Jack (7 Brides for 7 Soldiers Book 5)

by Julia London

“Is that true?” Whitney asked. “You have PTSD?”

  He hated that acronym more than anything in the world. Jack clenched his jaw and gave her a single nod.

  She dropped her bag and the pie tin, which clattered on the tiled floor of the entry. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Her question wasn’t accusatory. It was…confused. It was the question one asked when they realized someone they cared about didn’t trust them enough to confide in them.

  “I don’t…it’s not very pretty, Whitney. It’s pretty damn emasculating, if you want to know the truth.”

  “Don’t be an ass, Jack,” Christie said from her perch on the couch. “Lots of people suffer from it. It doesn’t make you any less of a person, or any less of a man, for God’s sake.” She sat up and turned around and looked at Whitney. “For what it’s worth, it took me more than a year of my brother disappearing from my life before I was finally able to get him to admit what was happening and get help.”

  “How…?” Whitney looked puzzled, as if she didn’t know what, exactly, she wanted to know.

  “I served two tours in Afghanistan,” he reminded her.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I…” He paused to swallow again. “I didn’t tell you that I…witnessed some stuff that was pretty bad.” He closed his eyes against the painful images for a moment. “And I was wounded.”

  “Right,” she said. “Your leg.”

  “Right.” But that wasn’t the injury he was referring to. “When I came back to the States, I started having these dreams.” He gestured at his head. “Sort of reliving the whole thing again. And then I would, um, panic. When I was in a similar sort of place, I would get the idea in my head that the same thing would happen, and I…I flipped out.”

  “What he means,” Christie said, her voice kinder now, “is that he was in a market when a couple of suicide bombers blew themselves up and a lot of people around him and nearly blew his leg off.” She winced. “Sorry, Jack. I know it’s hard for you to say.”

  He was actually grateful that she’d said it for him.

  “But the panic?” Whitney asked. “Even now? Here, in the States?”

  “Sort of,” he said. “It started with dreams, then panic, then attacks, I guess. Full-on attacks where I thought I was dying. I started having them pretty regularly.” He tried to gauge her reaction, to know whether he disgusted her on some level.

  “And now he has full-blown agoraphobia,” Christie added.

  Whitney’s eyes widened. She gaped at Jack. “Of course,” she said softly. “That makes so much sense.”

  Jack groaned under his breath and slid down the wall to his haunches.

  “But how does it work?” Whitney asked.

  He was unsure what she was asking. “I don’t know. I mean, the attacks are a physical response to fear. For me, it started with being uncomfortable in crowds. Unfortunately, it’s turned into more than that, which now you’ve seen.” The heat of shame crept up his neck. “My fight-or-flight wiring is all screwed up. If I’m not in control of a situation, my body has a different mind than the one up here.”

  Just saying these things out loud made him feel anxious. He felt so screwed up, so beyond repair. “I’m better if I just avoid people,” he said morosely.

  “But…but you came out of your apartment to the café that afternoon.”

  “You went out?” Christie said with great surprise.

  “I made myself, Whitney,” Jack said solemnly. “I wanted to be there for you.”

  Even that admission made him feel ashamed. How hard could it possibly be to go see an empty café? Impossible for someone like him.

  “Have you always been anxious?” she asked.

  Jack shook his head.

  “Not him,” Christie piped in. “But our mother has severe anxieties. It runs in families, you know.”

  Whitney looked surprised by that. “Is there a cure?”

  “He could take the meds his doctor has prescribed him,” Christie said with a pert look at her brother.

  Jack gave his sister a withering look. “You’re not helping, Christie. I don’t want to be dependent on pills—you know that.”

  “Because the alternative is so much better,” she snapped back at him. “I mean seriously, look at Mom, Jack. I have to go to Eagle’s Ridge once a month to take her to get her hair done, to the library, to the doctor, because she can’t get out. She is paralyzed outside her house.”

