Page 26 of Always You

“Too long,” I murmured, opening my eyes briefly and catching sight of myself in the large mirror propped up in front of me. The man staring back was halfway between a stranger and the person I remembered from before. I felt relief and anxiety as Dave tidied my beard, shaping it rather than taking it off. The beard was a part of me, a part of my identity I wasn’t ready to let go of just yet.

It gave me somewhere to hide.

“Do you want me to take the beard off completely?” Dave’s question was casual, but it struck a chord deep within me.

“No,” I said firmer than I intended, then deflated. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap.”Fucking idiot.

“It’s all good, man,” Dave said with a smile. “One step at a time.”

“Can you just make it less… yeah… just less.”

He nodded without judgment and went back to work. I could feel the weight of my hair, the length of my beard, being lifted away, and glancing in the mirror—with my hair now short and my beard neater, but still full—I saw the ghost of the man I used to be. The transformation wasn’t complete—I was still very much a work in progress—but in that moment, with the sight of my dark brown hair in curls on the cape, I felt lighter.

As Dave dusted off my shoulders and removed the cape, I offered him a genuine, if shaky, “Thank you.”

“You look good, Jazz,” Alex murmured as he had to Daniel. Then, he gestured to the coffee and cookies. For a moment, I wanted to smile, to hear him banter with me, but after something as simple as a haircut, I felt raw, as though the shears had stripped away more than just hair. I knew I was different, and I wasn’t sure I was ready for Alex to see me this way and analyze the man I’d become.

When he’d walked in, all energy and easy chatting, my stomach had knotted, and it was still so tight I felt nauseous. I could feel his eyes on me, and I wanted nothing more than to disappear into the shadows. It wasn’t only the haircut; it was the fear of what he might see when hereallylooked at me. Would he find traces of the boy he’d fallen out of love with?

Would his expression fill with regret?

Or would there be relief that he was free of me?

I grabbed a couple of cookies and left.

I didn’t want Alex looking at me at all, not yet.

The financial meetinghad been a necessary evil, one of those things Marcus insisted I attend. Carl, the veterans’ benefits liaison, sat across from me in a small office that felt too warm, too enclosed.

I didn’t want to be there. I didn’t need anyone’s charity.

“So, all you need to do is sign, and we can apply for?—”

“I enlisted of my own free will,” I interrupted. “No one owes me anything for doing my job,” I said, steady but firm.

Carl had nodded, understanding but insistent. “It’s not about owing you, Jazz. It’s about what you’reentitledto, benefits that are there to support you,” he explained, laying out the documents covering the entire desk.

We reviewed it all—pensions, disability, health benefits, and educational opportunities. Numbers and legal jargon swirled around me like a foreign language, but I nodded along, signing where he told me to sign, just to get him to stop talking, and still feeling as if I were grasping at straws.

When it was over, I was assured that I’d have some financial stability, a thought that should’ve comforted me, but instead,just added to the weight on my shoulders. I nodded, and left the documents folded in an envelope I didn’t want to open.

Next up was the therapist. Her office was a sharp contrast to Carl’s mess of computers and paperwork—it was open, with a large window and a soothing view of the garden. We’d had a few sessions, and even though her name was Dr. Whitman, she insisted on just “Elena.”

When I sat down, without thinking, I slipped off my jacket.

“That’s the first time you’ve taken off your jacket in one of our chats,” Elena observed, her tone soft, inviting me to examine the action.

Her observation caught me off guard. I gave a half-shrug because analyzing why I was losing all the layers I’d dressed in on my first day wasn’t something I’d considered. “I’m hot.”

She didn’t push but made a note, her pen scratching on her pad. Her eyes, kind and probing, suggested she saw more than I was willing to admit. It's probably some observation about me removing layers of safety.

Therapy was like dancing on the knife's edge—a careful balancing act between saying too much and not saying enough. We talked about my time in service, about the reasons I’d ended up on the streets. Each word felt like it was being pulled from deep within, and I wondered if I was progressing or just circling the drain.

“… and then Carl said I’d have enough money to give me a fresh start, maybe student loans.” I scrubbed at my eyes.

“And that made you feel…?”

“All I wanted to do was leave the room.”

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