Chapter 16 Brighton
“Major Black. Nice of you to join us.” Landon leans against a column, watching the guys set up chairs in the old church. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”
“Haven’t needed to be here,” I respond stiffly.
“Sorry, I forgot you suffered memory loss and forgot the last ten years of your life,” he teases dryly.
You always need to be here. That’s what goes unsaid.
And he’s not wrong. Neither is the silence.
In it, I can hear my hands shake with unresolved trauma, and the dark corners are spreading again at a speed I can’t manage to keep up with.
But there’s another person in my home now.
I can’t let it get out of control.
Sergeant Landon Gaboury fought the same tours I did—twenty years older than me, twice as hardened.
We never fought together, but he was around at the same time as me.
He’s all gray lines and wrinkles, tired from life and what it’s thrown at him.
He's a good shoulder to lean against when everything goes to shit.
He keeps a level head, clear eyes, and never misses a beat.
“You look tired,” I say just to get under his skin, and he scoffs.
“Fuck you, Black.” He huffs. “How's the daughter?”
“Thirteen,” I shrug. “Some days she wakes up and remembers she hates me, so that’s fun.”
It’s the opposite of fun. It’s torture and unpredictable. I hate it.
“Sounds like she’s keeping you sharp,” he says with a knowing smirk. He has three kids of his own, all grown, I think. He never really talks about them, but it was always his driving force. Do better for them, create a world for them.
His motto became mine.
Do better for Daisy. Create a world for her.
That’s the point of all this. I cross my arms and watch as a few of the guys argue over whether the circle is even or not, but Landon claps his hands and interrupts them.
He hands me a coffee that I probably won’t drink and wanders over to take his chair.
Everyone files in after him, finding a spot to bare their souls in the most raw way possible, and we all go quiet.
“You know how this works,” he says to them. “I’m not going to force you to talk; being here is a step you have to take yourself. So is telling your story. If you aren’t ready today, try next week.”
A few of them stomp their boots in response, a habit from basic training that a few guys held onto later in life that they just can’t shake.
There are a few new faces around the circle, and I can’t tell if they’ve been coming for a while and I just haven’t been here, or if they’re fresh meat for Landon to mind warp into spilling their guts.
There’s a reason he's the liaison for the army now; he runs these group sessions all day long, seeing sad faces, hearing heartbreaking stories. But he’s damn good at getting people to talk.
“We can sit here in the silence too,” he says, setting down his coffee and fixing his eyes on me, but I just shake my head. Not today. Just leave me be.
One of the new faces clears his throat. He’s a squirrely-looking kid with fiery red hair and brown eyes that bounce around like he’s seen some shit. We all have but… It’s like he’s still seeing it—still in it.
“Private Dixon,” he says, coughing nervously.
“On stress leave from active duty. Two weeks ago, I watched my entire team go up in flames and I…uh…well, they…” he stutters.
“They said group would help, but I kind of just feel like a pussy,” he admits, and some of the guys laugh despite how serious it is.
“How many guys?” Landon steers the conversation back.
“Nine.” Dixon swallows hard. “IED.”
“How did you survive?” One of the rougher guys, Patrick, leans forward and asks.
“We were loading the truck,” he stops again, dropping his head, “they liked to play tricks on me, it was like making me one of the boys…” he says. Hazing. Not unusual. “Every time I tried to get on the back, they’d pull forward. It was a game we played…”
“Sounds like you’re a joke.” Patrick crosses his arms and scoffs.
“Patty, I suggest you wait your turn unless you want to tell everyone about how you used to bootlick every officer you came across for a promotion?” Landon doesn’t even turn his head away from Dixon when he offers up the threat. “Keep sharing,” he says to the kid.
Dixon can’t be more than twenty; it’s clear how young he is in the way he talks and holds himself. Patrick has him rattled, but I watch Landon pull him out of his shell.
“They pulled too far forward the last time and hit the IED,” he confesses.
He’s only here to talk about it because they were bullying him.
I exhale slowly, controlling myself as Dixon continues.
“The ones that didn’t die from the impact caught fire,” he says, looking down, and it’s only then that I notice he’s wearing gloves.
“I tried to get them out, but,” he turns his palms over and stares at the leather—no doubt covering the burns.
“Group is supposed to help with the screaming,” he blurts like he hadn’t just told a story that dark, but we all nod and agree in our own way.
