“Aaron has PTSD.”
She opens her mouth to ask a question, but I raise my hand to stop her. “Like I said. I can’t tell you the why or the how. That’s his story to tell when he’s ready, but it’s been getting worse. He wasn’t handling it well before his mom died and now, well, it’s not going to get any better. He’s just ignoring one problem in place of the other, and eventually the other shoe is going to drop. He doesn’t sleep enough. He gets these night terrors where he wakes up panicked and drenched in sweat. And loud noises can set him off. Almost like a panic attack where he feels like the walls are closing in.”
“Has he talked to anyone?”
I shake my head. “He won’t see a shrink. I’ve tried but he refuses. I just… you need to know what to look out for because he’s getting worse, not better.”
She nods. “Okay. What do I need to know.”
Fuck. Where did I even begin? “He needs to be in a relaxed environment as much as possible. No parties. No loud, sudden noises. He tries to push it. He thinks if he exposes himself to the shit that sets him off that it’ll desensitize him to it, but that doesn’t work. Video games with shooters can be a trigger. The smell of smoke. If he doesn’t sleep for more than three days he’s got pills he’s supposed to take to help with that. They knock him out, but he wakes up feeling hungover so he doesn’t like taking them, but if he’s not sleeping he has to. It gets worse when he doesn’t.”
She nods. “Okay. I can look out for that.”
I take a breath and tell her the last thing. “If you startle him, he can lash out. Physically. He pulls himself back once he recognizes you but he’s landed a punch a time or two. For me, that’s not a problem. With you or another chick, it will be. Don’t surprise him. If you walk in a room and he’s spacing out, call his name. Don’t touch him until he acknowledges you. Got it?”
“Yeah. I got it.”
“Good. I’m gonna make a few calls and get that flight sorted out. Let me know if shit changes with him or if you need me for anything else.”
She nods and I go to my room to make the call. My parents will kill me for this. Not because they give a shit if I use the jet, but because we had an agreement I wouldn’t use Price assets unless I was willing to be an active member of the family—which I’m not—but it’ll take them a while to notice, and what they don’t know won’t hurt them. It’ll just bite me in the ass later.
NINETY-SEVEN
Kasey
He isn’t wearing a shirt. I don’t know why I’m hung up on that but there he is, standing in the kitchen barefoot, wearing gray sweatpants without a shirt on.
I somehow manage to step farther into the room. He’s at the stove, spatula in hand and he’s making … I peer around him … pancakes. Dominique is making pancakes. What twilight zone did I just walk out of?
“You’re up,” he says without turning around.
I clear my throat. “Yeah.”
“Have a seat. I’m almost done.”
I nod, not that he sees it, and take a seat at the kitchen island, watching the muscles in his back flex as he moves around the kitchen, grabbing syrup and peanut butter before plating the pancakes and setting everything down in front of me.
“You hungry?”
I shake my head.
“When’s the last time you ate?”
I think about it, but I don’t really remember. “How long has it been since …” I can’t say it, but he knows what I mean and curses.
“You need to eat. I brought food to your room. Why didn’t you eat any of it?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“I don’t care.” He tosses two pancakes onto a new plate, spreads peanut butter on both and then drizzles them with syrup before sliding it across the counter to me. “Eat.”
I stare down at the food. My stomach twists into a knot and my eyes fill with moisture.
“Dammit.” He walks around the counter until he’s right beside me. “You’re wasting away. You need to eat something. Just a few bites, okay?”
I nod, forcing back the tears. I pick up the fork and knife and cut into the pancakes.
Dominique grabs his own plate and fills it with bacon, eggs, and a single piece of toast. But no pancakes. I frown down at my plate. “Why aren’t you having any pancakes?”
