Page 19 of Always You

What had he meant by that, and why couldn’t I shake the confusion over what he’d meant?

It sounded like he wasn’t rejecting a place inmylife. Instead, it seemed he was cautioning me, suggesting that it was his life I should steer clear of. Was that right? Or had I misunderstood?

I couldn’t even ask him.

But today, though, today was different. I was running a group session, something I did regularly, but the stakes were high. Marcus had spoken to Jazz, asked if he’d be interested in attending a session I led. He hadn’t said no. That was all Marcus could tell me, and I clung to that non-rejection like a lifeline.

Setting out chairs in a circle to foster a sense of equality and openness, I prepared the room with my nerves shot. Would Jazz show up? What would it mean if he did? Would I get to ask him what he’d meant about his life?

Four other residents had already committed to today’s session, each with a story about how they ended up needing Guardian Hall. With Jazz, that made five.

As the session time approached, I saw them file in, each carrying their own invisible burdens. Tom came in with Raj, Daniel a little after, and finally Emily arrived, and they got coffee and sat down. Tom was talking Raj’s ear off about movies, and Raj listened to him, offering him a small smile. There was a profound connection between them, and I knew Tom had been considering moving on with him when Raj left at the end of the month. He had a place on his brother’s ranch in Wyoming, an apartment over a barn, and we’d worked with Raj to get him to a place where he felt strong enough to leave. Raj’s PTSD was manageable; Tom was way off yet, but together they were stronger. Relationships sometimes formed here, and it wasn’t our place to get involved.

I’d seen that before, and I’m sure I’d see it again—deep friendships, and sometimes more, as our veterans supported each other with shared trauma few people could imagine.

Sgt. Daniel Rivera, a Marine corpsman, was another newbie, the same as Jazz, only just coming up to three weeks here, but he now at least had a PTSD diagnosis and support. Last was Lt. Emily Watson, Navy, a former medic, now in her third month with us, five months pregnant, and someone who’d fought herdemons alone for way too long. Marcus and I wanted her to stay through the birth, even opened up a second room next to hers for a small nursery, had a midwife who visited. I got the sense she was close to leaving as well after her ex-husband made contact. They were working on a reunion, and although it was slow, Marcus was hopeful.

We exchanged hellos as everyone else took their seats, and I hovered by the coffee pot. However, with a few minutes until the official start, my focus kept drifting to the door, watching for Jazz. It seemed as if he wasn’t coming.

“You okay standing up there?” Tom deadpanned.

I winced and took my seat. I may as well get this started.

Only the door opened, and Jazz stepped in.

“Group stuff?” he asked in his growly deep voice.

“Sure, come in!” I said, far too bright.

He closed the door behind him and our eyes met, and in his gaze, I saw so much emotion I recognized—the apprehension he’d had when I told him to dive into the pool from the highest board. The determination from when he’d taken steps closer to the edge and stared over. And the trust I recognized from the moment he’d jumped, after I’d told him he was going to be okay.

My heart hurt.

As he took a seat, completing our circle, I felt a shift in the room as everyone straightened, ready to do this. It was subtle, but it was there—a sense of coming together and sharing vulnerabilities with strengths. I cleared my throat, nodding to Jazz before focusing on the group.

“Thank you, everyone, for being here today,” I began, my voice steady despite the storm of emotions inside me. First off, the usual stuff, just so I could ground myself. “This is a closed room, and the things we discuss, and share go no further. Is that okay with everyone?”

Everyone said yes, from Tom’s brightness to Jazz’s more hesitant reaction.

“Okay, as usual, let’s start by sharing what brought us here and where we hope to go.”

“I’ll go first,” Tom said when no one else made a start. “So, I was just part of the peacekeeping force, wasn’t even supposed to be out there, but…”

As the stories unfolded, I kept a careful watch on Jazz, who grew stiffer with each mention of a foreign theater of war, or an injury, or substance abuse, or PTSD.

I didn’t know his story.

Would he tell us today?

Finally, it was his turn, and he swallowed, and for the first time in days, he met my gaze.

“You’re a counselor?” he asked, which threw me for a moment. “Registered, licensed, whatever?”

I nodded. “Master’s degree in Psychology from UC, interned with Rush Medical Center for several years.”

His eyes widened, and I could see the questions he didn’t ask. What about business, finance, and what my family had demanded of me? When he’d left—when I’d made him leave—I’d had a place at Harvard. What Jazz didn’t know was that I’d lasted one semester before everything had gone to shit, but this wasn’t about my story.

Now was all about him.

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