Page 10 of Always You (Guardian Hall #1)

Chapter Ten

Alex

Ten days.

Jazz had been at Guardian Hall for ten days, and each day felt as if it were a delicate balance between me giving him his space but being there if he needed support. He’d used the computer twice when I was in the office, but of course, I didn’t stay because he needed his privacy. I caught him smiling yesterday as he read a long email, and I assumed it was from his daughter. The smile didn’t last all day, but he seemed lighter. I wished we were brave enough to at least look at each other, but he still wouldn’t meet my gaze. I wasn’t sure whether it was Jazz avoiding connecting with me, or if I was the one avoiding him.

You don’t want to pull me back into your life, Alex.

What had he meant by that, and why couldn’t I shake the confusion over what he’d meant?

It sounded like he wasn’t rejecting a place in my life. Instead, it seemed he was cautioning me, suggesting that it was his life I should steer clear of. Was that right? Or had I misunderstood?

I couldn’t even ask him.

But today, though, today was different. I was running a group session, something I did regularly, but the stakes were high. Marcus had spoken to Jazz, asked if he’d be interested in attending a session I led. He hadn’t said no. That was all Marcus could tell me, and I clung to that non-rejection like a lifeline.

Setting out chairs in a circle to foster a sense of equality and openness, I prepared the room with my nerves shot. Would Jazz show up? What would it mean if he did? Would I get to ask him what he’d meant about his life?

Four other residents had already committed to today’s session, each with a story about how they ended up needing Guardian Hall. With Jazz, that made five.

As the session time approached, I saw them file in, each carrying their own invisible burdens. Tom came in with Raj, Daniel a little after, and finally Emily arrived, and they got coffee and sat down. Tom was talking Raj’s ear off about movies, and Raj listened to him, offering him a small smile. There was a profound connection between them, and I knew Tom had been considering moving on with him when Raj left at the end of the month. He had a place on his brother’s ranch in Wyoming, an apartment over a barn, and we’d worked with Raj to get him to a place where he felt strong enough to leave. Raj’s PTSD was manageable; Tom was way off yet, but together they were stronger. Relationships sometimes formed here, and it wasn’t our place to get involved.

I’d seen that before, and I’m sure I’d see it again—deep friendships, and sometimes more, as our veterans supported each other with shared trauma few people could imagine.

Sgt. Daniel Rivera, a Marine corpsman, was another newbie, the same as Jazz, only just coming up to three weeks here, but he now at least had a PTSD diagnosis and support. Last was Lt. Emily Watson, Navy, a former medic, now in her third month with us, five months pregnant, and someone who’d fought her demons alone for way too long. Marcus and I wanted her to stay through the birth, even opened up a second room next to hers for a small nursery, had a midwife who visited. I got the sense she was close to leaving as well after her ex-husband made contact. They were working on a reunion, and although it was slow, Marcus was hopeful.

We exchanged hellos as everyone else took their seats, and I hovered by the coffee pot. However, with a few minutes until the official start, my focus kept drifting to the door, watching for Jazz. It seemed as if he wasn’t coming.

“You okay standing up there?” Tom deadpanned.

I winced and took my seat. I may as well get this started.

Only the door opened, and Jazz stepped in.

“Group stuff?” he asked in his growly deep voice.

“Sure, come in!” I said, far too bright.

He closed the door behind him and our eyes met, and in his gaze, I saw so much emotion I recognized—the apprehension he’d had when I told him to dive into the pool from the highest board. The determination from when he’d taken steps closer to the edge and stared over. And the trust I recognized from the moment he’d jumped, after I’d told him he was going to be okay.

My heart hurt.

As he took a seat, completing our circle, I felt a shift in the room as everyone straightened, ready to do this. It was subtle, but it was there—a sense of coming together and sharing vulnerabilities with strengths. I cleared my throat, nodding to Jazz before focusing on the group.

“Thank you, everyone, for being here today,” I began, my voice steady despite the storm of emotions inside me. First off, the usual stuff, just so I could ground myself. “This is a closed room, and the things we discuss, and share go no further. Is that okay with everyone?”

Everyone said yes, from Tom’s brightness to Jazz’s more hesitant reaction.

“Okay, as usual, let’s start by sharing what brought us here and where we hope to go.”

“I’ll go first,” Tom said when no one else made a start. “So, I was just part of the peacekeeping force, wasn’t even supposed to be out there, but…”

As the stories unfolded, I kept a careful watch on Jazz, who grew stiffer with each mention of a foreign theater of war, or an injury, or substance abuse, or PTSD.

I didn’t know his story.

Would he tell us today?

Finally, it was his turn, and he swallowed, and for the first time in days, he met my gaze.

“You’re a counselor?” he asked, which threw me for a moment. “Registered, licensed, whatever?”

I nodded. “Master’s degree in Psychology from UC, interned with Rush Medical Center for several years.”

His eyes widened, and I could see the questions he didn’t ask. What about business, finance, and what my family had demanded of me? When he’d left—when I’d made him leave—I’d had a place at Harvard. What Jazz didn’t know was that I’d lasted one semester before everything had gone to shit, but this wasn’t about my story.

Now was all about him.

“And you’ve never served,” he said, the words carrying an accusation that landed as heavy as a brick to the back of my head.

