“We got sent to a government building on a tip. Something about it seemed different to me. My guys, they had every reason not to take it seriously after eight months of false alarms, and they told me I was nuts when I said to clear the area. By the time I knew it was in the post box, it was too late. I was too late. Four civilians plus all three men in my squad died that day, ripped apart by an IED. I lost my men, lost most of the hearing on my right side, plus some broken ribs, ruptured spleen, and a shitload of guilt. Sorry, kid,” I said as an afterthought.
“Don’t be,” Layla said quickly, “We don’t censor ourselves in here. I’m very sorry for your loss and that you experienced that. Can you tell me how the PTSD manifests? Insomnia, irritability, nightmares, isolation?”
“I have trouble sleeping. Mainly though, one of the things I lost was the ability to experience any type of pleasure. My old doctor at the VA said that was the trauma response and survivor’s guilt. That all I had left was a half-life.”
“So, by pleasure you mean…”
“Nothing tastes good. Nothing feels good.”
“I understand,” she said and abruptly moved on.
I felt raw and a little twitchy. I wanted to talk more about it. For the first time in a long time it felt good to unstopper that memory and let some out. She needed to know, and I needed to tell her.
The cop was talking, and I made myself pay attention. At the end when she asked if anyone had anything else they needed to say, Cassie asked if she could make an appointment for one-on-one counseling with Layla.
“That’s certainly an option if you feel you need more focused attention than you can get in the group or if there’s something you’re uncomfortable sharing in company. There are a number of counselors on staff here. I can’t guarantee it would be me,” she said, her eyes flicking in my direction. As if she knew I wanted a private session myself and she was telling me hell no.
Still, I waited till most of the group was gone and asked if I could speak to her. She seemed to be avoiding me, shuffling her notes, checking her phone. She looked up, seemed to square her shoulders.
“Yes. What can I do for you?” her voice was prim, reserved.
“I was hoping to answer your question in more detail. I didn’t want to elaborate in front of the kid.”
“Ben is almost sixteen, and he’s been through enough I doubt you’re going to shock him unless you describe a lot of carnage.”
“It isn’t that. Will you have a seat?” I said.
She pulled one of the folding chairs over for herself to face the one I sat in.
“What didn’t you want to say?”
“Well, for over a year it’s like half the time I’m in my mind sitting in the corner of this dark, concrete room with shadows all around, not knowing what’s coming for me. That’s not conducive to enjoying anything. And it’s only in the last week that I’ve been able to feel and act on sexual interest at all.” I met her eyes wickedly and saw that she felt my full meaning.
Layla caught her breath, her chest rising and falling quickly. She fidgeted and clicked her ink pen some more.
“And so that’s…progress for you,” she said brightly, pointedly not asking me to elaborate. “Do you feel you don’t deserve to have pleasure in your life?”
“You might say that. I eat the same things every day. I do punishing workouts if I have free time. What would you suggest?”
“I’d say eat one different thing every day, just to introduce pleasure in small increments, don’t overwhelm your senses. Work on positive self-talk. ‘I am worthy. I am valued. I deserve this juicy peach, this sugar cookie.’”
“What if I want to see what it’s like to overwhelm my senses?” I asked archly. “You didn’t ask what brought on my sexual awakening.”
“It isn’t any of my business. I’m leading a support group. Your sex life is off the table,” she said simply. “It’s evidence that you’re healing, you’re making progress. That’s the only reason it’s significant. The trigger doesn’t—”
“The trigger makes all the difference, and you know it. If I had said I started enjoying food for the first time, you would damn well have asked what I ate that woke up my senses. Wouldn’t you?” I challenged.
“Yes,” she said. “But that’s beside the point. Discussing your sexuality makes me uncomfortable, Tyler. It would be unprofessional for me to inquire about it.”
“The way I see it, if you’re here to help me open up, you have to ask questions. Even tough ones. So ask me.”
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, crowding her. Our legs almost touched. I felt jealous of the air that got to slide along her bare ankles. She narrowed her eyes at my challenge, leaned forward herself. She wasn’t going to back down or be intimidated. I liked that so much I could damn near taste it.
“Fine. You win. What inspired your sexual reawakening, Mr. Leeds? Was it porn? A song on the radio? A movie you watched? A glimpse of someone you saw at the grocery store who caught your attention?”
I wanted to grab her and kiss her. My palms itched with the tension between us. I let the moment stretch out, torture of the most delicious kind.
“Was it visual or auditory? Some people are aroused more by voices or sounds, moans—” she began, still clinical, still baiting me.
I leveled her a look, our eyes locking. The intensity shocked me more than if I had actually put my tongue in her mouth. I liked this attraction, liked playing with it and with her.
“You know what it was,” I said at last. “That’s why you didn’t ask. That and you’re scared.”
She rocked back in her chair so fast it was like she’d been pushed by an unseen force. I barely suppressed a laugh.
8
Layla
“Yeah, things are going great, Mom, how are you?” I asked brightly into the phone.
“Same as always. It’s been crazy at the doctor’s office, seems like every kid in the city fell off a trampoline this week and broke something,” she said. “Still it’s a damn sight better than emptying bed pans all those years as a CNA.”
I sighed. She had worked for years in the low paying, thankless job as a nursing assistant because she had me and it was all she was qualified to do. She’d quit her nursing program when she got pregnant with me. The thing I was probably proudest of was the fact I paid for her to go back to school and get her RN so she could sit in a nice, clean medical office filling out computer forms and taking the occasional blood pressure. It was less work and better pay, and it made me happier than when my Master’s thesis got a perfect score.
“How’s the puppy?” I asked.
“Edgar is fine. He finally stopped pooping on the kitchen rug.”
“That’s good.”
“No, now he’s pooping on the bathroom rug,” she sighed.
“Well, get him to go in the toilet if he’s already in there,” I said.
“I liked the flyer you sent me. How’s the group program?”
“I had a good turnout, even more on Thursday than at the first meeting. It seems like it’ll be a good group that works well together,” I said.