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“What was the last one?”
“Nothing you need to worry about. I’m still working on the list. What do you like to do to relax?”
A chuckle rumbles deep in my throat, and my gaze flicks to her again. “Are you trying to steal some of my ideas for your own?”
Her shoulders lift in a shrug, and she grins. “Maybe.”
“For me, it’s hiking, watching sunsets, biking, walking and playing with Butterscotch. But hammering relaxes me as well, especially when I get into the rhythm. And sex. That’s definitely relaxing.”
She snort-laughs. An adorable flush spreads across her face.
“What?”
“Nothing.” She chews on her bottom lip and strokes Butterscotch. “I’m guessing you get to do that often.”
“Have sex? Not really. I haven’t had sex in several months.” A red car turns onto the road ahead of us, and I ease on the gas. Other than that, the highway is relatively quiet when it comes to traffic. “What about you? When was the last time you were with a guy?” It’s only after the question has left my mouth that I remember Zara told me Jess recently got out of a bad relationship.
“You mean for sex?” she asks.
“Yep. For sex.”
“I don’t remember. It’s been a really long time.”
“Define ‘really long time.’”How long ago did your relationship end?“Are we talking months?”
“More like years.”
Damn.“How many years are we talking about?” I keep my tone light. Not exactly teasing, but more along the lines of not pushing her to answer.
“Six or seven. Maybe more.”
I can’t quite make out the emotion in her voice. Embarrassment, guilt, shame, maybe fear?Fuck. Is that why she has PTSD? Was she raped?
But if that’s the case, what did she mean about the bad relationship? Was her ex an insensitive asshole because she hadn’t gotten over what happened to her? Did he make her life miserable because she wasn’t ready to have sex yet?
I have too many questions. Questions I don’t have the right to ask.
“I’m sure once you’ve met the right person, you’ll be ready to have sex again.” I flash her a quick, hopefully reassuring smile, but she doesn’t see it. She’s looking out the side window at the flat ranchland. The grass isn’t yet green. It’s just the early shoots poking through everything that is dead and brown. Two horses are galloping across the field as if racing us.
Dylan and Jenny’s house is located about forty minutes outside of Maple Ridge. Jess and I spend the rest of the trip talking about little things. Nothing that gives me more insight into who she is. But she does seem more at ease when the topic isn’t focused on her, so I let her take the lead.
We steer down the gravel driveway. The sprawling, two-story ranch house at the end of it has been in Dylan’s family for the past three generations. I park the truck in the driveway in front of the house, and the three of us climb out of the vehicle.
I guide Jess and Butterscotch up the stone steps to the wraparound porch and press the doorbell. A moment later, a flood of welcoming puppy barks approaches the front door. They don’t sound as young as they did the last time I was here. These guys are about four months old now.
“Sit,” a voice commands from the other side of the door. I assume they obey because Jenny doesn’t have to repeat it.
“Quiet.” Other than one protesting bark, a muffled silence descends from her side. “Stay.”
The door opens, and Jess is rewarded by the sight of five puppies sitting on the floor, looking like they’re dying to come over and greet us, their expressions eager. Jenny and Dylan have done a great job training them. But I already knew that. Jenny has been training psychiatric service dogs for five years.
I step inside the house. Jess follows me, and I introduce her to Jenny.
Jenny knows the real reason we’re here. She also understands I don’t want Jess to know about it. Not yet.
“I’m so happy you could make it,” Jenny tells us. “You can pet them if you’d like,” she says to Jess, who looks like she’s barely restraining herself from doing just that. Butterscotch sits next to my feet, knowing the drill when we come here. But I also know he’s itching to play with the larger-than-him puppies.
Jess kneels and extends her hand for the puppies to sniff. All look at Jenny for guidance. She nods at them, and they approach Jess, tails wagging, unable to hold back any longer. Jess laughs softly at just how eager they are for her attention, and I watch the strain that always hovers in her lessen. Like it does when she interacts with Butterscotch.
