Images swirl in my mind as I take shallow breaths. The way Wren looked at me, the things she said, how she touched me, and all the things she’s keeping close to her chest. She still carries the weight of our history on her shoulders, as do I, and I want to lessen the load.
“What load?” Margo asks. Apparently, I said the inside thought out loud.
“The load she’s carrying.” I shift in my seat once more. I’m unable to sit still as the pressure of being in the spotlight builds. “I hadn’t been that close to her in years. And suddenly, there we were, waiting out the tornado warning together. I could see the pain and secrets she’s trying to keep hidden behind her haunted eyes.”
Margo hums, crossing her arms over her chest.
“I’ve fought wars and lost brothers. I saw things that’ll never leave me, but standing there with her, seeing the pain behind her eyes”—my voice cracks—“it gutted me even worse.”
“You’ve got to talk to her, my boy,” Bob says, three chairs over. I turn my attention to the older gentleman and wait for him to continue. “This is your second chance. Take it from an old man who spent his ninety years alone because he was too afraid to tell the woman he had a crush on for years that he was in love with her. Now she’s gone, and I’m waiting for my turn.”
My chest aches, old wounds bleeding fresh. Bob reaches into his pocket and pulls out a white hanky before blowing his nose.
“Time is precious, son. You have the time now to make things right. Talk to her, share your truths, and give her the chance to share hers, especially if she’s as haunted by the past as you claim. Then give her time to process, but not too much time.”
“That’s very wise, Bob,” Margo praises before her eyes catch mine. “There’s more to last night, isn’t there? We’ve talked in the past about your experience with storms. What was last night’s like?”
I swallow hard, jaw tightening. “Storms drag up a bunch of shit I try to keep buried. The claps of thunder and flashes of lightning always send me back to Afghanistan.”
Another older man nods. He fought in Vietnam, so he gets it.
“I spent years over there, but storms always pull me back to that night. The night I lost him.” I speak quieter, weighed down with guilt. “Rafe was my best friend. We were on an assignment, surveillance, when our cover was blown. We were ambushed as bullets rained over us. I tried to warn him, to scream at him to take cover, but…”
The memory hits hard and unrelenting—the weight of Rafe’s body, the smell of copper, the blood coating my hands as I tried to apply pressure to the wound while calling for help. It was chaos, and for a few long moments, I didn’t think I was going to survive. And when I prayed to a god I wasn’t sure existed, the only person I wanted was Wren. I wanted to beg her to forgive me and to tell her she was the only woman I’d ever love.
“I came home, and he didn’t. The guilt eats me alive.”
Silence presses around the room again. It’s heavy and tangible.
Finally, after what feels like forever, Margo speaks. “You’re carrying the battle of two wars. The one overseas and the one here. Both left you with grief and immeasurable guilt. But they aren’t the same war.”
I laugh, but it’s humorless. “All feels the same.”
“What do you want, Jett?”
Her question knocks the wind out of me.
What do I want? Hell if I know. I’ve been too busy surviving to wonder what it is I really want.
I shake my head, jaw clenching. “I don’t know what I want, except I want her to trust that I didn’t choose to leave. And I never forgot her.”
The truth feels like whiskey burning.
I drag my hand over my mouth, ready to be done with all the attention. “But the thing is, she moved on. She had a whole life without me, and I can’t blame her. I left, and now I’m back, a completely different person.” A sardonic laugh escapes. “I don’t even know who the fuck I am.” Looking at the teenager sitting next to me, I wince. “Sorry.”
He shrugs. “Do any of us know who the fuck we are?”
“Good point, Dylan.” Margo nods. “But that’s why you’re here, Jett. That’s why everyone is here. To figure it out. You’ve been carrying ghosts, and sometimes they keep us from seeing the people standing in front of us. It’s time to forgive yourself and have those hard conversations.”
Her words sink deep, landing uncomfortably.
“Jett.” Margo’s voice pulls me back. “You don’t have to have all the answers today. But you do have to be honest—with yourself, and maybe with her.”
I swallow, throat raw. Being honest with Wren is going to be its own level of torture. The thought of it makes me feel lighter and terrified at once.
Around the circle, the others watch quietly. Some with pity, some with understanding, and some not caring, but none of them have judgment in their eyes. That’s the thing about this place—you could bleed out in words and no one would flinch.
Margo steers the conversation, directing her questions to someone else. Turns out, it’s Dylan’s turn, the teenage boy sitting next to me. He talks about how his parents are making him come to these meetings on the advice of the high school’s guidance counselor. He can’t be much older than Audrey, and I hate how the kid feels like such a loner in school. High school only makes up four years of your life, but it’s tough. Those four years feel defining.
