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“Maybe once or twice a week.” Which is an improvement since I began therapy. I’ve been getting better at avoiding the main trigger, which seems to be lack of sleep, but the eventual goal is for the flashbacks to no longer be an issue no matter how much sleep I get. And this will help with the other triggers, such as loud noise, that I have no control over.
I open the door to Bailey’s crate. She steps out, tail wagging. I crouch next to her and stroke her. She whimpers and licks my face.
My heart rate slows to normal after a few minutes, and I remove one of her treats from my pocket and give it to her. “Thank you.” I keep stroking her, lauding her with praise.
Zara crouches next to Bailey and hands me the glass. I gratefully take a long sip of the strawberry-kiwi fizzy water.
“I know you’re seeing a therapist,” she says, “but if you want to talk, I’m here for you. Sometimes just talking to your friends can help.”
My mouth tugs into a faux smile that hopefully looks more genuine than a knock-off Chanel bag. “I’ll be fine. I just needed to catch my breath. I’m ready to get back to work now.”If I still have a job.I don’t want to give Zara another reason to fire me. I enjoy working here. It gives me a sense of purpose I haven’t experienced in God knows how long.
It’s going to be fine. I’m going to be fine.
“If you’d rather leave early…”
I shake my head, white-hot panic rising in me, and I swallow past the samosa-sized lump in my throat. “No, it’s bad enough I keep leaving to check on Bailey. I can’t keep going home early every time I have a flashback.”
“You’ve only had the two since you started here.”
“I know, but I don’t want to take advantage of your kindness.” I turn to Bailey. “I’m sorry, girl. You need to go back in the crate.” I encourage her into it and return to the kitchen.
For the rest of my shift, I avoid talking about what happened. But I can feel the weight of Zara’s worried glances that she flicks my way when she thinks I don’t notice.
* * *
After my shift is over,Bailey and I head to my bike and her trailer. But it’s such a beautiful day, I change my mind and walk the two blocks to the library instead of biking there.
People stare at Bailey, their curiosity stoked at seeing herService Dog in Trainingvest. Their eyes flick up to my face, and I duck my head. When I agreed to be Bailey’s puppy raiser, I hadn’t counted on how her vest would result in the attention I was trying to avoid.
I push the World War II nonfiction book through the library return slot, and Bailey and I head back to Picnic & Treats. A sensation someone is watching me prickles under my skin. I scan the area, searching for whatever has triggered my internal alarm. Every sound, smell, sight thrusts my nervous system into overdrive.
Will the sensation someone is stalking me ever go away? My husband is dead. He can’t stalk me anymore, yet I feel like he’s still following me, watching me, terrorizing me.
A police cruiser drives slowly toward me, the red and blue lights turned off.
My body transforms into cold stone, my legs cemented to the sidewalk. A flicker of a memory leaks in. Of blood seeping from my husband’s body, staining the living-room carpet crimson. Of a grogginess dulling my thoughts.
Of my daughter’s small, warm body being removed from my arms. Of her crying out for me. Of being roughly pushed around, read my rights, shoved into a marked vehicle. The flashing red and blue lights cutting through the cool night air.
I’m vaguely aware of my body shaking, of sweat sliding down the side of my face. I can’t quit staring at the cop car.
The cruiser stops at the red light. My pulse thrums loudly in my ears, drowning out all other sounds. Drowning out all thoughts.
I hear a bark, but I can’t stop staring at the police car.
The car advances and pulls into the empty spot in front of the florist. Two officers climb out of the cruiser and walk toward me. My body keeps trembling, and I can’t tear my attention away from them, no matter how much I want to.
“Jess?” A man steps in front of me, his broad chest blocking my view of the cops. He’s wearing a white dress shirt minus a tie.
My gaze moves up and meets Kellan’s sharp blue eyes.
“Kellan?” The name stumbles over my dry lips.
A crease wrinkles between his eyebrows. Concern fills his eyes. “Are you done working for the day?”
“I-I was at the library. N-now I’m-I’m going home.” To hide.
The cops walk past me. The tremor gripping my body intensifies. One glances at me but recognition doesn’t cross his face.
