Page 24 of Rock Bottom

“When I came back, nothing was the same. Everything felt too big. Crowds were overwhelming.” He sighed and clenched his hands into fists. “When you see PTSD on the telly, it’s always nightmares, flashbacks, sleepwalking. They don’t show the fits of anger or the feeling that you’re in a box that’s too small and you need to get out. And coming out only made it worse. It only led to me further isolating myself.”

“How did you cope with all that?” I asked, spooning potatoes into my mouth.

“That’s the thing, isn’t it? I didn’t. Not well, at least. Not at first.” He relaxed his fists. “I worked. A lot. All the time. Lots of security details and very little sleep. I saw other people working and thought if I just worked hard enough, I’d eventually feel better. It wasn’t until I took a job working alongside Boone that I realized I couldn’t keep going. He encouraged me to go see someone who specialized in helping people like me. Now, I talk to her once a week.”

I pointed at him with the spoon. “You go to therapy?”

“Of course.” He shrugged like it was no big deal.

“Wait, how do you do that here?”

“A phone app, if you can believe it.” He held up his phone. “We talk via text if I can’t see her.”

“Doesn’t that feel weird?” I asked, spooning more potatoes into my mouth. “Like you’re paying her to be your friend?”

He shrugged again. “I’m paying her to teach me a skill I don’t have like I would any other professional. She’s an expert in her field, just as I am in mine.”

“I suppose when you put it that way, it makes sense.” I offered him the potatoes. “So does it help? Are you cured?”

He reached for the container and grabbed another spoon. “Being cured isn’t really the goal. You can’t cure someone of the human condition. But it helps me. Maybe it would help you, too.”

“Maybe,” I agreed, but I wasn’t thinking about therapy anymore. I was too distracted by watching him lick mashed potatoes from the back of his spoon. I leaned forward, letting my elbows rest on the table, and leaned against my palms. “So, are you gay? Bisexual? You mentioned coming out before.”

“I’m a Virgo,” he answered with his trademark British tone of uncaring.

“Oh, the virgin, huh? Is that why you’re so shy?”

“That’s not…I’m not…” His face flushed, and he looked away. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m a Leo. I’m supposed to be.”

His eyes cut to me. “If you’re the cat sign, then shouldn’t you be the kitten?”

“You can call me that if you want, but I’m also good with Daddy.”

Church’s cheeks turned even more pink, but he snorted like an irritated bull. “If anyone’s ever called you that, then I’m the Queen’s wiper.”

“Nah, I’m not really into that. Which is surprising, considering I definitely have daddy issues.” I stole the potatoes back for another bite. “Daddy dearest walked out when I was two, though I had older brothers, so maybe they got the brunt of that. I’m definitely not asking them, though. You?”

“I’m not asking your brothers about their sex lives, either.” He grabbed the container of potatoes back.

I almost choked on my last bite, trying not to laugh. “Oh god. I’d pay to see their faces. Darwin especially. He’s like you. I think his face would break if he smiled. Nah, I meant daddy issues.”

“My parents are still together.”

“But you said they hated each other. And it’s not like you can’t have daddy issues just because your dad was around.” I reached for another scoop of potatoes, but was disappointed to find it empty.

Church sighed and stood, taking the empty container. “I’ll make some more mashed potatoes for you.”

I frowned as he went to the sink to wash it. He hadn’t even tried to answer the question. That was the second time our conversation ended abruptly when I brought up his family. Church could talk about his time in a Syrian prison camp, but he couldn’t talk about his dad? What the fuck was up with that? Even if he hated the guy, he couldn’t hate them more than he’d hated someone who tortured him for almost two years. What was worse than that?

I pushed out my chair and walked over to the sink. “Church?”

He didn’t turn away from the dishes.

I reached for him, but stopped just short of touching his shoulder. If he had PTSD, surprising him was a bad idea, and I didn’t want to accidentally trigger him. Just because I’d spoken didn’t mean he’d heard me. It was clear that he was somewhere else, deep inside his own head.

Instead, I reached past him to shut off the faucet. His shoulders stiffened, but he turned his head to look at me, and I was relieved to see recognition in his eyes.

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