Chapter 53: Poker, the Shrink, and High Stakes (2)
After several rounds, everyone at the table except Roger kept rotating in and out. Once Ross took Chandler's seat, he noticed Rachel looked distracted, making careless plays with zero strategy.
When Ross got a strong hand that could win the pot and saw Rachel clearly struggling, he hesitated, then deliberately folded—giving Rachel the chance to take the hand with her weak cards.
"I'll take it," Rachel said quietly, her spirits slightly lifted by the unexpected win. She gave Ross a shaky but grateful smile.
Roger's gaze locked on Ross like a spotlight, his voice carrying an "understanding" that sent a chill through the room: "Ross, an interesting altruistic choice. Tell me—do you always do this?"
Ross eyed him warily, then answered slowly, "No. Why would you... all right, you want to analyze me too? Go ahead. Show me what you've got."
Roger said, "Fine. You're Phoebe's friend; one free session won't hurt. Let's start with that hand you just folded."
Ross replied, "What about it? It was no different from any other decision in this game."
Roger shook his head. "No, that was the hand Rachel needed most. As I said—an altruistic choice. But have you noticed you subconsciously make them all the time? Take your marriage, for instance."
Ross frowned. "What... wait, how did you know I'm divorced?"
Roger shrugged. "Phoebe told me."
Phoebe jumped in, "Sorry, Ross. Roger and I were talking in bed and somehow the conversation shifted from my life to my friends' lives." She shot Roger a glare. "It was pillow talk; I didn't expect you to weaponize it here."
Ross waved it off. "It's fine, Phoebe. Since Roger knows so much, let's hear what else he's got."
Roger pressed on. "Ross, did it ever occur to you that marrying Carol while subconsciously knowing she was gay might mean you wanted the marriage to fail?"
Ross shot to his feet, nearly flipping the table. The game was over; everyone watched the live "therapy session."
He snapped, "Do you even hear yourself? I didn't know Carol was gay before we married... Why would I sabotage my own marriage?"
Roger answered, "I already told you—your altruism. Maybe you needed your marriage to fail to balance out your siblings' perceived failures in your parents' eyes."
"Hold up—what?" Monica cut in, incredulous. "So Ross destroyed his marriage just so I'd look less pathetic to Mom and Dad? Are you serious right now?"
Roger said calmly, "Sounds absurd, right? But eliminate every impossibility and whatever remains, however implausible, is the truth. Think about it: haven't you spent your life chasing their approval, trying to pull their attention away from Ross even a little?"
Monica felt sucker-punched. She wanted to argue but froze, her hand instinctively reaching for the plate of cookies on the kitchen counter behind her.
Roger spotted the motion instantly and snapped, "Monica, emotional eating under stress is textbook behavior. You're not hungry—you're seeking comfort. I'd bet you've struggled with weight issues your whole life. Remember: those cookies," he pointed, "are food, not love."
Monica's hand hovered mid-air. Her face cycled through several emotions, shoulders sagging not with competitive fire but with shame.
She yanked her hand back as though the cookies were burning hot. The fire in her eyes dimmed, replaced by a fragile sheen of tears—exposed, cornered, hurting.
"You're right..." her voice turned thin and shaky. "They're not love... never were." She stared through the cookies into her past. "When I feel... not good enough, when the pressure crushes me, I'm starving. I can eat and eat, but the emptiness inside stays hollow."
In that instant, Monica—the unstoppable competitor—stood stripped bare, her buried insecurities dragged into the open for everyone to see.
Yet Roger's next reaction froze the scene completely; no trace of empathy or professional concern crossed his face. Instead, he frowned slightly, glanced at his watch, and in a barely concealed tone of impatience delivered a stock phrase: "Monica, emotional eating is a complex coping mechanism that requires profound self-awareness and long-term cognitive-behavioral therapy.
