She’s really asking How’s Wes? but she’s trying to be roundabout.
“Good, I suppose.” I squirt shampoo into my palm and lather it in my hair. “FYI, I’m taking a shower.”
“Thanks for not calling me on FaceTime.”
“Nothing you haven’t seen before.”
“True story. Now start talking because you sound weird and it probably has something to do with that sexy, brooding cowboy.”
I angle my face toward the opening in the shower door and keep my hair in the running water. “I slept with him, Ab.”
She whistles. “Tell me everything. Married sex is boring.”
“Does Wes seem like the kind of guy who wants me to air our intimate moments?”
Abby makes a sound, almost like an irritated growl. “Fine. Just tell me if it was like you remember it?”
I bite my lip at the ache spreading throughout my belly and down into my thighs. “It was better.”
Abby laughs. “Good for you, Dakota. Good for him, too. Something tells me he needed that.”
“I agree.” Especially after that nightmare. I’m not going to tell Abby that part. It’s Wes’s to share, and I’m pretty sure I already know how likely he is to tell anybody about that. “He told his family we’re getting married.”
When she doesn’t respond, I assume she hasn’t heard me and I repeat myself.
“Dakota.” Her tone is more serious now. “When are you planning on telling Dad?”
One side of my nose screws up as I contemplate her question. “Never would be preferable.” It’s crossed my mind that maybe, with a little luck and a whole lot of well-meaning fibs, I could get through this marriage of convenience without telling him. It would be cowardly, but so much easier.
“Dakota…”
She’s using her big sister voice.
“I know, I know. Just let me think about that a little more, okay?” I press my face into the water, so I don’t hear what she says next and ask her to repeat it.
“I asked if it was just sex.”
Wes’s words come back to me. I feel like it’s easier to breathe. What are you doing to me?
“I don’t think so, Ab. We agreed that it meant something, but that we both still need what the other can provide.”
“What a mess.”
“A messy mess.” I sigh and turn off the shower. “I need to get ready for work now.”
We say goodbye and hang up. I get ready for work, and the entire drive over all I see is Wes’s face, his shuttered heart opening up for me. It feels precious and terrifying, like holding a newborn baby.
29
Wes
Dakota was right. I stopped by the Merc yesterday. On a board near the entrance, stuck between an advertisement for lawn mowing and coupons to a craft store, was a light blue paper. PTSD support group, VFW Post 0507. Below that, it listed the address and meeting time.
I took a picture with my phone, bought a package of sunflower seeds and a bottle of water, and spent ten minutes looking at funny postcards. I forgot how much I loved going to the Merc with my mom when I was little.
I’m on my way to the meeting now. I don’t know what to expect, and that makes me nervous. Are we going to sit around and talk? How many people will be there? Do I really want to share my story with strangers?
I guess that’s another thing Dakota is right about. I need to talk to people who’ve been in the military. People who understand.
I pull into the parking lot and kill the engine. The VFW is a long, squat building, made of gray bricks. An American flag undulates in the breeze, and a handful of cars are parked out front.
Growing up in Sierra Grande, I passed this place plenty of times, and my dad explained VFW stood for Veterans of Foreign War. I pictured old men, wrinkled and wearing pins on their hats. From my childlike point of view, veterans were old.
I get out of my truck. Here I am, and I’m not old. Or maybe I am.
I start for the door. I don’t have any second thoughts about the meeting. Once I’ve decided something, that’s it.
The inside isn’t what I thought it would be. There’s a large, rectangular table, with folding chairs all around it. I’d been picturing chairs in a circle, like an AA meeting. Hello, my name is Wes and I have PTSD.
“Hello, there,” a voice calls out.
A man approaches. He’s old. Pins adorn his black hat, Vietnam Veteran stitched across the front in yellow thread.
“Hello, sir.” I extend a hand. “Is the meeting still on for today?”
“You betcha,” he answers, shaking my hand. “I’m Bill Tennyson.” He motions to two more men I hadn’t noticed when I walked in. “That’s Malcolm Owenfeldt and Creighton Smith.”
I lift my hand in a wave. “I’m Wes Hayden.” If Bill recognizes my name, he doesn’t show it. It puts me at ease.
“We’re expecting a couple more,” he tells me, adjusting his hat. “They’ll trickle in. We have one coming from Brighton, he’s usually a couple minutes late.”
I settle in at the table with the three men. Malcolm is older like Bill, but Creighton is probably only ten years older than me.
We comment on the weather. Bill mentions the construction going on at the edge of town. Creighton says his wife met the woman in charge of the new building at a book club meeting and really liked her. I smile politely and say nothing. I came here to talk about the military, not Dakota. One tough subject at a time.
The door opens and two more men walk in. Both older. No pins on hats though. They take seats and say hello.
“Wes, this is Walt Jenkins and Bryan Blackstone. Guys, meet Wes Hayden.”
Walt eyes me. He looks like a quintessential grandpa. White comb-over, round face, pleated slacks. “Hayden, huh? Like the cattle ranch?”
I’m tempted to lie, but I don’t. “Yes.” I don’t offer more than that, because it’s a stretch for me to be here at all and I don’t want my family’s reputation to affect what I’ve come here to accomplish.
Bill starts the meeting by telling me what years he served, and what countries he was in. This goes on around the table, each man introducing themselves in this way. When it gets to me, I tell them about my three tours in the Middle East, the battles I fought in, and the job I had.
Walt whistles when I tell them I was on EOD. “Thank you for your service, son.”
I nod. “Same to you. Same to all of you.”
“My guess is that you’re here for a reason, Wes,” Bill says. “Do you want to talk about it?”
I lean forward in my chair, place my steepled hands under my chin. I’m not sure where to look, so I keep my eyes down on the plastic table. “I joined because I was angry. After the attacks on September 11th, I felt this sense of rage like I’d never felt before. My beloved country had been hurt. I wanted to go over there and kick ass.” I look up into the patient and understanding eyes of men who felt what I felt. “Four years turned into eight, and then twelve. The sense of duty, of loyalty to my fellow soldiers, was powerful. I couldn’t leave them behind for a normal life. Near the end of my last tour, shit went south. We went into a town where we knew insurgents would be. We’d already told the people of the town to evacuate. And they did. Except for the unlucky ones who were used as martyrs.” Tears sting my eyes and I bite my bottom lip to keep them at bay. “We rolled into town in our armored Humvees, and right in the middle of the goddamn street there was a woman and a child with a bomb strapped to them.” I’m in the stale air of the VFW, but all I smell is dust and anguish. It’s cool in this room, but I’m hot under my uniform and Kevlar. My voice is the only sound, but my ears fill with the cacophony of exploding mortars, yelling, and radio commands.