20. Katy
Chapter twenty
Katy
W hen I return home from a few days on the coast with my parents, I find myself at another meeting. It’s been a while since I’ve seen Jay have a panic attack or dissociate, but I can’t shake the feeling that something is off. He told me he finally made an appointment to see a therapist, and I thought that was going well, but this week, he’s seemed edgy and unsettled, even when we’re at my house. Even when we’re at his. Even in his own space, his eyes dart about the room, pupils wide, tense and ready to run.
And I don’t know how to fix it.
I don’t even know if I can. But something about him—something about this friendship we’ve forged, the way he smiles at me with twinkling eyes, the way his voice rumbles deep in his chest when he calls me Princess—something begs me to try.
“Don’t enable him, honey,” one woman says. I wring my hands, at a loss of what to do with them as I stand in a circle of veterans and partners of veterans. I feel like a fraud in this room, but they’ve all welcomed me so kindly. “The worst thing you can do is enable him.”
“Enable him?” I ask.
“Don’t give in to everything he wants. Especially when he’s triggered.”
“That’s when you should let him get what he wants,” someone else chimes in. “If you fight him then, who knows what might happen.”
“No, no, no,” the first lady argues. I squeeze my hands into fists by my sides. “Be a safe space. Communicate. But when he’s triggered, you have to be firm.”
“Sure, if you want her to get smacked around.”
I can’t help the gasp that escapes as my mouth falls open.
“He’s not violent,” I begin. “He just—”
“Sometimes they’re not… until they are.”
“No. He’s not violent,” I insist again. “He just needs—I don’t know what he needs. That’s why I’m here, but maybe it was a mistake to come back. Maybe this isn’t the right place for me—for him. For either of us.”
I crouch to retrieve my handbag from under my chair, and fold my leather jacket over my arm before I move towards the door, my boots squeaking on the parquet floor as I hurry out. I’m outside the front of the building, taking deep, deliberate breaths when I hear footsteps approach me.
“Katy.” One of the voices from the meeting calls my name. “Katy, listen. Not everyone is the same. Not every bit of advice works for everyone. You—your friend—whoever it is. You might be right. They might not be violent. But sometimes, they’re not violent, until they are. PTSD… look, love. Come and sit.”
She leads me a few metres away to a bench beneath a tree just barely sprouting new leaves. I look up at its skeletal branches, dark fingers pointing skyward to an ominous storm cloud.
“PTSD is a funny thing. There’s no one-size-fits-all. It affects everyone differently. People have seen and done different things. Got different triggers. Even have panic attacks differently. Just… be careful. Look after yourself. And your friend.”
She stands and leaves me on the bench, swishing her open trench coat like a cape as she walks back into the building, the belt slapping lightly against her legs. When she leaves with the rest of the group a little while later, I hide my face. I’m not ready to be seen just yet.
I’m not sure how long I spend sitting on the bench, watching the clouds swirl across the sky and listening to birds communicate in song, but the sun is descending by the time I finally move on. London is bathed in a strange, yellow light from the clouded sunset, and I walk home without really noticing where I am until I reach my front door. Maybe this is what Jay meant. I twist my key in the lock, let myself in, and lock the door behind me with a soft click. I drop my jacket and boots on the bench by the door and head straight for the kitchen.
There, on the counter, unfolded and plain as day, is the letter. The one that landed on my doormat this morning. The one that might change my life. The one I want to change my life.
Dear Miss Keller, we are delighted to confirm your acceptance to study Foundations of Counselling at the London College of Psychology. Successful completion of this course may lead to further avenues of study.
I can’t stop the grin as it spreads across my face, and I touch my fingers to my lips. I hardly dared to hope for this letter, especially after applying so long after the deadline, so close to the course beginning. When it fell through the letterbox this morning, I cried some happy tears before calling my mum to tell her everything. It’s only a short course, but it comes with the dangling carrot of more, and the promise of a new beginning—of something I feel like I’ve waited all thirty-two years of my life to find. I pull my phone from the pocket of my jeans and snap a quick photo of the first line, before sending the picture to Amie.
Amie
What’s this?
Katy
isn’t it obvious?
Amie
Counselling?
What’s going on K?
You never mentioned this before?
Katy
I think it’s what I want to do.
Amie
Think? That’s a big step for ‘think’.
Katy
I know. It’s what I want to do, A.
Amie
okay.
CONGRATULATIONS BESTIE!!! I LOVE YOU!
