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“Oh, no. Nothing like that. More like his pet project.” The words rush from me like water hurtling down a hundred-foot drop. I hadn’t meant to say that, but it definitely got everyone’s interest.
Frank and Bill lean forward, slow smiles spreading across their faces.
Troy’s eyebrows are raised, his body still.
Sure, he came over to my house twice last week, and now Delores is getting things all wrong about what’s going on between him and me. Or maybe she just meant I’m friends with Troy, and Frank is the one who misunderstood her.
“Explain.” Frank looks between Troy and me.
“Troy thinks I have PTSD—which I don’t—and is out to try to save me.” I don’t roll my eyes, but I can hear what resembles an eye roll in my tone.
Katelyn’s unsettled expression flips between relief and worry. She clearly likes Troy. A lot. Hopefully, she hasn’t misread the situation between us. He and I are just…friends.
Friends.I sound the word out in my head. Is that really what Troy is to me? A friend? It’s been such a long time since I had any, the concept seems foreign.
No, he’s not a friend. Not if he plans to manipulate me out of my new home. That’s why he’s been so kind to me. Now it all makes sense. He doesn’t actually plan to come over tomorrow night to discuss my renovation ideas. Maybe he’s coming over to persuade me to sell my house to him.
Troy makes a funny noise that’s a cross between a snort and a grunt. “I don’t think of you as a pet project. You’re my friend. And from what I’ve seen so far, you do show signs of having PTSD.”
“No. I don’t.” I fix a smile on my face so I don’t come off quite so defensive. “I bet if you spend more time with Katelyn, you’ll start believing she also has PTSD.” I’m assuming she doesn’t. Plus, I have no clue how much time they spend together. Maybe it’s a lot more than I realize. Sooooo, probably a bad example.
Troy shrugs, but not in acquiescence. I haven’t won this battle. But my marriage and my time in prison have left me splintered, chipped, cracked. I don’t need anyone else to see me that way. I don’t need to be reminded of how big a broken mess I am. I just need to look in the mirror for that reminder.
Frank waves at the chair between him and Bill, indicating for me to sit down. I glance at Bill. He nods. Troy sits in the chair opposite mine.
I drop my butt onto the empty seat. Katelyn doesn’t seem too fazed that she’s the only one standing.
“There’s nothing shameful about admitting that you have PTSD,” Frank says. “I was in denial for years after the Vietnam War. It destroyed my family. I drank heavily because that was the only thing keeping the nightmares away. It wasn’t until I hit rock bottom that I finally found the strength to get help and turn things around.”
“I convinced myself I had everything under control,” Bill adds. “If I just kept those bad memories and nightmares locked away, everything would be all right. But it’s not only the bad memories that get locked away. The good ones do too. All the things that bring you joy are no longer within reach.”
He leans forward, accidentally flashing his cards to everyone at the table. They’re too busy looking at me to notice. “Don’t let whatever happened to you win, Jess. Make sure at the end of the day, you’re the one who wins.”
“It won’t be easy.” Frank’s gruff voice has the same pain and understanding as Bill’s. “But the reward in the end will be worth it. Maybe you’re right and you don’t have PTSD. The only way to know for sure is to talk to a counselor or therapist. They’ll determine if you fit the diagnosis criteria, and then they can discuss treatment options.”
“Having a support system is a good idea,” Bill says. “Friends and family who will be there for you.”
At the murmur of female voices behind me, I turn to see a dark-haired woman take a seat between two women in their late fifties. She looks over her shoulder toward the door, her body stiff with anxiety. It’s a feeling I know only too well.
“Do you, Jess?” Bill asks. “Do you have a support system?”
I swivel back to him. “My grandmother was the one who raised me.” Along with my grandfather before he died. “She’s my only family, but she’s dead.”
“How ’bout friends you can talk to?”
I want to brush Bill off with a lie. To tell him I have friends and an incredible support system. I want to walk out the door and never again have to face the two men’s compassionate and probing glances.
I want to, but I can’t seem to make myself say the words. “I haven’t had a chance to make friends yet.” After what happened in Picnic & Treats with the knife, I can’t imagine Zara wants to be my friend. And this means Simone, Emily, and Avery might not want to hang out with me either. I’m in no better position than when I was married or in prison. I thought I finally had a chance to have friends, but instead, I screwed it up.
I try to swallow the pain, but it gets caught on the camera-sized lump in my throat.
“I’m your friend.” Troy’s determined tone dares me to claim otherwise, warns me he’ll have a thing or two to say about it if I do.
But how can I really trust him?
What if he’s just using me to try to get something he wants—my house?
Troy doesn’t waste time claiming his brothers, Simone, Zara, Avery, and Emily are also my friends. I appreciate that. I don’t need false hope. I’ve had more than a lifetime of that. Even when I was told new evidence proved I was innocent of my husband’s death, I expected someone to laugh and tell me they were joking. Or tell me he’d been alive all this time.
