by Shealy James
She remained suspicious a moment longer before she seemed to take my word for it. “Good. You know as well as I do that he’ll do it again. Maybe you should file that police report, after all. And for fuck’s sake, put the gun away.” True to form, Lana was unfazed by the drama. I loved that about her, envied her really.
I was done talking about it. Suddenly, I felt more exhausted than I had ever felt on the farm. “I just want to go back to sleep. Today has been beyond stressful, and I don’t want to think about anything but my pillow.”
“All right. Well, I’m here if you need anything. ‘Night, Sarah.”
“’Night, Lana. Thanks for your help tonight.”
I climbed back in my bed and thought about how lonely I felt. In a week, I went from having a sweet, attentive boyfriend to having bruises from said boyfriend hitting me. Why couldn’t I find a decent man? What was it about me that caused losers, cheaters, and assholes to flock to me? I felt the familiar pings of jealousy stab my gut. My best friend, Maggie, had never had a boyfriend before Parker. Her first real boyfriend happened to be the guy who she married. And here I was kissing toads. While I couldn’t be happier for her, I wondered for the millionth time what was wrong with me. More questions that I couldn’t answer flooded my brain. Why would a guy cheat on me? Why would a guy expect me to give up everything for him? Why would a guy hit me? Why couldn’t I find what my parents have?
The next morning arrived too quickly. I was exhausted, but I had to be at the VA for an interview, and then I had two more phone interviews. The week was thankfully a busy one for me. While I had to wear a hideous amount of concealer and foundation for interviews, Lana encouraged me go to the police and Dr. Wright with nothing covering the bruising around my eye and on my cheek. She also took pictures of everything just in case I backed out.
I didn’t. I marched my angry tail right up to the police station and filed a police report. Of course, the entire experience was anti-climactic. I wrote a detailed account of the first incident, the alley action, and the late night trespassing. The officer took the paperwork and asked me a million questions that made it sound like he thought I was to blame or making everything up. Then he said, “We’ll look into it,” and dismissed me without a second glance. I thought if I filed a police report then he would be arrested, but the officer made it sound like I was the one who needed a lawyer.
Disappointed by the turn of events and feeling a little foolish for thinking this would all be simple, I took a taxi straight to Dr. Wright’s office where I was forced to show him exactly what Jameson did to me when I told him that I couldn’t work with the lunatic anymore. Dr. Wright helped me file a report with the university, and within a few hours, Jameson had been called into the dean’s office with the news that he’d been suspended pending an investigation. When Dr. Wright called to tell me the news, I felt like he was about to say something more, but he rushed off the phone instead. It left me feeling uneasy, to say the least. It seemed a little like no one who held any power actually believed me.
I had a hard time keeping my emotions in check all week after that, but I forced myself to be professional for every interview. Part of me still couldn’t believe Jameson hurt me. The idea that I might be weaker than I ever considered made me want to curl up in a ball and cry, but I managed to refrain. What kind of psychologist would I be if I started crying every time I thought about what happened? Furthermore, what kind of woman would I be?
By Thursday, I mostly focused on work even if I couldn’t shake the sensation that Jameson was out there watching me. On top of my paranoia, my insides still felt like they had somehow solidified, making me constantly ache and feel like the dumbest girl on the planet. Thankfully, my brain seemed to function semi-normally because I had a class before the two interviews scheduled for that afternoon. Class was the same old routine minus my participation. I was always a good student. I listened and responded. Yes, I was that kid who always had my hand up when the teacher asked a question. I wasn’t trying to be teacher’s pet; I was simply trying to get off the farm. Now, my participation consisted of taking down the notes needed to help me remember what I was supposed to be doing.
My interviews were more interesting than my classes, though. The first one of the day also happened to be my first female veteran. She had quite a different experience both in combat, or lack thereof, and with therapy. After her therapy, she fell in love and married another soldier. They now have two children and live a quiet life. She was a CBT success story for sure. I made a point to note her interview for further discussion with Dr. Wright.
