by Shealy James
I wanted to tell her that I knew, but I couldn’t reveal anything about our meeting. Not to mention, the naïve side of me wanted to be the one he would change his ways for. Who doesn’t want to be that girl? I didn’t know a single female who didn’t want a man to love her so much that he would do anything to be with her, not even Lana. The psychologist side of me knew that he was trying to escape his fears by using risk-taking behavior to seek a thrill and distraction. In fact, as a clinician, I wouldn’t recommend he commit to a new relationship until he worked through some of his PTSD related issues, but the woman side of me wanted to be enough for him. So, with a war waging inside my brain, I listened to Amy but said nothing.
“I don’t want you to think it’s you. If anything, I’d say he likes you. He’s different with you.”
I laughed humorlessly.
“Please don’t give up on him. He needs help. Phil was in bad shape when he came home with his legs and everything. We went through a lot to get where we are today. The doctors really helped him. He talked Michael into getting help, but I don’t think Michael ever really bought into the whole therapy thing, not to mention he has the guilt factor.”
“What guilt factor?” Michael and I didn’t get to discuss the incident that ultimately resulted in his injuries and discharge from the Army, but I knew the basics. Their Humvee hit a buried IED. Two soldiers were killed, another had chronic traumatic encephalopathy, or permanent brain damage, and then miracle of miracles, Michael and Phil survived. Of course, Phil sustained a spinal cord injury, leaving him partially paralyzed, and Michael had chronic pain from the shrapnel embedded in his back. You would never know it, though. Being the true soldier he was, he never complained about pain, even when prompted. That was in the therapy notes. What wasn’t in the file was anything to indicate he was at fault in the incident report or the account that he wrote in therapy.
Guilt was common among returning soldiers, though. Survivor’s guilt was a part of PTSD that was as difficult to overcome as any other symptom. For some, it was the underlying problem.
“He was driving,” she said as if it explained everything, and in a way, it did. He survived when he was the one who could have prevented it all, or so he believed.
“It’s not like he could have known the IED was buried there.”
“You and I know that, but Michael’s always taken care of everyone. He wants to be the hero, the white night, the guy we can turn to for anything. The one day he couldn’t help the people who needed him was the one day that ended his career as a hero.”
I didn’t know what else to say, but our time was up anyway. Another woman came into the restroom, and our conversation was no longer private. We headed back to the table, but I didn’t feel like joking and laughing anymore. I was playing mental ping-pong, going back and forth between ways to help Michael and wondering what his motives were with me. Part of me was now wondering if the only reason Michael wanted to spend time with me was to protect me. If he couldn’t save them, maybe he could save me kind of thing. I knew that was why he invited me for a drink in the first place. It was also how I ended up at his place the first night, but now I wasn’t so sure that was a good thing. I wanted to believe that Michael actually liked me because he thought I was a little bit awesome, not because I was weak and tragic. Of course, that was when the stupid, naïve girl inside of me reappeared. She so desperately wanted to believe he could love her, and maybe she could be the one to “cure” him. What the hell did she know?
Eleven
Michael
I needed to talk to Amy. After her and Sarah went to the bathroom together at the diner, Sarah hardly spoke. The bright-eyed, smiling Sarah was suddenly gone, and in her place was a quiet, pensive girl who couldn’t get away from me fast enough. From the time they sat back down, Sarah seemed lost in thought. Her eyes were clouded with worry and fear, and I did not like it one bit. It didn’t matter if Amy and I had been friends most our lives or that she was pregnant, I wasn’t going to allow her to hurt Sarah. Sarah had been through enough, and she didn’t deserve to be hurt.
I knocked on the door to their house as I entered. Phil was coming down the hall. “Well, come on in, Mike.” He laughed.
“I need to talk to Amy.”
“Girl problems? I told you it only comes once a month and you’ll be okay.”
I pointed at him. “You’re funny.”
“Yeah, yeah. My pleasantly pregnant wife is in the kitchen. Tread carefully. She’s already cried once this morning, and it’s only ten.”
He rolled into his office, and I headed to the kitchen. “Hey Michael,” Amy greeted as soon as she saw me. “I’m making breakfast. You hungry?”
“Nah. What’d you say to Sarah last night?” No need to beat around the bush here.
She furrowed her eyebrows in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“She was happy when you went to the bathroom together and quiet when you came back. What did you say?”
“Did she say I said something?”
“No, but she couldn’t get away from me fast enough last night. The girl has a dangerous ex. I want her to know she can call me, but she’s not going to if she won’t even talk to me.”
She tapped her finger against her lips. I hated when she did that. It meant she was thinking about something, maybe even analyzing me. It was never a good sign. “Is that the only reason you’re upset? That she won’t call if he’s bothering her?”
“No.”
“I thought you were barely friends.”
“We are, but…” I didn’t even know what else to say.
“Michael, I’m going to ask you some questions, and I want you to answer as quickly as possible without thinking.”
