25
David
Ismooth the shirt fabric against my stomach and fold the collar. I tighten the belt holding the black pleated dress pants against my slim waist. I place my hands on the counter and take a deep breath. This is the only job interview I’ve gotten, and I need to do well. I’m broke and I haven’t had any opportunities since my hospitalization. This might be my only chance. My phone buzzes.
Bianca: I’m here. I’m sitting by the bar.
One more glance in the restaurant’s bathroom mirror, and I walk out into the casual dining area. I look around the horseshoe-shaped bar and see a lady place her phone down on the counter. I walk over and take a seat next to a very petite, adorable woman with a brown bob and green eyes.
“Bianca?” I ask.
She reaches a manicured hand toward me, and I shake it. I catch her gaze and smile at her. I try to read her body language. She leans forward, accentuating her cleavage. I notice. And she notices that I notice.
“Hello, David. I'm the one who posted the ad. I'm looking for someone to help maintain one of my apartment buildings. It's not just fixing what needs to be fixed. It's also handling tenant complaints and collecting rent. Do you have experience with any of this?”
“Not particularly, but I am handy and always willing to learn. I'm also pretty good with people.” I smirk at her.
She blushes, uncrossing and crossing her legs. She brings her hand up to her mouth, her forefinger curled against her lips.
“Well... we still have the old property manager on site for another month. Maybe he can teach you the ropes. I'll speak with him and get back to you.”
I want to beg her to give me this chance. I need to show Emily that I’m more than what I was, that I'm trying. I don’t, though, because desperation isn’t a good look for anyone.
“I’m sorry to make this so quick, but I have to go back to the apartments and deal with a thing.” She rolls her eyes as she checks her phone again. “It was a pleasure meeting you, David, and I’ll be in touch.”
She stands and leans down to offer me her hand. A necklace above the low neckline of her shirt shadows her breasts. I watch her walk away. Her hips sway in a fitted black skirt. She looks back and smiles at me. Thank god for pleated pants.
In my excitement, the only person I can think to text is Emily.
Me: Hey, Emily! Job interview went well I think.
* * *
Emily
My phone vibrates. I see David's name and smile at the screen.
Me: Good! Fingers crossed!
Kevin comes into the room and peers through the blinds. He's been awake for twenty-six hours. He checks the lock on the window for the tenth time and walks over to the door, standing beside it in a defensive position. His hand rests on his holster. He reaches over and checks the lock, yet another time. Another barrage of fireworks pierces the silence in the house, and he tenses.
“It's not even dark yet,” he says through clenched teeth.
This is our first Fourth of July together, but not the first time fireworks left Kevin crumpled up on the floor, his loaded gun by his side. His PTSD becomes more apparent around things I take for granted. He swerves at potholes, under bridges, and near cement barriers which had—at one point in his past—concealed IEDs or ambushes. He is hyper-vigilant when we are in public places, hovering near exits and keeping his back to the wall.
His PTSD affects our life and our relationship. He's so cold to me sometimes. There are moments when I don't even recognize him. Besides the sex, we have very little substance between us. I’m not sure what we’re doing together.
The disconnect makes it hard to avoid intrusive thoughts of David. What is he doing right now?
“Why are you with me, Em?” He's slurring his words, drinking himself into the sleep he so desperately needs. A slumber that will allow him to escape reality.
“I had the best times of my life in the army,” he continues. “I’m half the person I was when I was overseas. I was a warrior, and I was so good at it. Now I can't even handle some fireworks. I can’t drive down the road without realizing how unfit I am for civilian life.
“At work, I’m not the second or third choice of cooks. In this relationship, I can't even give you what you need. I’m failing at all of this, and I don't know what to do anymore.”
His hands wrap around his empty glass, and his fingers interlace. His gaze is on the floor. Another firework makes him jump. I try to pull him in for a hug, but he shrugs his shoulders and leans away.
“Kevin, I don't know how to help you, and I don't know how to fix how you feel. You aren't failing. We’re okay. Let's go turn music on and lie in bed for a little while. Once you sleep, you'll feel better.”