by Mari Madison
She waved a dismissive hand. “Meh. I’m about through with working for a living, thank you very much. I’m aiming for trophy wife next time around.”
I snorted. “Any particular man in mind with room on his shelf?”
Her eyes glittered. “Julian, of course!” she cried, referring to the new News 9 sportscaster. “He’s got more money than God after his NFL career. Though I’m not entirely sure the guy has room on his shelf for any more trophies. Not with all the baggage he carries around.” She made a face. “Which is ridiculous. It’s not like it was his fault he got hurt on the field and had to retire early.”
I shook my head. “Trust me. If at all possible, stay clear of men with baggage.”
She pursed her lips, giving me a curious look. “I thought all was happy and shiny in Sarah-and-Troy land these days.”
“It is. I mean, mostly.” I sighed. “He’s doing much better. He hasn’t had any panic attacks, which is good. And I think working on the Water World story is really helping him keep up his spirits. So that’s good, too.”
“So what is it? Don’t tell me the sex is bad!”
“God no.” I laughed. “The best sex ever. That is definitely not the department in which we fall short.”
“Well, that’s a relief. So what is it then?”
I sighed. “Communication. Of course. That’s always been our core issue—even back in the day. And now, well, he’s always so worried about looking weak in front of me—like he’s not handling things. And so he ends up shutting himself off and keeping things from me.”
“Like what?”
“Like, I don’t think he’s going to therapy.”
“But I thought—”
“Yeah. Me, too. Until I ran into the therapist I introduced him to at the grocery store the other night. She asked how he was. And I was so confused because I thought they had a session that morning. Well, it turns out he walked out of their first session—right in the middle—and never went back.”
“Oh, Sarah . . .”
I shook my head. “I mean, he could be going to someone else. Maybe he just didn’t feel like he and Dr. Remington clicked. But every time I try to bring it up he gets this weird look on his face and he changes the subject.” I stared down at my hands. “So I’m guessing not so much.”
“But you said he was good. He wasn’t having panic attacks. He’s been happy. Maybe it’s not a big deal?”
I looked up sharply. “No. It is a big deal. His brain went through major trauma. You don’t just walk away from that unscathed. He’s like a powder keg. He looks fine on the outside, but any time he could just explode.”
“Have you tried to talk to him about it?”
“Sort of. But . . . well, I just wanted him to be able to come to me.” My voice broke a little on the words. “I want him to be able to trust me to talk about these things. He says he loves me. So why is he keeping this from me? And if he’s keeping this from me, what else will he keep from me?”
“Oh, honey.” Stephanie reached over and gave me a small hug. “I’m so sorry. I know how much you wanted this to be a happily ever after.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not giving up,” I told her. “Not this time. I’ve started going to this group. It’s for people who have loved ones with PTSD. It’s actually really helpful to hear everyone’s stories. Makes me feel less alone.”
Stephanie shook her head. “And here I thought you were so happy.”
“Oh! Don’t get me wrong. I am happy. I’m so happy to have Troy back. And I love being with him. This is where I belong. It’s just . . . I have to be willing to play the long game here. There’s going to be ups and downs. He’s not going to just get better overnight. I have to be patient. I have to let him take the lead on this and not pressure him. It’s so hard for me, though. Sometimes I want to wring his neck and be like, ‘Why won’t you go get the help you need?’ But even if I got him to go, he wouldn’t be going for himself. He’d be going for me. And that’s not good enough. If it’s going to work, he’s got to do it for himself.”
Stephanie opened her mouth to speak but at that moment Ben emerged from the dressing room, back in his old geek T-shirt and faded jeans. He held up the suits in his hand.
“Am I ready for my close-up?” he asked.
Stephanie shot a look at me. I shook my head. We both laughed and jumped off the bench. “Not even close,” Stephanie declared. “But don’t worry. We’ll get you there. By the time I’m done with my magic, Ryan Seacrest himself will have nothing on you.”
We made our purchases and headed out of the store. As we passed a burger/pizza joint on the way out, my stomach growled and I suggested we take a break for lunch. Everyone agreed and we piled into a booth to place our orders.
As Stephanie started describing reporter-appropriate hairstyles in great detail to Ben, my eyes wandered to one of the TVs at the bar. It was on CNN. And there seemed to be some kind of breaking international news. I squinted for a moment, trying to read the scroll on the bottom of the screen to determine what was going on. Then I gasped, leaping from my seat and running to the bar.
“Turn it up!” I begged the bartender.
He gave me a strange look, but obliged, clicking the remote. A moment later the volume of the news report was blasting through the restaurant. I sank back down in my seat, my heart pounding as I listened to what the anchors were saying.
“Good evening,” said the anchor. “We have breaking news to share with you tonight. Two freelance journalists have been reported captured just outside of Raqqa in northwest Syria late this morning.”
The second anchor continued. “Details are still coming in, but it’s believed these journalists were taken by the same group that abducted network news reporter Troy Young early last year. Back then, the government did eventually meet the group’s demands and Young was sent home unharmed. No word from the president now about what will be done for this new case . . . or what the group is asking for, this time around.”