  “I’m not Mom.” Jack shifted his gaze to Whitney. “It’s not an inherited condition, Christie—”

  “Except that if anyone in the family is prone to it, chances are that others—”

  “It’s not the same thing,” he snapped. “My disorder is curable! Hers is just who she is. I’ve been working on it with a psychiatrist—”

  “On Skype, because you can’t make it to her office,” Christie interjected.

  “Okay.” Whitney held her hands up. “Okay, okay.”

  Christie folded her arms defensively. “Well, it’s true,” she said. “And I know he won’t tell her everything.”

  Whitney released a breath. “Is the psychiatrist helping?” she asked softly.

  “Some,” he admitted. “I’m learning how to assess things and find…” He could hardly say the words. “Find my safe space,” he muttered. He, a former Marine. It was humiliating to utter those words aloud—a soldier was supposed to be the one protecting everyone else. Not looking for his safe space.

  “He’s supposed to go out and put himself in those difficult situations to practice his coping skills, but he doesn’t,” Christie said.

  “I was going to do it today,” he argued. “I tried.”

  “Wait,” Whitney said. “You didn’t go to the funeral?”

  Jack was so ashamed he couldn’t look her in the eye. He shook his head. “I had to pick up a car at the airport. When I got there, it was really crowded, and someone blew their car horn, and…” He didn’t finish his thought. He didn’t need to—they both understood he’d lost his shit in the middle of the airport.

  The shame was so deep it felt as though he were choking.

  Whitney was suddenly at his side. She slid down the wall beside him and put her hand on the fist he had pressed against his knee.

  “Oh Jack,” Christie said sorrowfully. “You didn’t take some of the anxiety meds with you?”

  With a clenched jaw, he shook his head. “I can’t think or function when I take them, and I didn’t want to risk running into any of the guys, acting like a zombie. I can’t… I can’t live like that.”

  “But can you live like this?” Christie asked quietly.

  Jack hated himself. He hated that he wasn’t stronger, couldn’t conquer something that seemed so ridiculous.

  Christie sighed. “It doesn’t help that the whole world will deliver whatever you need to your door. It’s allowed you to close yourself off and make everything worse.”

  “Oh my God,” Whitney said. “You’re talking about me.”

  “She’s not talking about you,” Jack said.

  “But she is—I get it. I come with food and cook it for you. Your laundry is done for you, the flowers are delivered—even your dog is walked by someone who comes to your door. You never have to leave your house,” she said, her voice full of awe.

  “America is a great country,” Jack muttered. He pushed himself up and walked to the windows overlooking the city. Christie was right—the privilege of living in this country had made it easy to disconnect from the real world and hide.

  He heard Christie get up.

  She walked to stand beside him and put her arm around his waist. “You need someone you can trust to help you. And you need to take your prescriptions until you get to a place where you can manage the fears.”

  “Is that all you have to do?” Whitney asked, appearing on his other side.

  Is that all. What sort of man couldn’t walk outside of his apartment without fear? “Supposedly, the anxiety that causes the panic wi
ll decrease if I find myself in a bad situation and get through it. If I can learn to talk myself down.” He could hear Dr. Pratt explaining the whole concept of exposure therapy to him. If you expose yourself to the anxiety and learn to manage the symptoms, your body will eventually learn there is nothing to fear.

  “Do you trust me?” Whitney asked.

  He smiled sadly. “You’re looking at the two people in all the world I trust.”

  “Then I’ll help you,” Whitney said.

  “No,” Jack said immediately. He turned his back to the windows and stalked to the kitchen bar.

  “Why not?” Whitney asked.

  “Because, Whitney, I don’t want to be a burden. I don’t want to be the guy in a relationship who has to lean on his girl for help.”

  “Oh.” Christie perked up. “Is this a relationship?”

  “I don’t know,” Whitney said. “Is it, Jack?”

  “Come on.” He frowned at her. “You know it is.”

