“Dakota…”
She’s using her big sister voice.
“I know, I know. Just let me think about that a little more, okay?” I press my face into the water, so I don’t hear what she says next and ask her to repeat it.
“I asked if it was just sex.”
Wes’s words come back to me.I feel like it’s easier to breathe. What are you doing to me?
“I don’t think so, Ab. We agreed that it meant something, but that we both still need what the other can provide.”
“What a mess.”
“A messy mess.” I sigh and turn off the shower. “I need to get ready for work now.”
We say goodbye and hang up. I get ready for work, and the entire drive over all I see is Wes’s face, his shuttered heart opening up for me. It feels precious and terrifying, like holding a newborn baby.
29
Wes
Dakota was right.I stopped by the Merc yesterday. On a board near the entrance, stuck between an advertisement for lawn mowing and coupons to a craft store, was a light blue paper.PTSD support group, VFW Post 0507. Below that, it listed the address and meeting time.
I took a picture with my phone, bought a package of sunflower seeds and a bottle of water, and spent ten minutes looking at funny postcards. I forgot how much I loved going to the Merc with my mom when I was little.
I’m on my way to the meeting now. I don’t know what to expect, and that makes me nervous. Are we going to sit around and talk? How many people will be there? Do I really want to share my story with strangers?
I guess that’s another thing Dakota is right about. I need to talk to people who’ve been in the military. People who understand.
I pull into the parking lot and kill the engine. The VFW is a long, squat building, made of gray bricks. An American flag undulates in the breeze, and a handful of cars are parked out front.
Growing up in Sierra Grande, I passed this place plenty of times, and my dad explained VFW stood for Veterans of Foreign War. I pictured old men, wrinkled and wearing pins on their hats. From my childlike point of view, veterans were old.
I get out of my truck. Here I am, and I’m not old. Or maybe I am.
I start for the door. I don’t have any second thoughts about the meeting. Once I’ve decided something, that’s it.
The inside isn’t what I thought it would be. There’s a large, rectangular table, with folding chairs all around it. I’d been picturing chairs in a circle, like an AA meeting.Hello, my name is Wes and I have PTSD.
“Hello, there,” a voice calls out.
A man approaches. He’s old. Pins adorn his black hat,Vietnam Veteranstitched across the front in yellow thread.
“Hello, sir.” I extend a hand. “Is the meeting still on for today?”
“You betcha,” he answers, shaking my hand. “I’m Bill Tennyson.” He motions to two more men I hadn’t noticed when I walked in. “That’s Malcolm Owenfeldt and Creighton Smith.”
I lift my hand in a wave. “I’m Wes Hayden.” If Bill recognizes my name, he doesn’t show it. It puts me at ease.
“We’re expecting a couple more,” he tells me, adjusting his hat. “They’ll trickle in. We have one coming from Brighton, he’s usually a couple minutes late.”
I settle in at the table with the three men. Malcolm is older like Bill, but Creighton is probably only ten years older than me.
We comment on the weather. Bill mentions the construction going on at the edge of town. Creighton says his wife met the woman in charge of the new building at a book club meeting and really liked her. I smile politely and say nothing. I came here to talk about the military, not Dakota. One tough subject at a time.
The door opens and two more men walk in. Both older. No pins on hats though. They take seats and say hello.
“Wes, this is Walt Jenkins and Bryan Blackstone. Guys, meet Wes Hayden.”