“No,” I admitted. The gap in our experiences was vast, a chasm that empathy alone couldn’t bridge. “I haven’t worn the uniform, and I won’t pretend to understand everything you’ve been through,” I began, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside.

“So, how do you get to sit there?” he asked. There was no anger, but I heard Tom’s sharp inhalation.

“Hang on,” Tom began.

I held up a hand to stop him. “He has a point,” I said to placate Tom, who was all narrow-eyed and feisty. “So, I’ve dedicated my life to understanding, to learning how I can support those who have served, and I’ve listened—really listened—to countless stories from those who’ve served.”

Tom folded his arms over his chest, and as for Jazz, he tilted his head as if he were really listening to me. I paused, ensuring my sincerity was as clear as the conviction I felt. “This isn’t about me claiming a shared experience that isn’t mine. It’s about giving you a space where you can share, heal, and connect with others who truly understand your journey. I’m here to support that process, to offer tools and insights from a place of compassion and respect for what you’ve sacrificed and endured.” I let out a breath. The rehearsed explanation seemed way too long, particularly as Jazz stared at me.

“What he said,” Tom snapped and glanced at Jazz, who was still staring at me.

“My expertise isn’t in having served. It’s in recognizing the value of each person’s experience and helping navigate the path forward. You and everyone here deserve a place to be heard, understood, and supported. That’s what I’m here for.”

Jazz was silent, and that was okay. Not everyone shared their experiences out loud in the first session, the second, or the tenth. Some kept everything for one-on-one counseling, and hell, this might be the only session with me that Jazz attended.

But at least he was here.

“I wish I could tell a different story,” Jazz began, his voice broken. He cleared his throat. “I wish I could sit here and say I didn’t feel everything that the rest of you felt, and that I didn’t need to be here.” He picked at a loose thread on his jeans, talking to the floor more than to us.

Then, he leaned back, his gaze drifting to the middle distance, and it was obvious he was lost in memories. “I was in for a good stretch. Saw a lot. Middle East, parts of Africa… places where the soil knows more about blood than growth. You do what you’re told, you protect your own, and you try to make the right calls.”

“Yeah,” Daniel murmured.

Jazz paused, a shadow crossing his face. “But it’s the things you can’t control that stick with you—civilians caught in the crossfire, decisions that haunt me, and the faces of those I couldn’t save even when I tried. I’ve lost friends, so I stopped making friends. I’ve killed adults, and kids, people I knew, people I didn’t know. I’m cold and hard and broken. But somehow, when I was out there, it was my life, and I knew it was just something I had to do, and then, I’d get home. I could tell you about each part of me that was snapped away, but what would be the point of that? You all know what I’ve seen and done because it’s no different from what you’ve all been through. We’ve all drunk the poison, just in different flavors.”

He glanced around him, and the other four nodded, tears rolling down Emily’s face as she pressed her hands to her swollen belly.

He clenched his fists in his lap. “I’m divorced. I don’t blame my ex for any of what went down, because I was the one who lied my way into marrying her and destroyed it all. Me.”

“No one stays with us,” Tom said.

Raj took his hand and laced their fingers tight.

“Coming back home, I thought I’d feel safe, right? But I don’t fit anymore, like the world has moved on without me.” He stared back at the floor, his knuckles white as he gripped the chair. “It’s the ghosts that follow me, same as all of you. Loud noises, crowds, even silence—it can all bring it back. We all have PTSD because we were military and supposed to be brave and hard and trained for it all…” His voice hitched, and Daniel leaned in as if he would knock elbows. Although he didn’t touch Jazz, he was there in support. “I should’ve gotten help sooner,” he murmured. “The grocery store job I came back to felt meaningless. I couldn’t imagine working security or holding a gun again, and that was all that was open to me. Bagging groceries and clearing up spills on aisle eight.” He laughed, but no one else joined in, everyone watching silently.

“I couldn’t relate to the media or people or find peace in the things that used to matter. So, I spiraled. I lost my job and packed all my belongings into a single box, and my ex became afraid of me. She said I shouldn’t see my daughter, and she was right because I have a messed-up head.”

I was desperate to hug Jazz and tell him he’d be okay, but kept my seat, even as emotion threatened to spill over into tears.

“Pride kept me from asking for help,” Jazz whispered, “then shame buried me deeper.” He stared directly at me, his dark brown eyes bright with pain. “I ended up on the streets, not because I wanted freedom, but because I felt there was no place left for me. No community, no purpose. Just memories and a battle I was losing.”

He went silent, and I waited in case he had something else to say, but his breathing was hard, and he hunched over in the chair. Everyone who’d ever sat in this room and talked had at one point cried, shouted, thrown things, or gone deathly quiet.

One by one, the others left the room. Tom pressed a hand to Jazz’s shoulder, and then, it was just me, Jazz, and the scent of stale coffee.

“Jazz?”

His eyes were swimming with tears. “Don’t do that,” he murmured. Then, he stood, using the chair to steady himself. “Don’t give me sympathy like I need it from you.”

“I’m sorry?—”

“I don’t need you. And you don’t need me.”

When he left, he shut the door, and I sat for the longest time staring at the empty room.

He was wrong.

I needed him like I needed to breathe.