Chapter 3 #2
My lips tug up in spite of themselves. I shake my head in amusement as I quickly type my response.
Season four? Already?
Three dots blink for a few seconds.
I’ve been watching an episode or two every night.
When he can’t sleep, is the part he doesn’t mention. But I’d bet anything that’s the case. Unless something’s changed since he stayed at my place last year, Ace struggles through bad nightmares, just like me.
I don’t know what his nightmares are about—he never told me, and I didn’t ask.
Not when I wasn’t exactly volunteering the gruesome memories that visited me every night.
But I do know something bad happened to Ace’s Green Beret team.
Something so terrible, it served as the catalyst for Ace leaving it to join Delta instead.
We didn’t need to share the details, really. It was enough just to know someone else understood. It was having someone to sit with, to talk about simpler things like robot designs and ridiculous commercials and whether it would rain the next day or actually be sunny for a change.
That’s why, despite my deep embarrassment over Ace seeing me falling apart in Tacoma, I would never dream of not responding to his texts, which have grown in frequency from a few times a month to nearly every day over the last two weeks.
I know why. He’s worried about me. Which is nice, but also humiliating. I don’t want Ace worrying. I don’t want him thinking that I’m on the verge of a mental breakdown and having panic attacks every day.
I’m not, for the record. I’ve been jumpier than usual, yes, and I may check my security system more often than I normally would, but I haven’t had another panic attack since that night.
To be fair, I haven’t done much that could trigger a panic attack. Aside from work and class, I’ve spent most of my time at home, where I feel safest. Watching BattleBots, cleaning, working on my most recent project in my garage—all activities where there’s little chance of being triggered.
My phone’s screen goes dark, reminding me I still haven’t replied to Ace’s last message. So I tap the screen to wake it, then quickly type my response.
You can always text while you’re watching. If you have a question about a robot or something. I’ll probably be up.
A few seconds pass before he responds.
I may do that.
And then.
Are you doing okay?
My chest tightens.
That prickle in my nose is back.
Part of me wants to tell him the truth. That no, I’m not okay. That ever since that night at the event, I’ve felt off-kilter and nothing like the confident Yara I try to present myself as.
What I want to say, in my deepest heart of hearts, is that I desperately miss those late nights with him. That it’s not the same, sitting on my couch all alone. That I miss spending time with him.
Ace would come if I asked. I know he would. But that would be admitting I’m not okay, which I really don’t want to do.
Instead, I stick with a much safer response.
Absolutely. Everything’s great.
A few seconds pass before Ace answers.
Okay. You know I’m here if you ever want to talk.
My throat goes thick.
And I almost ask if I can call him when I get home.
But then I think about how hard I worked to be badass Yara. How proud I was the first time someone actually called me that—badass—because it meant they really respected me.
Ace wouldn’t judge you, a tiny voice in my head whispers. You know he wouldn’t. If you told him you’ve been having a hard time since Tacoma, he would understand. He might even help.
I know the voice is right. But I can’t seem to make myself ask. Not when it means being vulnerable again.
So, once again, I go with the safe response.
I know. You, too.
A gust of cold air reminds me I’m still standing outside the building instead of sitting inside my car with the heat cracked on high. Shivering, I send one more message before pocketing my phone.
Class just ended and I need to get home. Talk soon. Tell everyone I said hi.
Then I pull out my car fob and trusty self-defense multi-tool—it has an alert whistle, a tiny blade, and a small canister of pepper spray—and hurry down the stairs to the parking lot. My phone chimes once more from my pocket, presumably Ace saying good night or something similar.
A glance around the darkened parking lot shows I’m the only one around.
Several cars are parked in the row closest to the entrance, which I’m assuming belong to Hank and whoever else is working the night shift.
And then there’s my car, four rows back, which was the closest I could get when I arrived at four-thirty to prep for my class.
But now that it’s nearly eight, all the evening classes are over and the normally busy lot is quiet and empty.
It’s not a problem, of course. Not with my training. A prospective mugger would be in for an unpleasant surprise if he targets me.
Assuming someone doesn’t drop a giant tray filled with glasses and dinnerware, that is.
Stop thinking about it.
Besides, it’s normal to be triggered by loud noises.
That’s what my counselor said when I met with her last week.
“You were in a crowded area, first of all,” she reminded me, “which can cause anxiety. At an event with lots of veterans, which could have subconsciously reminded you of your own experiences.”
“But I’ve never had a problem with crowded spaces,” I argued. “Or being around former military. Why would it have bothered me then?”
“If that was all, it might not have. You may have felt some low-level anxiety that you never even thought about. But with the added stress of the man who tried to drug you… that would have put you on alert. Your adrenaline was probably going. So it wouldn’t take as much to trigger you.”
What she said made sense, as much as I’d wanted to think my times of being triggered by loud noises and the scent of blood were over.
Or shouting.
Or the smell of burning.
Or—
No.
As I hurry across the parking lot, I search for something nicer to think about.
Like going home and turning on my little electric fireplace, getting into my coziest sweats, and escaping into my favorite show for an hour or two before heading to bed.
Or the hours I’ll spend in my workshop this weekend, hopefully completing the project I’ve been working on for the last year.
Or Ace in his tuxedo. That’s something more pleasant, too.
Just friends, I remind myself. We’re just friends.
Friends can admire how the other person looks in a tux, though. Can’t they? Just because I’ve memorized the color of Ace’s eyes—the same blue as the summer sky—it doesn’t mean anything, really. I’m just being observant, which is an important skill to have.
Still.
I can’t deny the feeling of rightness when he touched me that night.
When he put his hand on my arm, his calloused fingers setting off tiny sizzles of electricity across my skin.
And the way his scent wrapped around me; fresh soap and pine with a tiny hint of cinnamon.
How his deep voice seemed to magically loosen the bands of tension wrapped around me.
Am I being stupid, refusing his help?
Should I—
From behind me, there’s an almost inaudible sound.
Almost inaudible. But not quite.
It could be completely harmless—-a piece of trash rolling across the ground or an animal scuttling around in search of food.
Or.
It could be a footstep. A careful one. The footstep of a person who doesn’t want to be heard.
My heart jumps.
Adrenaline surges.
I hold my breath as I cast my senses around me. Listening. Searching.
Though instinct urges me to run, I force myself to continue at the same pace as before.