AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Zara is working the front counter, her many braids pulled back with a bright-purple scarf. The sounds of talking and laughing and clinking dishes fill the café. As do the delicious smells of baked goods and today’s lunch specials.
“Hey, Troy.” Zara says something to Tracy, who takes her place at the counter.
Zara walks over to us, and she smiles at the woman standing next to me. Curiosity gleams in her brown eyes. “Hi, welcome to Picnic and Treats.”
“Hey, Zara. This woman cut her hand outside the florist,” I tell her. “Is it okay if I take her to your staff room and patch her up?”
“Sure, go ahead.” Zara waves toward the hallway. “No one’s in there right now. I’ll get the first aid kit and be right with you.” She rushes off to the kitchen.
I guide the woman down the hallway that leads to the public restroom. The other door at the end of the corridor is for the staff room. I open it, and we go inside. I point to the couch.
She doesn’t move. If anything, she looks ready to run.
“I’m not gonna hurt you.” I keep my voice to a low, soothing rumble. “Whoever hurt you in the past, I’m not them.”
“No one…no one has hurt me.” Her voice is quiet, tone guarded. Another brick is being added to the wall she keeps around herself.
“You have PTSD, don’t you? Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.”
“There’s…I’m…there’s nothing wrong with me.” Her tone’s not defensive, not angry, but tight and anxious. She shifts her body, angling away from me. “I’m fine.” She doesn’t say it to me. The words are directed at a framed poster of New Orleans at night.
They’re the same words Colton said to me when I was worried about his mental health.
“I never said anything is wrong with you.” My tone is soft, my throat constricting just thinking about him. “My brother struggled with PTSD for a year after he left the military. And my best friend had it too. He was a paramedic and was called to the site of a traumatic accident. He wasn’t the same after that.” I slowly reach for her hand and cradle it in mine.
Her hand flinches at my touch but stays put, the crumb of trust fragile.
Her fingernails are chipped and uneven. She unfolds her fingers holding the tissue, revealing dry, calloused skin. I might not have sisters, but I do have four close female friends who are like sisters to me. They do whatever they can to keep their hands soft, their fingernails manicured. Even Zara, whose job involves physical labor.
Dark circles create half-moons under the woman’s eyes. She has the appearance of someone who suffers through sleepless nights and nightmares. A look I recognize only too well.
But as much as I want to ask her about her hands and the dark circles, I’m not stupid enough to risk it. I don’t want to give her a reason to raise her walls any higher.
The cut is no longer bleeding. I was right. It won’t need stitches, but it will be sore for a day or two.
Zara walks into the room, first aid kit in one hand, a mug in the other. She puts the first aid kit on the coffee table and hands the woman the mug. A rich, chocolate smell seeps from the steam.
“By the way, I’m Zara. I hope you like hazelnut hot chocolate, but I can get you something else if you prefer.”
The woman lifts the mug to her nose and sniffs. Her eyes close, the corners of her mouth flutter up, and a soft moan vibrates in her chest.
And I will my body to not give away my reaction to the sound.
Her eyes open. “Thank you. I’m-I’m Jessica.”
“Ahh, so you do have a name.” I keep my voice light and open the first aid kit.
A faint blush creeps up her cheeks.
Zara drops onto an armchair and glances between Jessica and me, her gaze assessing.
Jessica sips the hot chocolate and sits on the couch. “This…this is really good.”
“Thanks.” Zara leans back in her chair. “It’s my family’s secret recipe, passed down from generation to generation. My gran used to claim it had magical powers. But she also claimed she was a voodoo priestess…” Zara chuckles like she usually does when she tells that story.
Another smile arranges itself on Jessica’s face, a little wider this time, but not enough to be a full-out smile. A smile I bet is spectacular once you’ve earned the right to see it.
I sit next to her, remove a package of alcohol antiseptic pads from the plastic box, and rip it open. I touch her hand again. It jerks away.
