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Troy lowers his mouth to mine and prevents any further discussion.
The kiss only lasts a few seconds, but it’s the best few seconds of my day. I twist around, taking care not to accidentally hurt his arm. “Loved the kiss. But it’s not changing anything. You’re not climbing the ladder.”
“Kellan,” Troy calls to his brother, who is walking toward the table where Emily directed him to go. “Can you help Jess with those lanterns?” He points to them.
And I try to ignore the growing hollowness in my chest that’s been there since I gave up everything after marrying the wrong man.
A hollowness that didn’t shrink while I was shooting the practice wedding photos.
33
Jessica
July, Present Day
Maple Ridge
* * *
Saturday morning, Bailey and I head to the park to work on her training. The sun is bright, but I’m wearing my yoga pants and long-sleeved T-shirt because we’re nowhere near the high for today.
“Hi, Jessica,” a woman’s voice says as I’m praising Bailey. Bailey’s doing a great job heeling and ignoring the other dogs playing catch on the grass.
I glance up and shield my eyes from the sun with my hand. Olivia’s sister is standing in front of me with Nova in her arms. “Hi. Cora, right?” Like her clothes the other day, her jeans and floral blouse look more city-chic than small-town casual.
“That’s right. My sister mentioned you’re training your dog to be a service dog.”
I nod. “I’ve been diagnosed with PTSD. Troy thought I might benefit from having her.”
Crinkles form between Cora’s eyes. “Wouldn’t it be better if you had a dog that was already trained as a service dog? This one’s just a puppy.” She points to the eleven-month-old puppy in question. “She’s too young to start the advanced training for PSD certification.”
“You know about service dogs?”
“No, I…I read an article about the topic not that long ago. It was about Prison4Paws. A select group of inmates train the puppies from when they’re about only thirteen weeks old. The puppies stay with the inmates until they’re about a year or more, and then the dogs leave to go to their next stage of training. From a young age, the puppies are being conditioned as future service dogs.”
I would have loved to have done something like that while I was locked away. As far as I know, my prison had nothing like Prison4Paws.
“She was going to be trained by someone else,” I explain, “but things changed, and she’s mine.”
“But she’s not a fully-trained service dog.”
Cora didn’t ask a question, but I answer anyway. “No, but she will be.”
“And then you’ll give her to someone else who has PTSD?”
“No, she’ll still be helping me out. PTSD isn’t something you overcome overnight. It can take years, even with therapy.”
“And you’re getting therapy?”
I kneel next to Bailey and stroke her, easing my fingers between her silky strands. “I am.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Livi’s husband refused to acknowledge he was struggling. Maybe if he had gotten help…” Her voice fades, regret and unanswered questions left dangling in its wake.
“It’s because of Troy that I’m seeing a therapist. I was in denial about the PTSD when I first met him.” And for a while after that too.
“Livi mentioned you’ve only lived here a few months.”
I nod, the unease I feel around strangers kicking in. It was different when I was talking to her sister yesterday. I was the one asking questions. But I didn’t have to do that too often. Olivia seemed happy to tell me everything without much prompting.
