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The one where I’m sprawled out on the concrete of a grocery store parking lot being watched over by a woman whose life I can’t endanger.

Won’tendanger with this bullshit.

It takes longer than I care to admit for me to steady my breath and rise to my feet. People stare and gawk, yet Jaye keeps all of her attention on me. Dusting away rubble. Checking for new marks. She even places two fingers on my pulse, overly concerned about the way it races.

Once I’m completely composed, she quietly suggests, “Why don’t you go ahead and get in the car? I can unload this stuff on my own.”

There’s no hesitation to bite, “You don’t want me to embarrass you again.”

“I’m not embarrassed. I’m worried.”

“About your precious fucking groceries?”

“About my precious fucking friend that’s still trembling!”

Her counter isn’t the one I’m expecting and hearing someone give a damn about me when I can barely manage to draws tears to my eyes that I’m not accustomed to having. Unbearable emotions swell in my throat, clogging my vocal cords, causing the words I manage to croak to be ragged and broken just like me. “Please let me do this.” I use the back of my hand to banish a small sniffle. “I need to do this. I need to…be useful.”

Brown eyes I don’t deserve to have in my life instantly soften with understanding. She sweetly nods, touches my scuff covered cheek, and whispers, “I’ll get the car warmed up.”

Rather than think about my own shame or the pending shame that’s waiting for me inside the vehicle, I focus all my energy on transferring the contents from the basket to the trunk where they belong. It requires some shifting and rearranging – we really did overbuy – and I’m honestly grateful for the time I’m left alone.

Left to finish…recoveringmyself.

The instant I’m settled in the passenger seat I brace myself for the swarm of questions or lecture on why the earlier proposed scenario can’t work –won’t work– but am surprisingly met by silence.

Calm.

Eerie.

Silence.

Guess I should go first?

“I completely understand why you have to take back your offer.”

Jaye shifts herself in her seat to properly face me. “I don’t.”

The expression on my face instantly becomes skeptical. “Jaye.”

“Archer.”

“It’s not…It’s not a good idea for me to be around you. Around anyone. Especially not when I get like that. Not when I’m…having a fucked-up episode.”

“You suffer from PTSD.”

“Most of Uncle Sam’s mercenaries do.”

The bitterness in my retort receives an eyebrow lift of question.

“It’s…really not uncommon to comeback from duty with some…damage –mental as much as physical. I was no exception. Just like when I got lost in the cracks of government paperwork that could’ve helped me when I fucking needed it the most.” One hand runs across my face in a desperate attempt to remain cool. Collected. “Flashing lightssometimestrigger a response in me. They take me out of this moment and place me back in one where-” not ready to explain that situation has me shaking my head rather than continuing. “In the beginning, I would self-medicate like many others do. I didn’t like it. It didn’t always work. And sometimes it made it worse. And it’s expensive. And drugs like that are always addictive. And it fucks up the body’s system. And I don’t need any more fucking damage while I’m just out here trying to survive.” I briefly look away before adding. “Look, like I said, it doesn’talwayshappen, but when it does I’m typically alone where I can’t hurt anyone but me.”

“You weren’t gonna hurt me, Archer.”

“You don’t know that, Jaye.”

“I know what Isaw.” Her challenge threatens to have to look elsewhere. “You weren’t reliving combat. You were reliving trying to stay alive. Getting to others who needed you. And while I wantallthe details of that situation, I won’t push for them. Not until you’re ready.”

“Jaye-”