Between interviews, I checked my voicemail and found that Jameson had left messages. He was apologizing while telling me how miserable his life was suddenly. While he didn’t sound as hysterical as the other night, message after message begged me to talk to him. I listened to them all, more and more intrigued with each one. I didn’t stop feeling things for the other, less frightening version of Jameson when all this happened. It was just the opposite. I longed for the charming man who showed me Manhattan. I was thinking of that man when I foolishly answered my phone when it rang in my hand, even knowing it wasn’t my Jameson calling.
“You have to stop calling me, Jameson. What you did can’t be undone.”
“I know, Sarah, but you have to know how sorry I am.” Maybe I was wrong. Maybe this was my Jameson. “I don’t care what happens to me. I only want you back. I’d rather talk to you in person. Will you meet me? Are you at the VA?” He sounded sincere, but I wasn’t giving in to his pleading. I knew better now. It didn’t matter if I missed him. In the deepest part of my heart, I knew I missed a man who actually did not exist.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Please, Sarah. I need to tell you things…in person.”
I tried to sound braver than I felt when I said, “Tell me now. This is the last time we’ll talk. You hurt me, Jameson. I can’t take that risk again.” My voice sounded flat, but the emotions churning inside of me resembled a roller coaster more than anything else.
“No!” he pleaded. “I love you, Sarah. I need you. We can get through this. I miss you. We haven’t spent a day apart in months. I lose my mind one time, and you’re gone. This can’t be it. This can’t be the end.”
The temperature felt like it increased a million degrees. Sweat started to bead on my back, so I slipped my suit jacket off and threw it on my chair. My silk shell was about to be drenched if I allowed Jameson to keep this up.
“Stop. If you loved me, you wouldn’t have raised a hand to me. I have bruises.”
“I know, baby. I’m sorry!” And there he was. The other, more dangerous Jameson made his appearance.
The pet name made me cringe with disgust. “That’s enough. I can’t do this right now. I have another interview then I have work to do. I filed a police report, Jameson. They’re looking for you. Come near me again, and I go to a judge to file a restraining order as well, which could land you in jail for a long time. We’re over, Jameson. No discussion.” I hit end on my phone and threw it on the desk in the interview room with a wild growl.
I paced the length of the room trying to get the anger and frustration out of me. Why won’t he get over it? Move on! I’m not letting you hurt me again, Jameson! Fool me once…
A knock on the door stopped me in my tracks because of the attractive man at the door—tall, strong, chiseled. He was my dream man. He was…Oh. My. God. He was real. The guy I saw that day in the hall. He wasn’t a dream or a mirage or a figment of my imagination. He was real and standing here in the flesh. The frustration I felt moments ago fled my mind as I stood frozen staring at the doorway. His presence filled the room while he eyed me up and down. I didn’t mind, considering I was doing the same to him. I noticed the way his t-shirt fit perfectly against his muscled torso. His jeans hung just right on his hips. He was tall and gorgeous. I wondered what he was doing at the VA until I remembered that I was supposed to be interviewing a Sergeant Michael Pearson.
When my blue eyes snapped up to his hazel ones, I saw he wasn’t looking at my face nor was he checking me out. His gaze was directed at my arm right where Jameson’s fingerprints had gone from a discerning shade of black and blue to a lighter black and blue with a hideous yellow tinge around the outside. I quickly cleared my throat and covered my arm with one hand as I grabbed my jacket with the other.
With my professionalism back intact, I waved to the chair in front of the table. “Sergeant Pearson, please have a seat.”
