Page 20 of Always You

“And you’veneverserved,” he said, the words carrying an accusation that landed as heavy as a brick to the back of my head.

“No,” I admitted. The gap in our experiences was vast, a chasm that empathy alone couldn’t bridge. “I haven’t worn the uniform, and I won’t pretend to understand everything you’ve been through,” I began, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside.

“So, how do you get to sit there?” he asked. There was no anger, but I heard Tom’s sharp inhalation.

“Hang on,” Tom began.

I held up a hand to stop him. “He has a point,” I said to placate Tom, who was all narrow-eyed and feisty. “So, I’ve dedicated my life to understanding, to learning how I can support those who have served, and I’ve listened—really listened—to countless stories from those who’ve served.”

Tom folded his arms over his chest, and as for Jazz, he tilted his head as if he were really listening to me. I paused, ensuring my sincerity was as clear as the conviction I felt. “This isn’t about me claiming a shared experience that isn’t mine. It’s about giving you a space where you can share, heal, and connect with others who truly understand your journey. I’m here to support that process, to offer tools and insights from a place of compassion and respect for what you’ve sacrificed and endured.” I let out a breath. The rehearsed explanation seemed way too long, particularly as Jazz stared at me.

“What he said,” Tom snapped and glanced at Jazz, who was still staring at me.

“My expertise isn’t in having served. It’s in recognizing the value of each person’s experience and helping navigate the path forward. You and everyone here deserve a place to be heard, understood, and supported. That’s what I’m here for.”

Jazz was silent, and that was okay. Not everyone shared their experiences out loud in the first session, the second, or the tenth. Some kept everything for one-on-one counseling, and hell, this might be the only session with me that Jazz attended.

But at least he was here.

“I wish I could tell a different story,” Jazz began, his voice broken. He cleared his throat. “I wish I could sit here and say I didn’t feel everything that the rest of you felt, and that I didn’tneed to be here.” He picked at a loose thread on his jeans, talking to the floor more than to us.

Then, he leaned back, his gaze drifting to the middle distance, and it was obvious he was lost in memories. “I was in for a good stretch. Saw a lot. Middle East, parts of Africa… places where the soil knows more about blood than growth. You do what you’re told, you protect your own, and you try to make the right calls.”

“Yeah,” Daniel murmured.

Jazz paused, a shadow crossing his face. “But it’s the things you can’t control that stick with you—civilians caught in the crossfire, decisions that haunt me, and the faces of those I couldn’t save even when I tried. I’ve lost friends, so I stopped making friends. I’ve killed adults, and kids, people I knew, people I didn’t know. I’m cold and hard and broken. But somehow, when I was out there, it was my life, and I knew it was just something I had to do, and then, I’d get home. I could tell you about each part of me that was snapped away, but what would be the point of that? You all know what I’ve seen and done because it’s no different from what you’ve all been through. We’ve all drunk the poison, just in different flavors.”

He glanced around him, and the other four nodded, tears rolling down Emily’s face as she pressed her hands to her swollen belly.

He clenched his fists in his lap. “I’m divorced. I don’t blame my ex for any of what went down, because I was the one who lied my way into marrying her and destroyed it all. Me.”

“No one stays with us,” Tom said.

Raj took his hand and laced their fingers tight.

“Coming back home, I thought I’d feel safe, right? But I don’t fit anymore, like the world has moved on without me.” He stared back at the floor, his knuckles white as he gripped the chair. “It’s the ghosts that follow me, same as all of you.Loud noises, crowds, even silence—it can all bring it back. We all have PTSD because we were military and supposed to be brave and hard and trained for it all…” His voice hitched, and Daniel leaned in as if he would knock elbows. Although he didn’t touch Jazz, he was there in support. “I should’ve gotten help sooner,” he murmured. “The grocery store job I came back to felt meaningless. I couldn’t imagine working security or holding a gun again, and that was all that was open to me. Bagging groceries and clearing up spills on aisle eight.” He laughed, but no one else joined in, everyone watching silently.

“I couldn’t relate to the media or people or find peace in the things that used to matter. So, I spiraled. I lost my job and packed all my belongings into a single box, and my ex became afraid of me. She said I shouldn’t see my daughter, and she was right because I have a messed-up head.”

I was desperate to hug Jazz and tell him he’d be okay, but kept my seat, even as emotion threatened to spill over into tears.

“Pride kept me from asking for help,” Jazz whispered, “then shame buried me deeper.” He stared directly at me, his dark brown eyes bright with pain. “I ended up on the streets, not because I wanted freedom, but because I felt there was no place left for me. No community, no purpose. Just memories and a battle I was losing.”

He went silent, and I waited in case he had something else to say, but his breathing was hard, and he hunched over in the chair. Everyone who’d ever sat in this room and talked had at one point cried, shouted, thrown things, or gone deathly quiet.

One by one, the others left the room. Tom pressed a hand to Jazz’s shoulder, and then, it was just me, Jazz, and the scent of stale coffee.

“Jazz?”

His eyes were swimming with tears. “Don’t do that,” he murmured. Then, he stood, using the chair to steady himself. “Don’t give me sympathy like I need it from you.”

“I’m sorry?—”

“I don’t need you. And you don’t need me.”

When he left, he shut the door, and I sat for the longest time staring at the empty room.

He was wrong.

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