I’m coming over with wine to celebrate
Half an hour later, true to her word, Amie is on my doorstep in leggings, an oversized flight school sweater that looks like she probably stole it from Cam, and her slippers. There’s a bulging cotton tote hung over one slim wrist, a bottle of our favourite Sauvignon Blanc in one hand, and an unsealed envelope in the other, along with the ribbon to the rainbow-coloured helium balloon bobbing a few feet above her head.
“What the hell,” I laugh as I usher her inside. “How the fuck did you get that so quick?”
“Magic.” She winks at me, following me through to the kitchen. She empties her shopping bag on the counter: a package of steaks and a bowl of prepared mashed potatoes, a second bottle of wine, and a pint of raspberry ripple ice cream—my favourite. There’s also a box of fancy, expensive chocolate and a sleeve of Amie’s favourite cookies, as well as a multi-pack of KitKats.
“Oh, and this is for you,” she says, finally handing me the envelope. I pull out its contents to find a bright pink card with the word congratulations printed across the front in gold-foiled calligraphy. Inside, in her big, loopy scrawl, Amie has written a short note of pride and signed her own name, next to Cam’s blocky initials and a big scribble from Maisy. I stand the card on my kitchen counter next to the display tower of colourful espresso cups.
“I love you,” I sniffle, pulling her into a hug.
“I’m proud of you, K.” She busies herself putting the ice cream in the freezer and unwrapping the steaks. “Are you gonna tell me what prompted this?”
“Let’s cook first, and then we’ll talk.”
“Okay.”
By the time the food is ready, the final vestiges of daylight have melted into night and it’s completely dark outside. String lights offer the only light in my living room, giving the space a warm glow. We balance our plates on our knees and our stemless wine glasses on the wooden tray on my footstool-turned-coffee-table.
“Talk,” Amie says, slicing into her steak. She brings a forkful to her mouth and moans as it hits her tongue. “Holy fuck, we did good, K.”
I take a bite from my own steak and a similar moan falls from my own lips.
“Goddamn, move over Ruthy, new chefs are in town.”
“You’re not getting out of it, by the way.” Amie nudges me with an elbow as she cuts her steak into small pieces.
“Yeah, about that,” I begin. I shove a forkful of potato into my mouth and chew, trying to buy myself some time. Amie pins me with her hazel gaze, one eyebrow arched.
“So, you know me and Jay went to that beer flights place for lunch,” I begin. Amie nods, chewing on a piece of steak. “Well, we’ve been a few times. We’re friends now, I guess.”
“Okay, and?”
“And…” I sigh and stuff another forkful of food in my mouth. I don’t want to tell a story that isn’t mine, but I don’t want to lie to my best friend, either. “And… he’s having a hard time adjusting. Since coming home, I mean.”
“In what way? Roo hasn’t said anything. She barely even mentions him.”
“That’s not for me to say,” I answer carefully. “Please don’t say anything. I don’t think he wants Roo to know. He doesn’t want her to worry. But… I’ve been helping him, I guess. Trying to.”
“What are you not saying, K?”
Amie’s hazel eyes catch mine, reading between the lines of everything I’ve said. I should’ve known better. She knows me better than anyone, and she always has. She’s been my best friend for over twenty years, and I’ve never kept a secret from her. I don’t think I can start now. I don’t think I know how.
“I like him,” I whisper. If I’m really honest with myself, I think I could more than just like Jay Bevan someday. I think he could be the kind of man I could fall in love with, and the thought thrills and terrifies me in equal measure.
“Wh—”
“ Don’t say anything,” I plead. My eyes fill with tears and I blink them back, rubbing at my face with the heel of my hand. “Ruth can’t find out, Amie, please don’t say anything. Promise me .”
“I won’t, honey, I promise.” She grabs my hand. “Do you—have you—I mean—”
“He doesn’t know. I mean—we haven’t done or said anything. We’re just friends. I’m probably just like another annoying little sister, right?” I pause with a self-deprecating chuckle. “An annoying little sister who likes to meddle. I read some books and some stuff online, you know, to try and help. And it just… came to me. This is what I want to do, A. And I think it’s something I could be really good at.”
Amie’s eyes soften and she puts her plate aside, shuffling in her seat to face me.
“Honey, you’re nobody’s annoying little sister. You’re the best person I know, Katy-cat. You’re going to be amazing at this counselling thing. I’m really, really proud of you.” She throws her arms around me, and I manage to catch my plate just before it tips my remaining food on the carpet.
“I love you, A,” I whisper into her shoulder. “Thank you for believing in me.”
“Always, K. Now, finish your steak. We’ve got ice cream to eat.”