Seven
Michael
I walked in to do this godforsaken interview only to find a bombshell pacing the room, the good kind of bombshell, the kind that made me want to say fuck it all and claim her on the crappy little desk you would only find in a government building then take her home to meet my family. The beauty had curves for days and focused big blue eyes; she didn’t even know I was standing there. Either that or she was ignoring my presence, but there was something about the way she was chewing her fingernail that told me that she was lost in that pretty head of hers. There was a feeling of familiarity, like I had met her before, but I was sure if I’d ever had the pleasure of meeting her, I would have remembered. Then it hit me like a ton of bricks. She was the beauty from the hall, the mirage. It made sense that she would be here. This was Dr. Wright’s study. The girl had been leaving Dr. Wright’s office when I saw her. If I could only hear her speak, I would know for certain.
It was time to let her know that I was there instead of waiting for her to catch me staring. I knocked on the door trying not to startle her, but it didn’t work. As soon as my knock sounded, she jumped and turned to face me. Only then did I have the full image of how stunning this girl truly was. I should call her a woman because her body was definitely that of a woman, but her big eyes looked lost and innocent. That purity was the one thing the women in my life had been missing. That quality was probably one I would not have recognized as something I desired until one perfect package forced me to see how appealing that bright-eyed look could be.
I dragged my eyes up from her shoes and took in everything from the high heels to the tight skirt and the silky sky blue shirt she was wearing. I appreciated every inch of her body until my eyes caught sight of her arm. Four distinct bruises colored the inside of her left arm. I knew without a doubt that those were fingerprints. Someone had hurt this girl. Was that why she was pacing and chewing her finger as if digesting that fingernail would ease her worry?
While I stood there dumbly trying to figure it out, she caught me glaring at her arm and shrugged on her jacket to cover what she knew I saw.
“Sergeant Pearson, please have a seat,” she said with an edge to her voice and a sweet twang I’d become accustomed to while stationed at Fort Bragg. Hers wasn’t as pronounced as most, but something about it made her seem sweet and fragile.
Like a good soldier, I followed her directive and took a seat in a vinyl covered chair that I was sure had been there since before I was born. I watched her sit down gracefully. She set up her tablet then opened a file and flipped through several pages. I felt myself getting anxious waiting for her to talk, so I started for her. “So, how’s this work, Miss Grant? You ask questions about my life and then recommend more therapy?”
She looked up like she had forgotten I was there. “Oh, gosh. Please call me Sarah. I’m sorry if I seem unorganized. My day was just interrupted, and it threw me off my game.” She flipped a few more pages then let out a breath. “There. Okay, I’m ready. I’ll ask you questions today, and I hope you respond openly and honestly, but I’m not referring you to more therapy. The goal of this study is to gauge the long- term effects of the therapy in which you’ve already participated.”
“All right,” I responded waiting for her to start grilling me. I knew this was about to get personal, and sweet Sarah was going to be busy deciding if I was still out of my mind or not. Effectively squashing all of my fantasies about laying her across the gray metal desk.
“If you don’t mind me asking though, do you think you need more therapy?”
She was already judging me. Great. For some reason, her question pissed me off more than Phil did when he talked me into this crap. “Is that part of the interview?”
“Well, no, but I was-”
“Then let’s just stick to the interview questions,” I interrupted her.
Her big blue eyes widened in shock, and I almost laughed until she started apologizing. “I’m so sorry. You just said…I’m sorry.” She shook her head. “Let’s get started. I’m going to record our discussion, so I can transcribe the data later. Anything you share is confidential, and I won’t use your name during the interview.”
“All right.”
“Ready?” She looked at me with an expression in her eyes that spoke to me. If I wasn’t mistaken, she was afraid. While it had been years since I had paid attention to reading others’ facial expressions, there was one that never left my mind—fear—and I saw it all over sweet Sarah’s face.
“Let’s start with your daily life. Using the scale very dissatisfied, moderately dissatisfied, slightly dissatisfied, slightly satisfied, moderately satisfied, or very satisfied, how would you rate your satisfaction with…”
And thus began the interview. She asked about everything from alcohol and drug use to my family and friends to my faith in God. Sarah was checking off my answers, listening to me elaborate when she prompted, then rattling off the next question without missing a beat. It wasn’t until the sex question that I saw any kind of rise out of her.