  “No, I don’t know. I thought it was, but now…now I wonder if it’s been more convenient than real. Maybe you would feel differently if you were out in the world with me, but in here, there’s no other option, so…”

  Jack’s pulse began to race with a very real fear. “That’s not true, Whitney,” he said. “I really care about you. I know we haven’t been out, but this,” he gestured between the two of them, “is very real for me. I care about you very much.”

  She looked at her hand. Her brows were furrowed as if she were thinking things through. “If you really care about me, then you have to know that I can’t live in your apartment forever. I can’t run your errands. I can’t live my life never knowing if you will show up or not.”

  “I know that,” he said, hoping he didn’t sound as desperate as he felt. “I get that completely, and I’m trying.”

  “We’ve never even been on a date,” she said.

  “But we will, Whitney. On my life, we will.” He looked to Christie for help, but his sister was studiously avoiding his gaze.

  “When?” Whitney asked.

  He couldn’t answer that. He wanted to answer her, to tell her here and now, but he had to be completely honest about it—it wasn’t as easy for him as it must seem to her.

  She stared at him, her expression one of confusion and disappointment.

  Jack grabbed her hand and pulled her forward. “You have to know how much I want to be there for you, Whitney.”

  She nodded. “Will you let me help you?”

  Jack stubbornly shook his head. “Isn’t our situation already uneven? I don’t want to knock it that much more off-kilter.”

  “We’ll balance it.”

  “Whitney, you don’t understand—”

  “You’re right, I don’t!” she said loudly, and yanked her hand free of his. “I don’t understand at all, but at least I’m trying, and at least I’m willing to try to help, Jack! I’m more than willing to do this if you are, because I care about you, too. We can start right now. We can start by going to a funeral.”

  He snorted. Waved his hand. Wished he could disappear. “It’s too late for that. I blew it. I let Lainey and Noah down.”

  “No one ever said that you have to be with a bunch of other people to pay your final respects. There is a grave and you can still say your good-byes.”

  “An excellent idea, Whitney,” Christie said. “I think you and I are gonna get along great. After the funeral, you can start training him to walk me down the aisle. I want you to be there when Chet and I get married.”

  “No!” Jack said loudly. “You don’t get it. I don’t want your fucking pity, Whitney!”

  Christie gasped at his outburst.

  But Whitney snorted. “You don’t have my pity, Jack. You don’t have anything but the fact that I really like you, although God knows why, and although I’m mad as hell you haven’t told me this, I still want to help you. If you’re not willing to at least try with me, then I guess maybe this was more about convenience. Which is it, Jack? Do you really want a relationship with me? Or are you taking full advantage of Dinner Magic?”

  “Jack, if you don’t let her help you, you’re going to lose her,” Christie said. “Is that what you want?”

  Two of the most important women of his life stared at him, silently daring him to refuse them in that way females had of boring laser holes through your skull with their eyes. Jack was a loser, but he was no fool. He threw his hands in the air. “Okay,” he said. “Okay.”

  His disorder might kill him after all, but at least he’d go down striving for something he wanted. He wanted Whitney.

  Sixteen

  The kind of help Whitney offered Jack presented him with a new level of anxiety he had not yet experienced, and that was true, abject fear—she was a horrible driver.

  He hadn’t really noticed it the day they drove to Eagle’s Ridge—maybe because he’d been so mortified about having to be driven like Miss Daisy to Lainey’s gravesite. He’d sat in the back with Buster so he could feel the dog’s firm, warm body against his. He’d thought a lot about Lainey, about the last time he’d seen her, about the last time he’d tried to be in Eagle’s Ridge.

  He’d thought a lot about his freak-out at the airport. He’d gotten there okay, maybe because it was early Sunday and he’d managed to get a seat on the light rail in the very back, where he could see everything, everyone getting on and off. But at the airport, it was chaos and disorder, and someone had blared their horn, and…

  It was a miracle he made it back to his apartment without police or medical intervention. He still didn’t know how he managed to get home, didn’t want to think about what a madman he must have looked like.

