It was my turn to stand. I walked over to the window and stared out over the large open field that was behind the building where Dr. Sharpe had his office. The leaves on the trees were almost all on the ground, and off in the distance, you could see a light brush of snow that had fallen overnight in the White Mountains. It was almost Thanksgiving, and I thought back to Willa asking me to help her cook her turkey.
I was brought back to the present when Dr. Sharpe cleared his throat. Clearly, he knew I had drifted off. This time it wasn’t to a bad place though; it was to the place—or rather, the person—who made me feel happy. Content. Safe.
“If I stayed busy, I didn’t think about the times things went wrong. Or the fact that someone wasn’t going to be going out on the next mission. I needed to keep my mind busy so I couldn’t think, if that makes any sense.”
“It makes perfect sense. You were taught to keep everything in. So much so that when you had these emotions or issues, or even medical concerns, you kept them inside. Any show of not having your shit together, excuse my language, and you risked losing your place on your SEAL team. Am I right?”
Turning, I leaned against the windowsill. “You’re one-hundred percent right. You have no idea how many guys I saw injured who pushed through because they didn’t want something to be recorded on their jacket. And because of that, when they got out, they were denied certain health benefits because it was never down on their records.”
His face softened, and he rubbed the back of his neck. “Yes, I’ve come across that a time or two. Especially veterans trying to deal with TBI. That’s a whole other monster.”
“Yeah,” I said with a sigh.
Then something in the room shifted as a thought occurred to me: I could do something about all of this. I could use my experiences and turn all the nightmares into something good. I couldn’t save the people on that list, but I could work to help those who did survive.
I looked at Dr. Sharpe, and he tilted his head as he regarded me. “I feel like we just had a butterfly effect moment happen. Talk to me, Aiden.”
“There’s this guy who’s on the police force with my brother. He’s a former Navy SEAL as well.”
He waited patiently as I worked through the fast-coming thoughts.
“Mitch is his name. It’s not just military people who deal with PTSD. There are so many other people out there…people who don’t have a Willa Turner to love them and make them feel…safe.”
A smile grew across Dr. Sharpe’s face. “Those years when you felt the anxiety and the need to get back out there, it was because you had a purpose when you were on those missions. When you were deployed, you had a purpose; you simply called them missions. Now, you have a new purpose, and I’m pretty sure you just discovered what it is.”
I nodded my head and returned his smile with my own. “How do I deal with the triggers though? I’m guessing just because I had an epiphany just now, it doesn’t mean it’s all going to go away.”
“No, it won’t all go away overnight, but you’ve taken a giant step toward controlling what triggers your PTSD. Not everyone who walks into this office is able to walk out and fight this beast, Aiden. Some never will. But if I can help you in any way, if those who love you can help you, and you’re willing to let us, we can all do it together as a team.”
“A team,” I whispered. “A new team.”
Dr. Sharpe nodded and then smiled. “A new team.”
Willa
“Hello?” I called out as I walked into the store at the front of Adams Apiary. “Arabella? Sharon?”
Arabella glided in from the back room with a smile on her face. Even though she’d graduated the same year as Hunter, we had become close friends over the past year. Since her return from college a few years back, she’d pretty much remained here on her folks’ bee farm. She was putting those business classes she took in college to good use and really taking the apiary in a whole new direction, with the addition of an online store as well as the store on the farm and tours of the apiary. The store was in the original cabin her great-great-grandparents had built when they’d settled on this land in Boggy Creek Valley back in the late 1800s.
With her golden-brown hair pulled up into a ponytail and her emerald eyes sparkling, Arabella rushed over and hugged me. “Willa, how have you been? I keep meaning to come by the orchard but haven’t found the time to get away.”