9. Jay
Chapter nine
Jay
E ven with the dimmed nighttime lighting, Flaggs supermarket is uncomfortably bright. I turn down the next aisle, staring at my feet as I drag one foot in front of the other, only to catch my toe on a loose piece of cardboard and pull up sharply. The still-empty metal basket looped over my arm swings and jabs me in the stomach.
“Jay?”
The sound is familiar. Embarrassingly, it takes me several seconds to realise it’s my name. The voice saying it is soft and sweet, like spring birdsong or the sunrise after a storm. I raise my eyes and immediately look right into the eyes of my little sister’s best friend. Katy Keller. The pretty blonde girl who drinks craft beer and reads books, the one who smells like oranges. The one whose smile is like sunshine. My friend, Katy.
Say something, Jay .
“Oh god, Jay, what happened?”
Too late .
Katy tidies the boxes she’s unloading into the fridge, shoving them haphazardly into a large metal cage, and then her small hand wraps around my forearm as her eyes search my face with concern. My bruised, beaten face. My black eye with the sutured cut on the brow. My split lip. My purple cheekbone and the healing cuts on the bridge of my nose. Thank god she can’t see the state of my ribs and stomach, or the grazes on my knees. That’s definitely not something she needs to worry about—and if I know Katy at all, I know she’ll be worrying already.
“I…”
God, I’ve been so on edge since it happened—even more so than normal. My new normal, at least. Before it happened. It . I haven’t even managed to say it. Since I was attacked. I haven’t told anyone. It’s been nearly a week, and this is the first time I’ve left home since—and even then, it’s only because my fridge is empty and I need to eat something with the antibiotics the nurse gave me after cleaning my wounds. I’ve avoided my appointments. I’ve barely responded to texts. There are several from Katy that received only one-word answers, and I’m just grateful that my sister is in Austin this week for work, otherwise I’m sure she’d be banging down my door for ignoring her messages. I just can’t bring myself to do anything with them.
It’s a one step forward, two steps back kind of scenario. Every time I feel like I’m getting better, closer to the old Jay, something happens. A nightmare, a trigger, something , and I’m right back to where I started. I’m on edge all over again, terrified of my own shadow, afraid to experience anything that isn’t blind stoicism, for fear of hurting someone or being hurt.
It’s been almost a week since I was hurt at work—since I was attacked—and the police are none the wiser as to who jumped me and why. Well, we all know why. I was carrying several thousand in cash, and I was unarmed. It hardly takes a genius to put two and two together there.
“Jay?”
Katy repeats my name, and her fingers flex, gripping my arm a little tighter. She leads me to the end of the aisle, peering from right to left, and then pushes through a set of wide double doors into a quiet, empty corridor behind a staff only sign. Thank god . It’s near silent in here, just the sound of our breathing and the buzzing fluorescent lights echoing off the grey concrete walls.
“What happened, love?”
It suddenly occurs to me that I haven’t really spoken at all. I don’t think I’ve spoken since leaving the hospital. And I don’t know if I can. I focus on Katy’s hand on my arm. When she misunderstands and tries to pull it away, I hold it there with my other hand, and when I lift my eyes, they lock with hers, full of a curious blend of concern and encouragement.
“I was—I—” Spit it out, for fuck’s sake. “I was attacked. At work. I mean—I’m fine. It’s okay. I’m okay.”
“ Fuck ,” she breathes. “Fuck, Jay, Ruth hasn’t said anything—what the fuck? Are you sure you’re okay? What can I do? Do they know who did it? What’s—I mean, are they looking? What’s going on?”
Her words come out in a rush, worry giving way to pain in her big brown eyes.
“Ruth doesn’t know,” I whisper, dropping my eyes. I haven’t spoken to my sister since it happened. It might be the longest time we’ve gone without speaking—at least, while I haven’t been on a mission or otherwise deployed somewhere remote. I don’t know how to tell her. I don’t want her to know. I don’t want her to see me like this. She doesn’t need to worry about me.
“Oh, Jay,” Katy sighs. Her eyes fill with tears and I hate it. I hate that she’s crying for me. I hate that I can see her hurting and I don’t know what I can do to fix it. “You need to tell her.”
“Don’t cry, Katy,” I beg. I shake my head as I lift a hand to brush an errant tear from her cheek. “Please don’t cry. It’s nothing. I’m not—it’s not worth crying about.” Don’t dim her light, don’t dim her light.