  In Eagle’s Ridge, Whitney had driven to the cemetery, and it was easy to spot Lainey’s grave—the mound of colorful flowers piled on top was a testament to the kind of person she was. There were so many that the scent was cloying.

  Jack was particularly grateful to Whitney for insisting he come. He had needed that moment with Lainey.

  Since then, Whitney had coaxed him to the bodega, and to the nearest grocery store. She insisted they walk in the evenings when it was dark and fewer people were on the street.

  He felt as if he were getting better, as though his courage was slowly coming back to him. But it was slow progress—he’d not been able to take Buster to the park, although Rain took him four times a week without incident. There was something about that park that seemed particularly sinister to Jack. Too many places for people to hide.

  He had not yet been able to take Whitney to a nice restaurant, which he desperately wanted to do. Neither had he been able to meet Whitney anywhere. If she wasn’t with him when he left his apartment, he couldn’t seem to make himself go past the glass doors of his building.

  “When you think about going out alone, what is the thing that holds you back?” Dr. Pratt asked.

  “Danger,” Jack said.

  “What sort of danger?”

  He couldn’t really express it. Danger was black and smoky. It was the feeling that crawled up the back of his neck and warned him that someone was waiting, was watching, was wanting to see him dead.

  “Do you think it is a terrorist?” Dr. Pratt asked.

  “Maybe.”

  “Waiting specifically for you?”

  “No, of course not,” he said, feeling foolish. But that’s exactly what it felt like.

  “And when your girlfriend is with you, you don’t feel as if anyone is waiting?”

  “I do,” he admitted. “But it seems less likely somehow. It seems impossible to me that anyone would hurt Whitney.”

  Dr. Pratt nodded. “I would like to see you venture further afield with Whitney,” she said as she made a note. “But I’d also like you to try to get out on your own. Ask yourself these questions before you go out.” She held up a finger. “One, would a terrorist or anyone else be waiting specifically for me, today, on this path?”

  Jack nodded.

  “Two.” An
other finger popped up. “Does anyone else on the street seem panicked, or are there any signals that would indicate it’s anything but a normal, typical day?”

  “Okay,” he said.

  “And three, when you get to each street corner, I want you to tell yourself: I walked a block and nothing happened. I’ve walked two blocks and nothing happened. I’ve walked three blocks and nothing happened, and so forth.”

  Jack rubbed his nape and glanced at the window. He couldn’t imagine walking more than two blocks, tops. Once his apartment building was out of sight, he was toast. “Okay,” he said.

  “Jack,” Dr. Pratt said.

  He turned back to his computer screen.

  “Do you realize the progress you’ve made?”

  “I guess,” he said uncertainly.

  “This week, you’ve been out three times, and it’s been without medicine.”

  A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Told you,” he muttered.

  She smiled. “We’ll talk later this week?”

  “Yeah,” he said.

  When he’d finished the call, he walked to his window and looked down at the people on the street. He didn’t have the urge to believe they were coming for him anymore. Dr. Pratt was right—he was getting better.

  But there was a new anxiety, and it was all Whitney’s fault. Her driving was enough to make entire nations of drivers fear her.

  Speaking of Whitney, he had to get ready to go, which meant he also had to do the three minutes of meditation Whitney insisted he do before going out. She’d read online that it was helpful for agoraphobia, and made it clear she would not accept any argument. Today was a big day—they were driving up to Christie’s today and were going to spend the night in her new house. It was risky, and Jack had packed the pill bottles he never touched just in case. He hadn’t had a full-scale attack in front of Whitney, and he was determined to not start now.

  When Whitney texted to tell him she was downstairs, Jack hooked Buster’s leash on him, picked up his bag, and took three deep, cleansing breaths as Buster tugged him toward the door. He calmly walked out his door and locked it, rode the elevator down with his dog, said hello to Frank and asked about his arthritis, and walked on to the glass doors.