“We’re here now with Senator Baker from North Carolina. Senator, you were one of the most outspoken voices back during the Troy Young incident. What are your thoughts on this new situation?”
“Well, Kelly, I think it was just a matter of time. You negotiate with a terrorist, they’re going to see you as weak. They’re going to come back for more. I’m sorry for Mr. Young, but if we had acted decisively back then, I don’t think we’d see this case come now.”
I glanced over at Stephanie. Pretty sure my face was as white as hers was. My heart pounded in my chest. I turned to Ben, giving him an apologetic look.
“Sorry,” I said. “We’ll have to take a rain check on the rest of the shopping spree.”
I had to find Troy. Now.
thirty-eight
TROY
TROY!”
I jerked up from my seat, startled, as Sarah burst into the apartment. She looked at the TV accusingly and then back at me.
“What are you doing?” she asked. “Don’t watch that.” She ran over and grabbed the remote. I watched as the news broadcast faded to black.
I closed my eyes, sinking back onto the couch, sucking in a shaky breath. Then I opened my eyes again, staring at the TV. It was now blank. Black. But somehow I could still see the faces of those two journalists, embedded on the screen. Still hear the words of that senator, echoing through my head.
“You know, just because I can’t see it, doesn’t mean it’s not happening,” I remarked, picking at a piece of lint on my jeans as I tried to steady my heart rate. What had the therapist said about rating your anxiety from one to ten? Cause right now I was clocking in at about fifteen. Hell, maybe fifteen hundred.
Sarah gave me a worried look, then came over to sit beside me. She put an arm around my shoulder, rubbing my back with a gentle hand. I knew she meant the gesture to be comforting, to make me feel safe. But the way
my skin was crawling now it wasn’t much help.
“I know,” she said softly. “But it’s the last thing you need to see right now. You are going through enough on your own. And this could be really triggering for you.”
“Yeah, well, maybe I should be triggered,” I retorted angrily. God, I hated that word. “I mean, did you hear the senator? This is only happening because of me. The government agreed to their demands to set me free. Now they think they can do it again to get the next thing they want on their little list.” I winced, the thought hitting me like a punch in the gut. I wondered if the men kidnapped were down the same hole I had been kept in. All alone, in the dark, the rodents scratching on the rocks. With that awful feeling of not knowing whether they were going to live or die. They were probably, even now, cursing my name.
“Don’t listen to that idiot. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. And besides, you’ve told me a billion times, you didn’t ask to be saved. That wasn’t your choice. You didn’t make that deal.”
“But that deal was made because of me,” I said quietly. “So essentially the same thing.”
Bile swam in my stomach, as if burning me from within. I wondered if I should go to the bathroom, try to throw up. Try to expel the poison churning inside of me. The guilt threatening to choke me.
God, I had been doing so well. Trying to forget. Trying to move forward. Trying to enjoy what life was now. And then something like this happens, throwing me back all over again. Making me realize I hadn’t come as far as I thought had. That I hadn’t made any progress at all.
That try as I might, this was never going to go away. I was never going to be the person I used to be again.
Sarah rose to her feet. She paced the room, wringing her hands together. “You can’t just sit here like this, dwelling on things. You need to go talk to someone before you spiral into panic again.” She turned to me, giving me a pointed look. “Do you have a therapist I can drive you to?” she asked.
I flinched at the question. “I . . . I’m fine. I don’t need a ride,” I muttered.
Her eyes zeroed in on me. “You don’t need a ride because you can take your own car?” she asked. “Or you don’t need a ride because you don’t have a therapist to go to in the first place?”
I swallowed hard. Everything inside of me wanted to lie. To tell her I had been seeing someone—of course I had!—since that day I promised I would. But how could I lie to her, straight on? She deserved better than that. She’d been so supportive of me. So patient and loving and kind. I’d lied to her once and it had destroyed us. I couldn’t do that again now.
I stared down at my hands. “Because I don’t have a therapist,” I admitted, the words scraping through my throat with great effort.
She let out a breath of relief. “Okay,” she said. “Then let’s find you someone.”
I looked up, surprised. “Wait, what?” I stammered. “You’re not mad? Or did you . . . already know?”
She gave me a heartbreaking look. “I . . . suspected,” she admitted. “But it’s okay. Really. We can start now. It’s not too late.”
Anger and frustration mixed with embarrassment swirled around in my head. Oh God. She’d known. She’d known all along and she hadn’t even said anything. She’d waited for me to admit it. And now, once again, I’d let her down.
“But I’ve been fine,” I added, unable to keep the desperate sound out of my voice. “I haven’t had any panic attacks. I’ve been happy. I’ve been exercising even. And working. And everything’s been fine.”
I sounded pathetic. I sounded like a crazy person.
“Yes, Troy, You’ve been fine. At least on the surface. But that doesn’t mean you’re suddenly better. You can’t pretend this didn’t happen. You can’t push your trauma down inside of you and expect it to stay buried. It’ll always come back up. Things like this happen—and they’re going to happen—and you’ll find all that stuff you buried erupting out of you like a volcano. Bringing you back to ground zero time and time again.”
