Holy Shit #2
"Positive. I want to watch you work."
She beamed at me with that smile that could power the whole library and kissed me quickly before moving toward the front of the room where a podium had been set up. As she walked away, I caught James stage-whispering to Marcus.
"If I looked like that in a suit, you'd never let me leave the house."
"That's because you'd be insufferable about it."
I grinned despite myself and claimed a chair in the back row, folding my tall frame into a space clearly designed for someone smaller.
I could feel eyes on me throughout the room.
Curious, appreciative, some disapproving.
I ignored them all, focusing instead on Vera as she moved gracefully through the crowd.
This was Vera's world. And I was all smoke, scars, and sad stories I kept locked away. How the hell did we fit together?
Then Vera caught my eye across the room and smiled. Really smiled, not the professional librarian smile she gave patrons but the one she saved for me. The one that said I see you. I choose you. You belong here because I want you here.
And I realized: we fit because we chose to. Because she looked at me like I belonged here, even when I knew I didn't. Because love wasn't about being the same, it was about making space for someone completely different and calling it home.
The event was honestly everything I'd expected and nothing I could fully understand.
The author, a woman in her fifties with kind brown eyes and animated hands, talked about researching Arizona's territorial period, about weaving real historical figures into fictional narratives, about the challenges of writing strong female characters in a time when women's choices were so limited.
The discussion that followed was thoughtful, engaged.
People asked about symbolism and themes, about the author's process, about how much was historical fact and how much was creative liberty.
Vera was in her element, guiding the conversation, making connections between the book and broader literary traditions I'd never heard of.
I tried to follow along, tried to engage, but my mind kept drifting.
Fuel loads. Wind patterns. The way Vera's hands moved when she talked, graceful and expressive.
The schedule for next week's training drills.
Whether we needed to restock supplies in the bay.
The way Vera's eyes lit up when someone made a particularly insightful observation.
About halfway through, I gave up trying to participate and just watched her.
Watched the way she commanded the room with quiet authority, the way she made space for shy voices and gently redirected dominating ones, the way she connected with people through their shared love of stories.
She was confident here, knowledgeable, passionate about something I would never fully understand.
And god, she was beautiful.
Not just physically, but also in the way she came alive talking about books. The way her whole face transformed when someone made a connection she hadn't considered. The way she gestured enthusiastically, her hands painting pictures in the air.
This was who Vera was when I wasn't there.
This was the woman who existed in spaces I couldn't occupy, who had depths and dimensions beyond what she showed me in our quiet moments at home.
And instead of feeling threatened by it, I felt privileged.
I was honored she let me see this side of her, that she wanted me here bearing witness to her world.
The event wrapped up around nine, and people lingered, talking in clusters while Vera and her coworkers started cleaning up. I moved to help, collecting abandoned wine glasses and wadding up used napkins, but I kept catching fragments of conversations.
"Such an engaging discussion..."
"Vera always picks the best books..."
"Did you see her girlfriend? The tall girl in the suit..."
"Bit intense, though, don't you think?"
I focused on the trash, on the simple task of cleaning up, and tried not to notice the way some people's eyes lingered on me with curiosity or wariness, or both.
I was carrying a tray of glasses to the back break room when I noticed Helen pull Vera aside near the circulation desk. They stood with their heads close together, speaking in low voices, and though I couldn't hear what they were saying from across the room, I could read body language.
Helen looked concerned. She gestured subtly toward me, and Vera's posture shifted, her shoulders back, chin up. Defensive.
Sarah joined them, adding something to the conversation, and she too gestured in my direction. Her expression was harder than Helen's, more judgmental, and I saw Vera's jaw tighten.
I knew that look on those women’s faces.
The are you sure about her look. The she seems dangerous look.
I'd seen it before in the Army when I came back different, hollowed out and rough-edged in ways that made command nervous.
At the VA, when they diagnosed me with PTSD and looked at me like a bomb that might detonate.
