I've seen this before. Not in person, but in videos from my father's support group. In the pamphlets the military gave us about what to expect when our loved ones came home.
PTSD. A flashback or an episode of some kind.
"Max." I keep my voice soft as I kneel beside him. "Max, it's Claire. You're safe. You're in Grizzly Ridge, in your apartment. You're safe."
He doesn't respond. Just keeps shaking, that terrible low sound escaping his throat.
I don't know what to do. Every instinct screams at me to touch him, to gather him in my arms and hold him until the shaking stops. But I know enough to understand that touch can make these episodes worse. Can pull someone deeper into the nightmare instead of out of it.
So I do the only thing I can think of.
I sit down beside him. Back against the wall, shoulder almost but not quite touching his. And I start to talk.
"When I was thirteen, right after my dad died, I used to have nightmares every night. I'd wake up screaming, convinced I could hear his voice calling for me." My own voice shakes, but I push through. "My mom didn't know what to do. She was drowning in her own grief. So I learned to deal with it alone. I'd sit in the dark and count my breaths until morning."
Max's shaking starts to slow. Just slightly.
"The nightmares stopped eventually. Or at least, they got less frequent. But sometimes I still wake up in the middle of the night and reach for my phone to call him. Just to hear his voice. And then I remember."
A ragged breath escapes him. His hands drop from his ears.
"I remember too," he says hoarsely. "Every fucking day."
"I know."
We sit there in silence. The light through the window shifts from gold to amber as the afternoon fades toward evening. I don't move. Don't speak. Just stay beside him, our shoulders finally touching, warmth seeping through layers of clothing.
"You should go," he finally says.
"I'm not leaving."
"Claire."
"No." I turn to face him. His eyes are open now, red rimmed and exhausted. "You sat with me at my father's funeral for two hours. You didn't try to fix me or tell me it would be okay. You just stayed. Let me do the same for you."
Something cracks in his expression. A wall crumbling, just a little.
"I'm not the man you think I am."
"I don't think you're anyone." I hold his gaze. "I'm trying to see who you actually are. If you'd stop running long enough to let me."
His jaw tightens. I watch the battle play out across his face. The push and pull of wanting and resisting.
Then he moves.
His hand comes up to cup my face. Rough calluses against my cheek, the touch so gentle it makes my breath catch.
"I can't give you what you need," he rasps.
"You don't know what I need."
"I know what I am. Broken. Fucked up. Barely holding myself together most days."
"Maybe I don't want someone who's perfectly together." I lean into his touch. "Maybe I want someone who understands what it means to fall apart."
His eyes drop to my mouth.
The air between us thickens. Charges. Every nerve in my body sings with anticipation.
