I didn’t have a college degree. My skillset outside the Army was a patchwork of whatever I’d needed to survive from one deployment to the next. But eight years of service were enough to qualify me for the GI Bill. Enough to give me a chance to learn something else. Something stable.
“I’ll think about it,” I said, though the truth was my options were pathetically thin.
“Good. I mean… you know the boss,” he deadpanned, thumbed at himself, and then went scarlet. “I didn’t mean…what I meant was…” He rolled his eyes. “Stupid joke.”
I didn’t have it in me to joke back. My head was buzzing with everything I couldn’t say, and then the door swung open. Jazz stepped inside, Rascal perched on his shoulder like some tiny, judgmental kitty guardian angel.
At breakfast, he’d quietly volunteered to watch Gabbi while I went to my first therapy session. The offer had blindsided me. I didn’t want to let her out of my sight for a second, but I also knew how it would look if I walked into therapy clutching my daughter like the building was on fire and she was the only thing worth saving.
I wasn’t ready to let her go. Not for minutes let alone an hour.
“Ready for it?” Jazz said, avoiding the therapy word in front of Cole.
“I guess so,” I said, but didn’t move.
Jazz drifted closer, Rascal immediately abandoning his shoulder for Cole’s lap. Cole huffed a soft laugh and scratched the kitten’s head, his big hand dwarfing the tiny body.
“Traitor,” Jazz muttered.
“Rascal has good taste,” Cole fired back, and when Jazz rolled his eyes, Cole added, “What? I’m great. Adorable animals love me.”
Jazz snorted. “Adorable animals tolerate you. Big difference.”
Their bickering was light, easy, familiar, and Cole fussed the kitten until it purred loud enough to fill the room. I hated how much I wanted him to keep doing it.
“Here, let me take Gabbi,” Jazz said.
I stood and handed Gabbi to Jazz. “She’s due a bottle in an hour. She’s napped, so you might have to entertain her. She likes the swing, but only on the lowest setting. She hates being put down cold, and if she starts fussing, humming works better than talking. Oh—and don’t let her near your hoodie strings; she’ll eat them.”
Jazz took me completely seriously, nodding along as if I were briefing him for a hostage rescue.
“And—okay, also—she startles easily,” I added, my voice speeding up without my permission. “Loud noises make her flail, but if you keep a hand on her belly, she settles faster. She likes looking at faces, so don’t, uh… don’t walk away too far. And if she spits up, it’s not always much, but itlookslike a lot, so don’t freak out. And she gets a little cough sometimes before she cries—it’s not choking, it’s just a thing she does. And her blanket—the blue one, not the yellow—she likes that one because it’s softer, don’t mix them up. And?—”
Jazz raised a hand. “Morgan. I’ve got her. I swear.”
My pulse was doing its own panicked drumbeat. “Right. Yeah. Sorry. I won’t be long.”Please god don’t let the therapy session be long.
Cole made a show of checking his watch. “I guess I need to get going, too…”
Fuck, I wanted to ask him to stay, so he’d be here when I came out, but the words lodged in me because what the hell was I even thinking? I didn’t know whether I wanted him to stay so I could avoid therapy… or because he was ridiculously nice to look at. Or because when he was here, the air in my lungs didn’t feel as if it had to fight its way out.
“You could stick around,” Jazz said. “Marcus is cooking chili, and we’re doing a games night later.”
Cole glanced at me, then back at Jazz. “If that’s okay?”
“Sure,” Jazz said, casual as anything, as if he hadn’t just made my damn day by inviting Cole to stay.
“I’ll, uh… yeah, I’ll… see you later,” I managed, every word tripping over the next as though my mouth had forgotten how talking worked. Heat crawled up my neck, and before I embarrassed myself further, I ducked down to kiss Gabbi’s head instead. “Thanks, Jazz.”
“No worries. You know where you’re going?”
“Yeah.” Room 7. Dr. Whitman—Elena. Easy enough to remember. Just… a hell of a lot harder to convince myself it wouldn’t go badly.
Elena was a woman in her late forties with a calm, motherly presence that somehow filled the whole room without crowding me. We’d met briefly in the kitchen, where she’d made a fuss of Gabbi, but we hadn’t spoken much other than exchanging pleasantries. Her office smelled of lavender and old books—not unpleasant, but it made my skin itch anyway, like I was supposed to relax on command.
A couch sat next to the wall, soft and low, and a single chair angled beside it as if she’d planned exactly where I’d sit before I walked in.
“Morgan?” she said. “Come in. Sit wherever you feel comfortable.”