“It does.” I clear my throat. “Eventually.”
Landon looks at me, giving a small nod of thanks, and turns his attention back to Dixon. As the night goes on, the tremor in my hands gets worse, and eventually I have to set the coffee cup on the floor because it’s spilling onto my jeans.
I help clean up the chairs as Landon says goodbye to the last of the guys. When I put the final stack away, I find his gaze on me.
“Have you gone to the Doc?” He asks, pointing at my hands as I shove them into my pockets.
“I am the doc.” I brush him off.
“Don’t do that, Black,” he warns. “You came tonight for a reason.”
“Just needed familiar company,” is my excuse, but Landon doesn’t buy it.
“You’re my most cagey one. You’ve been to forty-six meetings over the years and never told a single story.”
“I don’t have any to tell,” I say. It’s a delicate lie.
“You have more than anyone, Brighton.” He uses my full name, and it makes me think of Rhea. A smile creeps onto my face, and he clocks it. “What’s that?”
“What?” I shove it down.
“You smile less than you talk, so what’s that grin for?” He asks again.
“Just thinking of someone,” I admit, and it’s a simple enough lie that he’ll think I mean Daisy, maybe… “It’s nothing. Do you need any more help?”
“I could use some honesty. I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me,” he pushes.
The church feels so empty with just the two of us in it, but I lean against the column and cross my arms. “Nightmares are back,” I say tightly.
“The usual shit to keep them locked up isn’t working, and it’s causing this.
” I hold out my shaking hand. Landon stares at it and nods.
I can never tell what he’s thinking, and I wish I could. It’s almost always good advice.
“It's trauma manifesting. You need real therapy,” he gives the one answer I don’t want.
“Figured you’d say that,” I huff, pushing off the column and moving toward the front door.
“You walk yourself in a circle long enough, Bright, you’ll start tripping over your own steps,” He says as I push out into the night air. I spend the walk home thinking about what he said, and it doesn’t matter how many times he’s offered therapy as a solution; I know it won’t work, so why bother?
How is a shrink on a couch going to walk me through something they’ve never experienced?
Do they know what it feels like to feel constantly drenched in others' blood?
Do they wake up soaked from sweat, reeling from the same nightmare over and over?
How many deaths have they seen, dead bodies have they carried?
Do they walk around with a soundtrack of kids crying for help?
No, I’m not going to be taught breathing exercises by someone whose nightmares consist of a barista using oat milk instead of two percent. Fuck that.
I unlock the apartment door and find Daisy at the island with Rhea. She never does her homework in the kitchen. It’s always in her room, behind locked doors with her music on full blast.
“Hi,” I choke out, removing my boots and hanging up my keys.
Rhea looks up from what she’s doing and gives me a small wave. My eyes snag on the bandage around her palm, and my brows furrow at the sight. Daisy starts to pack up her things, vacating the area the second I get home, as per usual, and I fill a glass of water for myself.
“What happened?” I ask, even though I shouldn’t. Not my business.
“Fistfight with a baking sheet,” she says, setting down her pen. She’s grading something, but I can’t really tell what.
“Who won?” I ask, reaching under the cabinet for the first aid kit.
“Baking sheet. The garlic bread was delicious, though.” She laughs softly. I put out my hand for hers, and she hesitates.
“Black Residence rule number sixteen: you let me perform first aid. I don’t need you getting an infection under my roof,” I tell her, and it seems to quell her nervous concern because she lays her hand in mine.
“There are rules?” she asks as I unwrap the messy bandage with a scowl. The burn isn’t minor; it spans across her soft hand and looks sore. “You never said anything about rules.”
"I'll make you a list." I toss the old bandage in the garbage and grab a clean cloth to clean the burn gently. She flinches from the warm water, but I hold her wrist with just enough pressure to keep her in place. When I’m finished, I wrap it again and let her have her hand back.
“Next time, hurt a different body part. I’m sick of staring at your hand,” I say before thinking, and then regret my word choices as a tiny smile forms on her face. “I didn’t mean it that way.” Pathetic—damage control, and we both know it.
Rhea tries to hide her amusement as she slides from the bench. She gives me a tiny thank you and retreats to her room, leaving me alone. And it’s not until she's gone that I realize that the room had been so quiet with her in it.