“No.” I really hated this game. She could have been an expert interrogator, but I was pretty sure her techniques only worked on me and Phil. Jay was immune to her, and Moretti told her everything she wanted to know anyway.
“Yes.”
“No.”
“I’ll tell you what I said to Sarah in the bathroom.”
I thought for a moment. If I knew what she said, I would understand what was going on with Sarah. “Fine.”
She smiled and set the spatula on the counter. “Okay. As fast as you can answer.”
“I know.”
“What’s your favorite food?”
“Tacos.”
“What’s your mom’s name?”
“Jacqueline.”
“How many siblings do you have?”
“One.”
“What’s your favorite car?”
“1965 Aston Martin DBS.”
“Do you want more than friendship with Sarah?”
“Yes.”
She grinned widely.
“Fuck.” I rubbed my face. “I hate when you do that.”
“Why? It works. You always admit what you don’t want to admit.”
“Which is the precise reason I hate it. You owe me now.”
“Oh, fine.” She huffed and picked up the spatula. “I might have hinted she was barking up the wrong tree. The poor girl deserved the truth. She was looking at you with stars in her eyes. One of you was bound to get hurt and neither of you looks like you can take it.”
“First of all, don’t refer to her as a dog. Ever. Second, why? Why couldn’t you just leave it alone? I like her. She knows about my shit and doesn’t judge. She read my file. She knew what happened, knew I had been in therapy. She fucking knows I have nightmares. I almost told her everything the first night I met her. Does that tell you something?”
“It does, but I also know you.” The calm tone of her voice only pissed me off more. “The moment she pried or tried to, God forbid, spend the night, you’d be done with her. Then you’d come back to us with some story about how she was clingy when we all know that you still have too much going on to get into a successful relationship. I believe it was you who said knowing about it and experiencing it are two different things.”
“Because y
ou’re an expert on my life,” I quipped sarcastically.
“No, I’m not, but do you think Phil and I would have made it if he hadn’t gotten help? There were days when he couldn’t get out of bed. There were weeks when he wouldn’t speak to me. Do you know what it’s like to live with someone like that? To love someone like that? I waited on him for five years, Michael, and the man who came home to me wasn’t the man who left me, so you don’t give me shit for trying to help you!” She was crying now, harder than I’d seen her cry in years, and it was my fault.
I walked around the island and pulled her to my chest. I could smell the pancakes burning, but it didn’t matter. Amy mattered. Sometimes I forgot what everyone else went through. I was always so much in my head—caught up in my own shit—that I didn’t notice that Phil still twitched at loud noises. I didn’t think anything about the times when Moretti would silently stare into the distance and relive a memory only to disappear for days afterward. I pushed thoughts of Crow, who killed himself shortly after returning home, out of my mind because it was easier to forget. We all continued to suffer in our own way, but Phil and Moretti found a way to be happy with what they had and who they were now. I was alive, but a piece of me was buried six feet under with Crow and the other guys.
“I’m sorry, Amy.”
She sniffled and nodded.
“Aw, man. I told you not to make her cry,” Phil whined as he rolled into the room. “Come here, baby.”
I let Amy go, and she quickly crawled into Phil’s lap. He held her and spoke softly in her ear. It was time for me to go. I didn’t know where I was headed, but it was time for me to do something.
I started to leave when Amy called my name. When I turned to look at her, she was still wiping tears from her cheeks. Guilt took root in my stomach making me feel sick until she spoke. “I spoke with your mom again.”
Rage. White hot, uncontrollable rage. That was what I felt. “Why?”
“Because she loves her son and wants to make sure he’s still alive since he won’t speak to her for something that happened years ago!”
“You have no right,” I shouted while barely restraining my fist from going through their drywall. “She made her choice when she sided with my father. They don’t deserve to know anything about my life.”
“You should talk to them, Michael. Your father never meant what he said.”
“Telling me that I was no longer his son if I joined the Army was pretty clear, Amy. It was always his way or the highway, and I picked the highway. Move on and stay out of it!”
I slammed the door on my way out. It was still too early to go to a bar, so I stopped by the liquor store on my way home and found my way to the bottom of a bottle of Johnny Walker. When the darkness came, I still hadn’t forgiven Amy for what she had done with either Sarah or my mom.
Sarah
I was still in bed when Lana came home the afternoon after the race. She was surprised, to say the least.
“You sick?”
“No.”
“Worn out?” she asked with a salacious grin and a waggle of her dark eyebrows.
I snorted. “Definitely not.”
“Then what’s up with you?”
“Just tired.”
“Tired my ass. What happened?”
“Nothing.”
She crossed her arms and huffed with obvious annoyance. “Clearly something happened or you wouldn’t be pouting. You didn’t even pout when you broke it off with Jameson before the whole show-up-at-the-apartment-like-a-freak scenario. You’ve known this guy less than a week, and you’re stuck in bed without your laptop nearby.”
“No. I mean literally nothing happened.”
“Oh.” She frowned. Wait for it. “Oh!” There it is. “I see. You wanted something to happen even though it goes against your better judgment.”
