“I literally don’t.”
Already halfway down the hall, I only shook my head. “I don’t need you to do the psychotherapy shit on me, Simone. I’m fine.”
“I wasn’t trying to do any psycho?—”
“That’s a crock of shit.” Setting it down on the table, I met her gaze in the hallway. “You want me to talk about my feelings, how it affected me, how I endured another trauma, and I don’t need to do that. I’m fine.”
“You killed a man yesterday, and you expect me to believe you’re justfine?” She propped her hands on her round hips. “That’sthe crock of shit, Gwen. We both know some heavy shit was going through your brain when you did that, and that’s exactly why you don’t want to talk about it.”
“I don’t want to talk about it because I’m not the victim here. I’m fine.” My voice was steady, if not a bit annoyed. “I’mbetterthan fine.”
Simone’s expression twitched to something like amusement. She crossed her arms against her chest. “You’rebetterthan fine?”
“I am. I feel great. I got a full night’s sleep, a waffle in bed, and I know that bastard is not out there in the world anymore. He’s not going to hurt anyone else. He’s not going to come back for you, or for Junie, or for the ranch to get us all thrown into prison. I slept like a baby knowing the world’s a better place without him in it.”
“I’m sure you slept like a baby after Troy nearly killed you too,” she said. “Because when the brain can’t process trauma, it shuts down. It lets you fall into a deep sleep where you can pretend that it didn’t happen.”
“Out there, Iampretending it didn’t happen. Because I have to.” I pointed at the door. “But I just told you I’m not ashamed of it. That I slept like a baby, that I feel?—”
“Fine, I know.” Simone raised her hands in surrender. “Just like you told yourself you were fine after your husband nearly killed you.”
“What does Troy have to do with this?”
“Because we both know that’s what was going through your head when you killed David. His hand was around your throat, but you felt Troy’s. That’s what the root?—”
“No shit that’s the root, Simone!” I threw my hands in the air. “Our ex-husbands are the root of all our god damn problems. That’s how we all wound up here. But that’s irrelevant.”
“It’s not though.” She stepped toward me, her voice softening. “Because you haven’t processed it. You still haven’t processed all the trauma Troy put you through. That’s why we’re constantly asking you to speak up in group, because you need to talk about it.”
Shaking my head, I yanked in a deep breath. “I’m literally fine.”
“Okay. Fine. You feel fine. But we both know how PTSD works. Two people can endure the exact same trauma, and the one who doesn’t talk about it, who doesn’t work through it, is the one who develops nightmares and flashbacks. You have no one else to talk to about this. I’m the only other person who knows. If you don’t talk?—”
Honey erupted in a choir of barks.
She ran to the front door.
Simone and I both whipped our heads in that direction.
I followed Honey to the window and pulled back the white, sunflower speckled curtains. Rhiannon’s Jeep. A couple dozen yards away, slowly pulling into my driveway.
And I was grateful for it. A long, drawn out conversation about my feelings was the least of my concerns.
Over my shoulder, Simone said, “Knew that was coming. In the closet, or under the bed?”
“If you go in the closet, Honey’s gonna stand outside it and bark at you,” I said. “Under the bed, she’ll just follow you.”
“Under the bed it is. But this conversation isn’t over.”
I waved her off.
She ventured down the hall, and I glanced around. Simone wasn’t a messy cook, but the kitchen could use a quick wipe down. Plus it’d look natural when Rhiannon walked in.
Rag in hand, I scrubbed at the clumps of waffle batter on the Formica. It took longer than I expected for the knock to come. I called, “Come in.”
The doorknob jiggled. “It’s locked.”
Still holding the rag, I walked to the door. Opening it, I stepped aside to let her in. “Sorry about that. I thought I left it unlocked last night.”
