Page 37 of The Way We Fell

“I don’t know. Maybe.” Katy twists her lips in contemplation. “I mean… I’m not against it. I guess I just haven’t found anything I like enough to permanently mark my skin with it, you know?”

“Except tacos?”

“Except tacos. Fucking love tacos.”

Her nose crinkles as she grins, and we return to our food in companionable silence. Her words get me thinking. What do I like enough to permanently mark it on my skin? My career—check. Camping in the woods—check. My sister—check. Even some good artwork.

But already, I can see Katy symbolised in ink, too. And that thought both thrills and terrifies me in equal measure.

Chapter seventeen

Katy

Idon’tknowifthis is something I should talk to someone about. If it were anything else, I’d call for a girls’ night and let Amie, Ruth and Paloma help me figure out what to do, but this… this seems like a story that isn’t mine to tell. But it’s too big for me to carry alone. I feel it on my shoulders like the weight of the world when I’m at work, scanning groceries. I feel it sitting on my chest like an elephant when I’m at home reading, stealing my concentration.

And I feel it when I see Jay, a dark shadow following him, shrouding him, enveloping him and hiding him from me almost completely.

And so, I find myself outside a nondescript brick building, looking up at the sign above the doorway. It’s just a social club. But inside, there are men and women with shared pain. I push through the heavy door and wince as the room falls silent when I enter.

Within a few minutes, a glass of flat, room temperature lemonade has been pushed into my hand, along with a small stack of chocolate cookies. I’m not hungry, but I can’t bring myself to turn down free cookies. I sip the lemonade through a straw as I take an empty seat on one side of the circle of chairs.

“Hi, my name’s Katy,” I begin. I clear my throat. “I, uh—my friend—no, really, he’s my friend, it’s not me.” A few chuckles pepper the room. “My friend—he got back from Afghanistan recently.”

More murmurs.

“And he—” I curse under my breath. “I think he’s struggling. He hurt his leg out there. I think that’s okay—I mean, he says it’s okay. I know it’s been sore recently, but he’s able to run again, so—”

The man beside me presses a warm hand to my arm.

“It’s okay, love. Take your time.”

I smile gratefully.

“He… had a panic attack when we went out for lunch recently. And a few days ago, I don’t know what it was. It was like he just disappeared. He was right in front of me, but he wasn’t. His eyes… god, it was the scariest thing, you know?”

The hand on my arm squeezes.

“I guess I just… I just want to help him. And I was hoping maybe you might be able to help me. Or help him. Or help me to help him. I don’t know. I guess I just need to know that he's not alone, that he’s feeling the things he’s supposed to feel? Is that the right thing to say? I don’t even know, fuck, I’m just rambling now.”

An angry looking man on the other side of the circle speaks up for the first time.

“Sounds normal to me, lady,” he says in a thick Scottish brogue. “Sounds like he’s in his head. Sounds like probably most of us.”

A few nods move around the circle like a wave.

“Just be there,” another man says. “My wife had dissociative moments when she came home from Iraq, and they were just like what you described. Just be there for him. That’s the best thing you can do.”

“Let me give you the number of a therapist.” A lady stands up and crosses the circle to me. She holds out a small card and I pocket it with a small smile. “Your friend might not want to see someone, but if they’re willing, this guy is great. He’s been there. He gets it. And even if your friend doesn’t want to see him, it might be good for you to have a chat with him. You know, to help learn some more coping strategies.”

I get the distinct feeling this woman thinksmy friendis a front, but I smile gratefully nonetheless. Another man stands then, and launches into a horrific story of a battle in Kosovo. My throat closes, my eyes burn, and I cry for the innocent lives forever changed by war. Outside this room, the world continues to spin. And mine spins around Jay, his heavy shoulders, his dark shadow. His haunted eyes.

I stay until the meeting breaks up, and I slip out quietly into the early afternoon drizzle, where I find myself walking aimlessly for a while. I’ve always been the good girl. The sweet one. The nice one. The one every mother hopes her son will fall for, and the one those sons overlook in favour of someone taller, slimmer, sexier.

I was never great at school. I coasted through university, solidly average in every class, and when I graduated, I stayed in the same part-time job I’d held since I was sixteen. I managed to talk my way into a full-time contract, and then a promotion.

And ten years later, I’m still stacking shelves and running tills in a supermarket. But maybe I don’t have to do that forever. A small seed of an idea planted itself a few weeks ago, and it’s begun to take root. And this afternoon, the first tiny leaves are beginning to sprout.

When I met Jay, the universe screamed that he needed me, and it said I needed him too. Maybe this is why. Maybe he’s meant to help me as much as I’m meant to help him. I didn’t understand that until today, but this afternoon, talking to these wonderful people who have done the bravest things and the hardest things, who have seen the absolute worst humanity has to offer—they’ve inspired me to show them the best.Jayinspires me.

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