She closes her eyes against my touch, a deep breath lifting her chest and shoulders as she squeezes the hand on my arm.
“That’s not true,” she whispers. “Can I do anything for you? Do you need anything?”
“I just need some food,” I answer. “Maybe something strong to take the edge off.” I try a laugh to go with the bad joke, but it sounds hollow. Katy narrows her eyes.
“Jay…”
“I’m kidding, Katy. I swear. I just need to fill my fridge and get some sleep. We’ll have lunch again soon? When are you off to Mexico?”
“Monday,” she answers with a tight smile. It’s Saturday now. “I don’t have to go—”
“Katy, don’t even think about it. I’m fine, and you’re going to Mexico. You’ll have a great time.”
“Yeah.” She smiles tightly, giving my arm one last squeeze before pushing the door open again. I step back onto the shop floor and she follows, a hand on my shoulder before she leaves me to my shopping. When I leave the store, a canvas shopping bag in each hand, I find her leaning against the wall, legs crossed at the ankles, thumbing through a brightly-coloured Disney Princess magazine.
“A little young for you, isn’t it, Princess?” One corner of my mouth lifts in a half-smirk. It feels good to smile, to laugh, to think of anything other than getting hurt. I’ve been signed off work since the incident and all I’ve been able to think about is my jeep being hit with an IED, having my leg shattered and burned and infected and rebuilt, learning to walk again, being attacked by a gang of strangers in the middle of a busy town centre.
But seeing Katy again is a breath of fresh air—her dark eyes, her sandy hair, her sunshine smile. Without even trying, and without me realising, she’s pulled me from my funk. She’s dug herself a little hole and crawled under my skin.
“Ha ha,” she grumbles lightly. “It’s for Maisy. You know, Amie’s kid? But I got bored waiting for you. Figured I’d kill some time.”
“You didn’t have to wait for me.” She pushes off the wall and falls into step beside me.
“I know,” she says with a light smile, nudging my arm with her shoulder. God , her smile could end a war. “But I wanted to. I didn’t want you to have to get yourself home alone.”
I slow my pace mid-stride and turn to look at her. Fuck , she’s pretty. And it’s not just that she’s pretty—she has the sweetest, purest heart, too. Every day I see her, I find myself sharing more and more. I find myself smiling more and hiding less. And I find myself missing her when I go home alone.
“Besides,” she continues with a cheeky grin. “My house is on the way to yours, so really, you’re taking me home.”
Christ, this woman. If I were younger, if she weren’t my little sister’s best friend, if I weren’t such a fucked up mess of a man… I think I could fall for her.
It’s been over twelve hours since I bumped into Katy at the supermarket, but it feels like only a few minutes. I’m not sure if I’ve slept at all since then—or maybe I’ve done nothing but sleep since then. Time no longer has meaning.
I peer through the window like some kind of awkward peeping tom. It’s another chilly, overcast late-winter day, but the room inside looks cosy. Warm yellow string lights bathe the space in a golden glow. Chunky knit blankets cover plush sofa cushions, and steam billows from a large mug on a wide serving tray on the footstool. An arm shoots out to grasp the handle and lift the mug out of view. This looks like the right house. Like the one I saw from the bus window as Katy darted into it last night. I step to the side and rap my knuckles against the red front door.
A moment later, the lock clicks softly and the door is pulled ajar, taking my breath with it. She’s a fucking vision. Grey leggings encase her legs, and a soft pink sweater hangs from her shoulders, fashionably oversized and sleeves pushed up to her elbows. Matching pink socks hug her feet, pushed down around her ankles like 80s legwarmers. Her blonde hair is pulled into a messy ponytail with soft tendrils framing her makeup-free face. She looks young and pretty, and like she tripped right out of a casting call for Flashdance .
Fuck . Why am I even here?
And how did I notice all of that about her in half a second?
“Jay?” Katy pulls the door open further. “Did you hear me?”
“Sorry?”
“I asked what you’re doing here. Not that I’m not positively, absolutely thrilled and overjoyed to see you…” Katy bites her lip with a raised eyebrow and a hint of a smile. What I wouldn’t give to be that lip right now, pulled between her teeth.
