Page 17
I force myself to nod, to loosen my death grip on the couch. "Fine," I manage, though my voice sounds strange even to my own ears. "I'm fine."
She doesn't believe me—I can see it in her eyes. But instead of pressing or, worse, looking at me with pity, she simply sits down beside me on the couch. Not touching, but close enough that I can feel her presence, solid and real.
"Just breathe," she says softly. "In through your nose, out through your mouth."
I follow her instructions, years of military training making me responsive to direct commands even in this state. Slowly, the room comes back into focus. The thunder is just thunder, not mortar fire. The flashes outside are lightning, not muzzle flares.
"Sorry," I mutter when I can trust my voice again. "Happens sometimes."
"PTSD?" she asks, her voice gentle but matter-of-fact.
I nod, not meeting her eyes. "Usually have more warning. Can get somewhere private."
"You don't need to apologize," she says, and there's something in her tone that makes me look at her. No pity, just understanding. "My dad had episodes too, after his time in Desert Storm. Not often, but enough that I learned how to help."
I didn't know her father was in the military. This explains something about her—why she moved several times, why she didn't flinch or panic when I checked out, and how she knew exactly what to say to bring me back.
"Two or three tours, right?" she asks, settling back into the couch cushions, giving me space but staying close.
"Four," I answer, finding it easier to talk about this than my earlier confessions. "Afghanistan mostly. Some time in Iraq at the beginning."
"Four is too much."
I shrug. "It was my job. I was good at it."
"Was it hard? Coming back to civilian life?"
No one's ever asked me that so directly before. Most people dance around it, afraid of the answer or afraid of offending me. Lucy just asks, her brown eyes steady on mine.
"Yes," I admit. "Still is, sometimes. Civilian life is... messy. No clear objectives. No chain of command. And people talk so damn much without saying anything important."
That draws a surprised laugh from her. "I guess I'm guilty of that."
"No," I say quickly. "You're different. You ask real questions. Listen to the answers."
She smiles, and something warm unfurls in my chest. "That's possibly the nicest thing anyone's ever said about my conversational skills."
The tension breaks, and I find myself relaxing slightly, settling back into the armchair. The panic attack has left me drained but also strangely calm, like a storm that's blown itself out.
"Do you regret it?" Lucy asks after a moment. "Joining the military?"
I consider the question carefully. No one's ever asked me that, either.
"No," I say finally. "I learned a lot. Discipline. Purpose. Found people I could trust with my life. But..." I hesitate, then decide to give her the whole truth. "I only went because I had nowhere elseto go. No money for college. No skills except fixing engines. And I needed to get away from my father."
"You were escaping," she says, echoing my words from earlier.
"Yeah. And left Josh behind to deal with the fallout." The familiar guilt rises up, but it's duller now, worn smooth by years of carrying it. "Not my finest moment."
Lucy is quiet for a moment, her expression thoughtful. "Why did you come back? After all that time away?"
This is the question I've been dreading, the one that cuts closest to the bone. But having come this far, I find I want to tell her the rest of it.
"I came back to confront him," I say, my voice low. "My father. Twelve years in the military, in war zones—I wasn't afraid of him anymore. Thought it was time to face him, make him answer for what he did to us." I stare into the candle flame, watching it dance. "But he was already dead. Had been for three years."
"Oh," Lucy says softly. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be. World's better off without him." The words come out harsher than I intended. "But he left me money. And a letter."
She doesn't believe me—I can see it in her eyes. But instead of pressing or, worse, looking at me with pity, she simply sits down beside me on the couch. Not touching, but close enough that I can feel her presence, solid and real.
"Just breathe," she says softly. "In through your nose, out through your mouth."
I follow her instructions, years of military training making me responsive to direct commands even in this state. Slowly, the room comes back into focus. The thunder is just thunder, not mortar fire. The flashes outside are lightning, not muzzle flares.
"Sorry," I mutter when I can trust my voice again. "Happens sometimes."
"PTSD?" she asks, her voice gentle but matter-of-fact.
I nod, not meeting her eyes. "Usually have more warning. Can get somewhere private."
"You don't need to apologize," she says, and there's something in her tone that makes me look at her. No pity, just understanding. "My dad had episodes too, after his time in Desert Storm. Not often, but enough that I learned how to help."
I didn't know her father was in the military. This explains something about her—why she moved several times, why she didn't flinch or panic when I checked out, and how she knew exactly what to say to bring me back.
"Two or three tours, right?" she asks, settling back into the couch cushions, giving me space but staying close.
"Four," I answer, finding it easier to talk about this than my earlier confessions. "Afghanistan mostly. Some time in Iraq at the beginning."
"Four is too much."
I shrug. "It was my job. I was good at it."
"Was it hard? Coming back to civilian life?"
No one's ever asked me that so directly before. Most people dance around it, afraid of the answer or afraid of offending me. Lucy just asks, her brown eyes steady on mine.
"Yes," I admit. "Still is, sometimes. Civilian life is... messy. No clear objectives. No chain of command. And people talk so damn much without saying anything important."
That draws a surprised laugh from her. "I guess I'm guilty of that."
"No," I say quickly. "You're different. You ask real questions. Listen to the answers."
She smiles, and something warm unfurls in my chest. "That's possibly the nicest thing anyone's ever said about my conversational skills."
The tension breaks, and I find myself relaxing slightly, settling back into the armchair. The panic attack has left me drained but also strangely calm, like a storm that's blown itself out.
"Do you regret it?" Lucy asks after a moment. "Joining the military?"
I consider the question carefully. No one's ever asked me that, either.
"No," I say finally. "I learned a lot. Discipline. Purpose. Found people I could trust with my life. But..." I hesitate, then decide to give her the whole truth. "I only went because I had nowhere elseto go. No money for college. No skills except fixing engines. And I needed to get away from my father."
"You were escaping," she says, echoing my words from earlier.
"Yeah. And left Josh behind to deal with the fallout." The familiar guilt rises up, but it's duller now, worn smooth by years of carrying it. "Not my finest moment."
Lucy is quiet for a moment, her expression thoughtful. "Why did you come back? After all that time away?"
This is the question I've been dreading, the one that cuts closest to the bone. But having come this far, I find I want to tell her the rest of it.
"I came back to confront him," I say, my voice low. "My father. Twelve years in the military, in war zones—I wasn't afraid of him anymore. Thought it was time to face him, make him answer for what he did to us." I stare into the candle flame, watching it dance. "But he was already dead. Had been for three years."
"Oh," Lucy says softly. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be. World's better off without him." The words come out harsher than I intended. "But he left me money. And a letter."