I stared at her, speechless, a sudden realization smacking me upside the head. I hadn’t made any progress at all. All of this happiness—it was nothing more than a smoke screen. A lie. And Sarah? She was no better than my dream Sarah had been for me down in that hole. A tiny Band-Aid placed over a mortal wound. A fantasy to hold on to, to ignore the ugly reality surrounding me.
She took a step forward now, her eyes radiating a mix of love and desperation and hurt and hope. It was crazy. So crazy to think she still retained hope for me. After all I’d done to her, all the times I betrayed her, lied to her, disappointed her and let her down. And yet she was still here. Still coming back for more like a wounded dog. And I kept letting her back in, knowing I was going to hurt her again. And again and again and again.
“I can’t do this anymore,” I ground out. “I’m sorry, but I can’t.”
She reached out to put a hand on my shoulder. “Troy . . .”
I shook her hand away, stepping out of her reach. “I’m sorry, Sarah. But we both need to stop pretending. Stop living in this fantasy world. This thing between us? It was over five years ago. And there’s no going back. I’m not that guy anymore. And you’re not that girl. And I can’t keep going around in circles, knowing every time I fail, I’m hurting you. I’m letting you down.” I hung my head. “You need to walk away while you still can. Find someone who deserves a girl like you.”
“No. Troy. I don’t want to walk away. I want to be with you.” Her voice broke. “I love you.”
I shook my head, my heart as heavy as my steps as I walked toward the apartment door, knowing full well once I stepped over that threshold I could never allow myself to go back again.
“Please, Troy,” I could hear Sarah beg from behind me. “Don’t do this to me!”
“Don’t you understand?” I asked, pausing for a moment before taking that final step. “I’m doing this for you, Sarah. I’m finally setting you free.”
thirty-nine
SARAH
Troy didn’t show up to work the next day. Nor did he show his face the day after. My calls to him went straight to voice mail. When I went to his house, he didn’t answer the door. If Richard hadn’t told me he’d gotten a call from him, asking for a couple days’ unpaid leave, I would have been freaking out worried.
Instead, I was just incredibly sad.
I tried to throw myself into work. But I found my mind wandering every time I sat down for a screening, and I could scarcely focus on the film. Instead, my mind chose to replay footage of Troy’s exit from my life, over and over on endless loop. The way he had looked at me. With eyes filled with terror and guilt and desperation. The words that had come from his mouth.
I’m doing this for you.
But if that were true, then why was I the one who felt so broken now? Who felt like a total failure? I’d tried everything in my power to support him, to love him, to not set high expectations and not get angry when he didn’t meet them. I’d been patient. I’d been kind. I’d loved him with everything I had. And it still wasn’t enough. Because he was sick. And all the love in the world wasn’t enough to cure this kind of sickness. He needed help.
More importantly, he needed to believe he needed help. And he needed to go get it. And keep getting it. Otherwise he would only get worse.
I still went to my group meetings. It felt kind of silly now, to be learning how to support someone with PTSD when I no longer had anyone to support. But listening to the other women talk about their experiences made me feel a little less alone. These women knew what I was going through. And they urged me to not give up on Troy. But what was I supposed to do—when he’d given up on me?
Stephanie tried to cheer me up. Forcing me to dress up, dragging me to night clubs, trying her best to show me a good time. Once upon a time her strategy would have worked. But now, it just seemed so vapid. So pointless. Wa
tching the revelers weaving drunkenly down the street, dressed in their bar-hopping best. High heels, shiny faces, complete ignorance to what was going on in the world around them. How people were suffering. Hurting. Barely getting by.
It was hard to believe, watching them now, that I had once been one of them—and not that long ago either. Flitting from party to party, never thinking past the next club, the next cocktail, the next potential hookup.
In a way, it sounded kind of blissful. A total blackout from the pain I was suffering each and every day. But I knew, in the end, it wouldn’t make me happy. And if given a choice, I would always choose this life instead. This brutal, exhausting, painful life. Because it was real. And I had the opportunity to make a real difference.
Because Troy or no Troy, I was still determined to save those whales. To shut Water World down for good. I’d finally gotten my whistleblower, Donny, to set the date for our undercover shoot. Sunday night, at midnight, I would meet him at the back gate, undercover camera locked and loaded and ready to film.
The plan was this: He’d take me around to get the footage of these animals and then I’d go back and show this footage to the marine biologists I’d lined up, so I could get their opinions on the conditions the animals were living in.
Once I had everything together, I’d package it up in editing and show it to Richard and ask him to air it as part of a special News 9 investigation. I didn’t even care if I was the reporter on the piece—if he wanted the I-Team to treat it as if they’d done the work, that was fine by me. I didn’t need the credit. I just needed it to air. For people to see, once and for all, what was going on there. And prompt them to take action at last.
I might never get my own fairy-tale ending. But I was determined to give those poor sea creatures their happily ever after, no matter what I had to do.
And as for Troy? Well, I wasn’t giving up on him either. If he wouldn’t talk to me, well, then maybe it was time to call in reinforcements.