“Oh. Oh, I…” I shake my head slightly. Why am I here? I didn’t even think about it. I just walked. Never stopped to consider whether she might be home, or whether or not she might have plans. Never stopped to think about much at all. “I guess… I just didn’t want to be alone. Is this okay?”
She steps aside to let me in. Her house smells like cinnamon and oranges—like Katy —and music plays softly from a speaker somewhere.
“Of course it’s okay. Come on in. Do you want a coffee? Tea? Tequila?”
Her voice takes on a lilting, teasing tone as she spins to walk down the narrow hallway and I bark out a laugh. “Coffee would be great.”
She moves through to the kitchen, hips swaying as she walks, and she flicks a switch on some fancy-looking gadget before shoving a mug beneath it. Within seconds, the small space is filled with the rich aroma of fresh coffee.
“Milk? Sugar?”
“No, thanks. Just as it comes.” It suits me better that way , I think darkly. I bite back the words. No need to add melodramatic teenage woe to my already-oversized baggage.
She hands me the cup and switches everything off, before leading me to the living room—the room I spied through the window. It’s even cosier than it looks from the outside: all pastel pinks and creamy whites with light tan accents and a warm glow. The music is coming from the corner, and it sounds like—
“That Disney Princess gear, that wasn’t just for Maisy, was it?”
Katy whirls to face me, ponytail flying behind her head.
“It was,” she insists. “I just like the music.”
“Whatever you say, Princess. Whatever you say.” I cross the room, standing with my back to her as I study the full-to-bursting bookshelves built into alcoves on either side of the chimney breast. “Hey, you know you have two—wait— four of the same book here?”
“They’re special editions.”
“They’re the same book.”
“With different covers. Special edition. Overseas publication. Limited print run. Exclusive .”
“But… they’re all the same on the inside?”
“Some have different fonts. Fancy illustrated chapter headings. One of them is signed by the author.”
“Is the story different?”
Katy’s eyes drop to her feet, suddenly finding her pink woollen socks very interesting.
“No. And there are actually six of them, by the way.”
I smirk into my coffee, dropping into what might just be the most comfortable, oversized and overstuffed armchair I’ve ever sat on. I hold the cup to my face, inhaling the bitter aroma. It gives me something to do with my hands, if nothing else. I didn’t mean to end up here. I certainly didn’t mean to find myself knocking on the front door. This is Katy’s space—her home . It’s not somewhere that should have to house my oversized emotional baggage.
But something about Katy told me that maybe she wouldn’t mind. That she’d let me in. That her sanctuary could become a safe space for me to land, too. That she’d open her door, open her arms, and let me be whatever I need to be, however I need to. And I need that.
I need the way Katy looks at me like I’m just me , rather than the worry I see in Ruth’s eyes, the pity in Mum’s, the avoidance in Dad’s. I need the way she doesn’t tiptoe around me, asking questions about me rather than my past, but never with a quiet whisper, never deciding for me what conversations I can or can’t handle.
There were days—not even that long ago—when I wondered if I’d ever be brave enough to march out of my house and show up at someone else’s, someone who wasn’t related to me and therefore had no obligation to let me in. Days when I wondered if I’d be brave enough to let someone get close enough to me that I felt confident enough to show up, that I wouldn’t be turned away. That I wouldn’t panic and turn away.
Because it’s not that I feel shy, or incapable of social interaction. It’s that I’m—well, afraid, I guess. Afraid of getting close and then losing another friend. Afraid of burdening another person with the things I’ve seen and done. Afraid I’ll never find who I am outside of the army, afraid I’ll never feel like myself again. Afraid. But I made it here. It feels like a relief, in a way, to take this seat. Like I’ve achieved something. Done the unthinkable.
The more time I spend with Katy, the more I hate the walls I’ve put up. The more I want to be able to tear them down and let her in. I watch Katy through my lashes, eyeing me with a curious smile over her own steaming mug.
“What?” I ask. It comes out much more harshly than I intended, and I kick myself. “I mean,” I start again, more gently this time. “What?”
“Nothing,” she smiles. “It’s just nice to see you. You know, in general, but also outside of our brunch schedule.”
My lips curve behind my coffee cup. She’s right. I came here of my own volition. I chose to do this. To open myself to seeing someone outside of a medical appointment or a trip to the supermarket. To be vulnerable enough to say, I don’t want to be alone right now .
And I know I’m not. Because Katy’s on my side.