It ties into your family dynamics and construction of self-worth..." He paused, swept his gaze over Phoebe, and finished in a perfunctory rush, "But... sorry, we don't have time to explore this now. Phoebe, we have to go—the movie starts soon, and we'll be late."
Roger stood, briskly smoothing his sweater as though everything that had just happened—Monica's breakdown, the group's shock at his coldness—were nothing more than an irrelevant interruption. He gave Phoebe's arm a light tug, signaling her to hurry.
"Roger!" Phoebe shot to her feet. "Can't you see the state Monica's in right now? She needs the professional help a psychiatrist like you is supposed to provide!" She pointed at the tearful Monica. "Look at her! Your analysis drove her to this! We can't just walk away!"
Already facing the apartment door, Roger turned back with clear irritation. "Phoebe, I appreciate your concern, but therapy requires appointments and boundaries; it isn't delivered over a casual poker game.
Her emotional reaction confirms my analysis, but that doesn't mean I'm obligated to offer an immediate pro bono session. Besides, we're having dinner with the Hendersons after the film."
Phoebe stared at Roger as though truly seeing him for the first time. "Boundaries? Roger, when you were tearing everyone's hearts open a minute ago, where were those boundaries? Now that Monica's old wounds are exposed you want to talk to me about boundaries? No—you're responsible for this. You stay and help her!" Her voice was hard, leaving no room for argument.
Roger's expression darkened completely; the gentle mask cracked to reveal the arrogance and coldness beneath. "Phoebe Buffay," he said, using her full name, voice edged with threat, "are you giving me an ultimatum? For your friends you'd cancel our date, cancel an important social engagement? You choose them over me?"
Phoebe answered without hesitation. "Of course I choose my friends—because when I needed help they never used 'boundaries' or 'dinner plans' as excuses to abandon me! If you can't understand that, if you won't do what a doctor should do right now, then go watch your movie by yourself! I'll stay with Monica, with everyone your so-called 'professional expertise' has hurt today!"
"Fine—just perfect!" Roger laughed bitterly, the smile twisted and icy. "That's your choice? For this bunch of... of psychologically damaged, co-dependent so-called 'friends' you'll throw away our relationship? Phoebe, you're pathetically naive!"
His gaze, venomous as a snake's, swept over every person at the table who had "humiliated" him, and he launched into an indiscriminate, vicious attack: "You pack of emotionally stunted, co-dependent losers—look at your pathetic little group! Like a bunch of overgrown children huddled in your stupid coffee shop, clutching those ridiculous oversized mugs,
whining all day, 'Validate me! Love me! I need attention!' I hate this place—I hate your café and this whole street, I hate Greenwich Village. And the coffee downstairs? The worst I've ever tasted; only people like you could drink it every day." He jabbed a finger toward Bruce. "As for you—Bruce White!"
He stabbed the air in Bruce's direction. "You think teaching a few card games can fix these hopeless cases? Hanging around with them only proves you're just as pathetic!"
With that final outburst Roger strode to the apartment door and slammed it behind him.
Bruce, blindsided by the parting shot, pointed at himself. "??? Me? Why single me out? I was just teaching poker!"
Phoebe sat beside Monica, putting an arm around her shoulder apologetically. "I'm so sorry, Monica. I had no idea he was like this!"
Chandler said, "So... I'm guessing you two are broken up now?"
Chandler's question—half inquiry, half attempt at levity—met with silence.
Joey asked, "Are we really just a bunch of pathetic losers?"
Joey's question likewise went unanswered.
Bruce whispered to Joey, "Wasn't Phoebe's boyfriend that scientist David who came to the New Year's party with her? They even left together that night. When did they break up—and when did this psychiatrist who clearly needs a psychiatrist himself become her boyfriend?"
Joey shrugged. "Who knows! But David left for Minsk soon after New Year's. I'm not even sure that place is real—maybe that's why they split. I really liked David; after meeting Roger, I like him even more!"
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