“Haven’t needed to be here,” I respond stiffly.
“Sorry, I forgot you suffered memory loss and forgot the last ten years of your life,” he teases dryly.You always need to be here.That’s what goes unsaid.And he’s not wrong. Neither is the silence. In it, I can hear my hands shake with unresolved trauma, and the dark corners are spreading again at a speed I can’t manage to keep up with.
But there’s another person in my home now.
I can’t let it get out of control.
Sergeant Landon Gaboury fought the same tours I did—twenty years older than me, twice as hardened. We never fought together, but he was around at the same time as me. He’s all gray lines and wrinkles, tired from life and what it’s thrown at him. He's a good shoulder to lean against when everything goes to shit. He keeps a level head, clear eyes, and never misses a beat.
“You look tired,” I say just to get under his skin, and he scoffs.
“Fuck you, Black.” He huffs. “How's the daughter?”
“Thirteen,” I shrug. “Some days she wakes up and remembers she hates me, so that’s fun.”
It’s the opposite of fun. It’s torture and unpredictable. I hate it.
“Sounds like she’s keeping you sharp,” he says with a knowing smirk. He has three kids of his own, all grown, I think. He never really talksabout them, but it was always his driving force. Do better for them, create a world for them.
His motto became mine.
Do better for Daisy. Create a world for her.
That’s the point of all this. I cross my arms and watch as a few of the guys argue over whether the circle is even or not, but Landon claps his hands and interrupts them. He hands me a coffee that I probably won’t drink and wanders over to take his chair. Everyone files in after him, finding a spot to bare their souls in the most raw way possible, and we all go quiet.
“You know how this works,” he says to them. “I’m not going to force you to talk; being here is a step you have to take yourself. So is telling your story. If you aren’t ready today, try next week.”
A few of them stomp their boots in response, a habit from basic training that a few guys held onto later in life that they just can’t shake. There are a few new faces around the circle, and I can’t tell if they’ve been coming for a while and I just haven’t been here, or if they’re fresh meat for Landon to mind warp into spilling their guts.
There’s a reason he's the liaison for the army now; he runs these group sessions all day long, seeing sad faces, hearing heartbreaking stories. But he’s damn good at getting people to talk.
“We can sit here in the silence too,” he says, setting down his coffee and fixing his eyes on me, but I just shake my head.Not today. Just leave me be.
One of the new faces clears his throat. He’s a squirrely-looking kid with fiery red hair and brown eyes that bounce around like he’s seen some shit. We all have but… It’s like he’s still seeing it—still in it.
“Private Dixon,” he says, coughing nervously. “On stress leave from active duty. Two weeks ago, I watched my entire team go up in flames and I…uh…well, they…” he stutters. “They said group would help, but I kind of just feel like a pussy,” he admits, and some of the guys laugh despite how serious it is.
“How many guys?” Landon steers the conversation back.
“Nine.” Dixon swallows hard. “IED.”
“How did you survive?” One of the rougher guys, Patrick, leans forward and asks.
“We were loading the truck,” he stops again, dropping his head, “they liked to play tricks on me, it was like making me one of the boys…” he says.Hazing. Not unusual. “Every time I tried to get on the back, they’d pull forward. It was a game we played…”
“Sounds like you’re a joke.” Patrick crosses his arms and scoffs.
“Patty, I suggest you wait your turn unless you want to tell everyone about how you used to bootlick every officer you came across for a promotion?” Landon doesn’t even turn his head away from Dixon when he offers up the threat. “Keep sharing,” he says to the kid.
Dixon can’t be more than twenty; it’s clear how young he is in the way he talks and holds himself. Patrick has him rattled, but I watch Landon pull him out of his shell.
“They pulled too far forward the last time and hit the IED,” he confesses. He’s only here to talk about it because they were bullying him. I exhale slowly, controlling myself as Dixon continues. “The ones that didn’t die from the impact caught fire,” he says, looking down, and it’s only then that I notice he’s wearing gloves. “I tried to get them out, but,” he turns his palms over and stares at the leather—no doubt covering the burns. “Group is supposed to help with the screaming,” he blurts like he hadn’t just told a story that dark, but we all nod and agree in our own way.
“It does.” I clear my throat. “Eventually.”
Landon looks at me, giving a small nod of thanks, and turns his attention back to Dixon. As the night goes on, the tremor in my hands gets worse, and eventually I have to set the coffee cup on the floor because it’s spilling onto my jeans.
I help clean up the chairs as Landon says goodbye to the last of the guys. When I put the final stack away, I find his gaze on me.