“How would you rate your satisfaction with your sex life?” she asked with her head down.
“With the actual sex? Very satisfied,” I told her honestly.
Her head popped up. “You didn’t indicate you were in a relationship when I asked about a wife or a girlfriend.”
“I don’t have a wife or a girlfriend. I have a lot of…”
“Acquaintances,” she finished for me.
“Sure. That’s what we’ll call them.” I knew I was grinning like a loon, but when the professional façade cracked, I saw a side she intended to keep locked up. Sweet Sarah was intrigued. I caught the flare of her eyes and watched her wet her lips with that pink tongue. She was imagining what it would be like to be one of my…acquaintances.
For the next several questions, Sarah’s cheeks kept a hint of pink on them. She was either embarrassed or turned on. I was going with the latter. There was no doubt I could make my desk fantasies come true if she let herself go for just a second.
“How many times a week do you engage in sexual activities?”
“Usually a few, but not so much lately.”
“Why the change in your pattern?”
“Been busy.”
“All with different partners?”
“No. Not always.”
“How many partners would you say you’ve had in the past five years?”
“I’m not sure. I haven’t counted.”
“Guesstimate,” she scolded.
“Twelve months in a year. Say one a month. That’s sixty. Wow. Sounds worse when you do the math. Could be more, I guess.”
Like the pro she was, she ignored my comment and continued with her little questionnaire. “How often to you practice safe sex?”
“Is this for personal knowledge or part of the interview?” I couldn’t help but ask. I wanted her to flirt back or maybe get angry. I’d like to see sweet Sarah get angry. Aside from the straightening of her spine and her slightly pink cheeks, Miss Grant remained professional without giving even a hint of interest in me outside of this interview. I was admittedly disappointed in her reaction.
“I assure you, Sergeant, this is one hundred percent part of the interview. I’m trying to gauge your risk-taking behavior. Individuals who are diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder often engage in more reckless behaviors than their peers without traumatic experiences.”
Effectively chastised for flirting with the hot Ph.D. stu
dent, I started answering her questions without any of the flair or anecdotes I had been offering her before. Since coming home from Afghanistan, I was a guy who hardly spoke. Sure, I joked with my friends and used enough words to get a girl into bed, but even I recognized I was a shell of my former self. For some reason, flirting with Sarah made me more open, more like the old Michael, and I regretted as soon as she let me know that the amorous feelings were not mutual. It was a slap in the face; an unwelcome reminder that the friendly, personable Michael didn’t exist anymore.
Sarah
This interview was the most difficult one I’d done thus far. Not only was I off because of my phone call with Jameson, but today also had to be the day the hot soldier appeared. I knew it was bound to happen. I’d met every kind of soldier except the hottie up to this point. With the way my day had been going, it was no surprise that he showed up when I was a complete disaster from talking to Jameson.
I spent the first half of the interview avoiding eye contact. I spent the second half kicking myself. He had been opening up to me, sharing more than I expected. You could always tell what kind of subject you had on your hands by how they sat in the seventies style vinyl chair. Sergeant Pearson looked at it with disdain, and I knew that the chair wasn’t the only cause of his displeasure. As expected, he was closed off and reluctant to participate at first. However, the more questions we went through, the more he opened up. Until the dreaded sex question.
I had never had a problem with it before, but I had never been sexually attracted to one of the study participants either. No man filled the room with his presence like Sergeant Pearson. No man eyed me the way he did. It was like he was seeing into me instead of merely looking at me. I imagined he left broken hearts all over the city with his track record. Sergeant Michael Pearson was the kind of man who made a woman forget other men existed. I had no doubt that he could consume all of my thoughts if I let him, but I wouldn’t—no, couldn’t—let him. There were several good reasons not to give into his flirting, the least of which was because my iPad recorded every word of the interview.