner booth. I asked Rodney about his drive and we chatted about work. “You’re a journalist?” I asked swirling my spoon in a piping hot bowl of soup.
“Was,” he corrected. He pointed to the back of his neck. “You see that?” he asked, pointing to a deep, leathery crater of scar tissue on the back of his neck.
“Whoa. What happened?” I asked, careful not to wrinkle my nose too insensitively.
He buttered a dinner roll under the dim pendant light. “Wrong place, wrong time.” He shrugged like it was no big deal, but continued with his story. “I was in the middle of writing a piece for the Kokomo Gazette about a bank robbery one weekend. A few thousand dollars was stolen. Not much of a heist, really. The Kokomo police suspected some local kids were looking to score some extra cash to fund their drug habit or something. Anyway, I was out doing some research so I could wrap up the article on it for the morning edition when I noticed I needed gas. I filled up and went inside to grab a doughnut, and the Circle K was being robbed at gunpoint.”
“Oh my god,” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing and put my glass of Mountain Dew back on the cocktail napkin. The straw never reached my lips. “You got shot? No way! Was it the same guys who robbed the bank? Why were they shooting at you?” A family at the next table looked our direction.
“Don’t know for sure if it was the same guys; they didn’t have much evidence to go on for the bank thing. Probably, though,” he added after the slightest pause. Our server came by with our entrees. I thanked her. If Rodney was aware of her presence, he didn’t let on. When he had my full attention again, he continued. “I was fortunate the bullet just grazed me. But it’s like I said—wrong place, wrong time.”
I covered my gaping mouth with my dinner napkin while my steak and potato got cold, either too nervous or too trusting to realize that if that scar had been from an actual bullet wound, he’d be dead. I still had plenty of questions, but I wasn’t sure it was polite to ask them. Did it hurt? Were you in the hospital long? Is the guy who shot you in jail now? How long ago was this? Is that why you flinched outside when we heard the car backfire? Finally, I managed to say, “Is that why you aren’t a reporter anymore? Is that why you moved back to Indy?”
Rodney nodded. We chewed silently while the Goo Goo Dolls played on Muzak and a middle-aged woman at the bar guffawed, margarita in hand. Because I didn’t have an interesting story to follow Rodney’s, the silence felt awkward. I silently scolded myself for being awkward and boring.
“I’m just kidding,” he wiped his mouth, flashing a toothy grin.
“Wait, what?” I left the conversation I was having inside my head and returned to the one he and I were having. I set my fork and knife on my plate, as if doing so would make it easier to study his expression.
“I’m just kidding,” he repeated. He looked at me almost hopefully. As if he was waiting for me to laugh, I think. I was too confused to get the joke.
“So you weren’t shot? Then what happened? With the scar, I mean.”
“I had a funny looking spot the doctor thought was skin cancer, so he cut out a pretty deep hole. Sutures didn’t hold, thing split open in my sleep, and it just never healed right.”
“Oh,” I chuckled at my own gullibility. Delete
My second date with Rodney was an early October evening of fried festival food and sweet treats at the West Side Nut Club Fall Festival. As a rule, I hate crowds but I was willing to make an exception once a year for the event that blessed the world with carnival games, funnel cakes, and bake sale pies and peanut butter fudge from area non-profits.
We walked around for a bit, watching sticky, cotton candy-coated children beg their parents for ride tokens while we ate junk food. When we ate our fill, we made our way west down Franklin Street toward Rodney’s truck. The farther we got from the Tilt-O-Whirl and the roller coaster and the carnival game hosts yelling into their PAs, the more I appreciated how the cool crispness of the early fall evening dampened the sounds of chaos.
Rows of small businesses with their names hand painted on large windows gave way to rows of bungalows with screened-in porches and tiny front yards, many of them decorated for Halloween.
In front of one modest house with peeling white paint and orange pumpkin lights framing the front door, we passed a straw-stuffed scarecrow sitting in a lawn chair just a few feet back from the sidewalk. Only it wasn’t really a straw-stuffed scarecrow. It was a person pretending to be a straw-stuffed scarecrow.
The prankster waited quietly for the perfect moment, then jumped out of his lawn chair and shouted “Boo!”
I jumped back and laughed, a little embarrassed. Rodney stood up straight and stiff and screamed for a good ten seconds. (Ten seconds might not seem like a long time, but I promise you it’s an eternity in certain situations—like when you’re riding out an earthquake or looking on in horror as your date screams like a banshee.)
When he finally stopped, the scarecrow and I stood still, embarrassed, but not for ourselves. I patted Rodney on the back in small circular motions.
“Are you okay?”
He bent over at the waist and drew in long, slow breaths. The scarecrow took off his mask, exposing the face of a remorseful young man, probably still in high school. He apologized. Repeatedly and profusely.
“I am so sorry, man. Do you want to sit down?” He gestured toward the lawn chair with his mask. “Uh, can I get you some water or something?”
Rodney ignored the question, trying his best to laugh off what had happened. “You got me good! I had no idea someone was in there!” The scarecrow and I exchanged a look. Rodney’s exaggerated smile and forced laugh were painfully inauthentic, but it didn’t hurt us in the least to let him have his lie, to save face in front the date he was trying to impress. The scarecrow figured he’d done enough damage, and I figured whatever trauma had turned a harmless Halloween prank into a full-fledged PTSD trigger wasn’t something either Rodney or I were eager to discuss during a borderline successful second date. Delete
Our third date was so intentionally dull, I’ve forgotten what it was.
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