From people who could sense the violence I carried tucked beneath my knuckles, the capacity for destruction coming from years of learning how to survive in places designed to kill you.
They weren't wrong.
I was intense. I did carry trauma like a loaded fucking weapon. I probably wasn't the safe choice for someone like Vera, someone soft and whole and unbroken by war.
But Vera was still talking, her hands moving emphatically now, and whatever she was saying made Helen's expression soften slightly. Sarah still looked unconvinced, but Vera wasn't backing down.
I turned away, focusing on the task at hand, and tried to ignore the knot forming in my stomach.
The drive home in Vera's Beetle was quiet at first. She navigated the empty streets of San Jacinto with an ease that made little proper sense, considering she wasn’t native to the town. Big city Pheonix girl bumping along to soft jazz on the radio, her hands steady on the wheel as she hummed along.
But I could feel the tension radiating off her. It was clear in the set of her shoulders.
"What did Helen say?" I finally asked.
She sighed, her grip tightening on the steering wheel, knuckles flexing. "She's worried about you being 'intense.' Her word, not mine."
"And Sarah?"
"Sarah thinks..." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "Sarah thinks you might be unstable. Because of the Army and your job. Because you run toward danger instead of away from it."
My stomach dropped, not because it was unexpected, but because hearing it confirmed hurt more than I'd thought it would. "She's not wrong."
"Petra—"
"I do have trauma. I have nightmares. My hands shake after bad fires. I drink too much sometimes when the memories get bad." The words came out flat, factual. "They can see what you don't want to see. I don’t blame them. Honestly."
"I see all of that,” Vera said fiercely. "I see all of it, Petra. And I love you anyway."
"Why?" The question escaped before I could stop it, small and helpless in the dim interior of the car.
She pulled into our apartment complex parking lot but didn't get out. Instead, she turned to face me, her beautiful blue eyes bright even in the darkness.
"Because everyone has something. Your trauma doesn't make you broken or unworthy of love. It just makes you human, baby."
"I'm not safe," I said under my breath. "You know that, right? I'm not the safe choice. I'm not gentle or easy or uncomplicated. I'm broken edges and nightmares and a woman who runs into burning buildings for a living. Sarah's right to be concerned."
"I don't want safe." Vera reached across the console, grabbing the lapels of my suit and tugging me closer.
"I want you. All of you. The broken edges and the nightmares and the woman who's brave enough to run toward danger when everyone else is running away.
I want the person who defends me without hesitation, who makes me feel protected and cherished and seen.
I want exactly who you are, Petra. Trauma and all. "
My throat tightened, the emotions suffocating me. "You deserve better."
"I deserve someone who loves me completely.
Someone who shows up even when it's uncomfortable.
Someone who sits through literary discussions she doesn't care about because she knows it matters to me.
" She tugged me closer by my jacket. "I deserve you.
And you deserve to be loved without conditions, without having to hide your wounds or pretend you're something you're not. "
I looked at her across the tight space between us, this woman who saw all my jagged pieces and called them beautiful, and something in me just… tore. I kissed her, desperate and broken and needy and entirely sure this was where I was meant to be.
"Come inside," I said roughly. "I need to tell you something. About after. About what it was like coming home."
We climbed the stairs to our apartment and let ourselves inside.
We settled on the couch, Vera curled against my side, her head on my shoulder, her hand resting over my heart.
The apartment was quiet around us, just the distant sounds of the town and our breathing.
I stared at the ceiling, gathering my thoughts, trying to figure out how to explain years of darkness in a way that wouldn't send her running.
"The funerals were the worst part," I started shakily. "Worse than the explosion itself, worse than watching them die. Lucas's was first. Three days after we got back stateside."
I could still see it. The flag-draped coffin. The honor guard. Johnson's wife, Amanda, holding their six-year-old daughter, who kept asking why Daddy was sleeping in the box.