“But nothing will.”
“You don’t know-”
“Yes, I do,” I interrupted. “Besides the whole better judgment thing, Amy told me some things. She basically argued the case of why Michael and I will never happen, why Michael will never have a real relationship with anyone.”
“Screw her. What does she know?”
“Everything about Michael, evidently.”
“Eh. Oh, well. You probably shouldn’t hook up with guys from where you work anyway. Don’t shit where you eat, you know.”
And there was the bottom line. It didn’t matter how I felt about Michael; I really couldn’t date him anyway. He was a conflict of interest. Once reality rained down on me, I did get my computer and get some work done. I was leaving for home in three days for Thanksgiving with my entire family, so I had a ton to do before I could enjoy the comforts of home.
You know those girls who said one thing while secretly hoping for something entirely different? I was totally one of them. Always had been. Probably always would be. Of course, over the next couple of days, I kept hoping to hear from Michael even though I knew it was wrong. My career was more important than some fading love interest. I knew I needed to move past everything with Jameson before I could move on to someone new, even though Jameson had hardly crossed my mind since he stopped showing up and texting over the last few days. I wondered if the police arrested him, but then I figured someone probably would have called to let me know since I filed the reports and had an appointment with the judge to file the order of protection.
With that relationship put to rest, my brain unconsciously focused solely on Michael. I had to keep asking myself how I could be sure these feelings for him were real when I believed I had felt something for every guy I had ever dated? I played the reasonable thoughts in my head like a broken record, but the second I let my mind wander, I thought about the way he smiled so genuinely when I cracked a joke. I heard his laugh or the way his Northern accent sounded with his smooth, deep voice. I remembered the way he held me as I cried and promised me everything would be okay. The way it felt to be in his arms was unlike any experience I had ever had. It felt safe and comfortable while, at the same time, giving me a thrill. Remembering that feeling led me to think about the way his bare chest looked that morning I stayed at his place. The way his lounge pants hung from his hips showing off his flat stomach and perfectly created happy trail would forever be etched into my memory. Even with the no-go reasons playing over and over, I still held out hope that he would send me a message, any message.
When I received a message from him, I suddenly wished I had been a little pickier when praying for him to contact me. He texted me to ask if my meeting with the judge went as planned. It had. I had an official restraining order against Jameson now. It was being delivered to him while I sat in my apartment daydreaming, pretending like the whole situation had never happened, like Jameson had never happened.
Another text came through making sure I was okay. I replied with a simple yes while secretly hoping for more texts. One more message asked if I had plans for Thanksgiving.
Flying home to see my family. You?
His response came within seconds.
Phil and Amy always host. They’re my family.
The cryptic message left me confused. I knew he had parents and a sister. Why wouldn’t he go home to see them? I didn’t feel like I could ask. I could almost hear the flat affect of his voice like when he shut down in the interview. I didn’t want to push him away by being nosy. If anything, I wanted to do everything I could to attract him.
Have a good time.
He responded.
You, too.
This wasn’t going as planned. There was no hint in any conversation that he wanted to see me. I felt disappointed and a little sad. He was only checking to make sure I was doing well. It was like I had become a burden, an obligation. I had been categorized as that girl – the one who needed a protector - and that hurt more than it should have. With that last message, I threw my phone to the side and tried to determine which was worse, him checking up on me or not hearing from him at all. At least n
ow, I wouldn’t keep hoping for more. I knew where I stood.
When the plane landed, I was practically pushing people off the plane. I needed the familiarity of home and family more than ever. As much as I didn’t want to end up in Alabama, something about home filled my soul when it was running on empty. I breathed differently at home. There was no pressure to be perfect because to them, I already was. It was nice knowing the only thing they would change was how far away I lived. They wanted me, and it felt good to be wanted.
I was so happy to see my brother at the Atlanta airport that I started crying when he pulled me in for a hug.
“Hey! What’s this all about?” he asked with a concerned frown marring his pretty face. My brother looked so much like me. Of course, I thought he was pretty.
“I’m happy to see you. Happy to be home.”
“New York not working out anymore?”
“No. It’s fine. School is stressful right now. Life is stressful.” I let a boy hit me and another think he had to take care of me. Of course, I didn’t tell my brother this, but keeping the secret didn’t change the fact that I had never felt so weak in my life.
“Tell me about it, little sister,” he agreed. “Let’s get home. Mama has been baking all day, and the house smells like Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter all rolled into one.”
There was nothing like coming home to my mama’s house. First of all, even though the weather was about fifteen degrees warmer in November, Mama decorated our huge white farmhouse like nobody’s business. Wreaths, turkey decoys, hay bales, and cornstalks, she had it all. She also had the air conditioning running and a fire going because she said it provided atmosphere. Second, and most importantly, I stopped living off lettuce for a couple of days and ate until I couldn’t eat anymore. Sometimes I would even wear long, loose peasant tops and tunics to cover my unbuttoned pants. This year, I was going straight for the stretchy pants. It was heaven.