Page 5 of Ugly Truths
Blinking, I shake my head. Thinking about what I left behind won’t change anything. It never does. As hard as it is, I try to focus on what came after.
While I was healing, Luis orchestrated a network of friends to transport me by car across multiple states when I was well enough to travel. Each ride brought me closer to Colorado, the handoffs strategically conducted in secluded areas in the darkness of night. When I finally arrived three hours outside of Alma, Luis was waiting for me.
I’ll never forget the relief in his eyes when he saw me get out of that final car. I was barely out of the backseat, half delirious from the nap I’d been in the middle of, when he wrapped me in his arms, trying his best to avoid the injuries I’d told him about countless times on the phone.
Our reunion was cut short as he ushered me into his car. Luis was the only one who knew his home’s exact location and was extra cautious in the final stretch, taking routes that doubled back and looped to ensure we weren’t followed. Even then, I don’t think I breathed fully for those first few nights in the guest room.
I have so much to be thankful for. People like Jeff, who didn’t even argue when I told him I couldn’t tell him where I was going or give him a way to contact me. People like Luis, who gave me a place to get back on my feet. But gratitude doesn’t stop those other voices in my head.
They still scream.
I release a shaky breath and strip off the last of my clothes. The bathroom fills with steam. I don’t bother testing the water with my hand before stepping in. It scalds away the grime from my shift and the weight of my thoughts. The sting is welcome against my scars. Even if it’s only for a few minutes, it seems to drown out almost everything besides the ache in my chest I didn’t think was possible to still feel so deeply.
I probably stay in the shower too long, selfishly wasting Luis’s hot water. By the time I’ve gotten dressed, deposited my dirty clothes in the hamper, and brushed out my hair, my stomach is growling loud enough to echo in the quiet bedroom.
I head back into the hallway and descend the stairs, counting each step out of habit. Fourteen to the bottom.
Getting used to Luis’s home has been an adjustment, to say the least. It wasn’t until I started working and contributing to groceries that I began to feel more settled. At first, he vehemently refused my money, but I wore him down quickly by hiding cash under his leftovers, tucking it beneath his car keys, or slipping it into his wallet when he wasn’t looking.
Eventually, he realized that the faster he gave in, the smoother things would go between us. We’ve found a routine now, even though we’re on almost opposite schedules most of the time.
The cabin has all the charm you’d expect without being overly kitschy or drowning in wood paneling. The walls are a mix of warm, neutral tones and subtle stonework, and the living area has high ceilings with large windows that flood the space with natural light. Luis has kept the decor simple–just a comfortable couch, a couple of well-worn armchairs, some bookshelves, and a coffee table that looks like it's seen more than its fair share of late-night drinks. It’s not fancy by any means, but it’s comfortable. Normal.
Before I even reach the kitchen, the rich, warm smell of coffee drifts toward me. I smile.
Luis has come outof his cave.
Rounding the corner, I find him with his back turned, pouring coffee into a ceramic mug. The sight is still a little surreal to me. Though we met in person on a contract, most of our friendship has been him on the other end of a phone call or text thread.
Luis is a couple of inches taller, with the kind of face that immediately puts people at ease. Handsome, sure, but not intimidating. His hair is shorter now than it was a few years ago, but the wild curls are starting to push through again with a few streaks of gray at his temples. His tan skin is a shade of warm brown that reminds me of Arizona summers.
“You’re alive,” I tease, heading straight for the refrigerator.
Luis glances over his shoulder at me, the corners of his brown eyes crinkling. His smile is his best feature: big, warm, and entirely genuine.
“Barely,” he replies, voice thick from hours of silence.
As I poke through the fridge, he reaches around me for the half-gallon of milk, his bicep brushing against my shoulder as he pulls it out. I grab the container of pasta salad I made earlier in the week and close the door with my hip.
“How was your shift?”
I shrug, fishing a fork from the drying rack. “Fine.”
Luis turns, cradling his mug in both hands. I can feel his eyes on me as I stab a bite of pasta. Finally, I look up, leaning against the counter with the Tupperware balanced in one hand and the fork in the other.
“Do you like it there?” he asks, tilting his head slightly.
“It’s good.”
The truth is, the work is tolerable. Long hours and customer service aren’t exactly my calling, but it’s better than what I used to do. It's safe, and that isn’t something I’ve felt when it comes to work in a long time.
Luis studies my face; he does this often, trying to read me like a book I didn’t agree to open. It’s only when his eyes land on the side of my neck, where the edge of a burn scar creeps out from under my shirt, that I realize where he's trying to direct this conversation, as he has several times in the past few weeks.
“Don’t,” I say almost too fast.
Luis exhales, his shoulders sagging. “I know I’ve said this before,” he begins carefully, “but Colorado’s a popular place for veterans to settle down after they leave the military. There are therapists here who specialize in PTSD. It might be time to start thinking about talking to someone.”
The words land like a detonating bomb, and all I can think to do is turn around to set the pasta down on the counter, creating space between us as I struggle to keep the panic from spilling over into anger.
