Dirty Secrets

Psychic Wounds

I smoothed and packed the sand inside the rectangular wood frame with wide, sweeping motions. This would be the base, the support for the sculpture. I'd learned much from the sculptors I'd watched on the Florida Panhandle as a kid.

Every few moments, I checked out Jessica, who was on her knees and fully focused on shaping her sculpture, whatever it was. The sight of her in jean shorts was too distracting. She still hadn't told me what she was building. Her sun-streaked, wavy hair was gathered in a ponytail, and I longed to untie it and work my fingers through it while kissing her.

A powerful mix of adoration and carnal need washed over me. I hadn't stopped thinking about the other night.

But what had her sister meant about an appraisal? And a real estate agent? Was that for their hotel? Jessica hadn't mentioned anything about selling. Was she planning to leave soon? Where was she going?

Dammit, I wanted to know everything about her now, and I didn't have time to find out. What secrets she was keeping? Her mere presence jumbled my emotions and made my mind run in circles. The way she looked at me made my stomach flip and other parts grow hard with desire. And yet, she also inspired insecurity. The guilt over how I'd disappeared from her life when we were teenagers. The fear of what had happened back in New Orleans. And when she'd accused me of wanting to be with that tacky Megan woman at the party...well, that had just made me indignant. The idea that I would turn out like my father. A womanizer.

What would life have been like if Mom hadn't died of cancer when I was five? Growing up, I'd watched as Dad hopped from woman to woman, his life one long string of lovers. Often, I couldn't keep track of who was coming and going from Dad's bed, and by the time I was a teenager, I had such distaste for casual sex, I vowed whatever Adam Villeneuve did, I'd do the opposite.

My thoughts drifted back to the Marine Corps and Afghanistan. Bombs. Dust. Whether or not I could have saved Steve. The salt air of the beach was replaced in my brain by the smell of cigarettes and blood and freshly opened bandages. It was as if I couldn't stop the flood of memories once the spigot was turned on in my brain. How could thoughts spin so fast from a beautiful memory of Jessica to the horror of war? I needed to start taking the antidepressants again, but I hated how the damn pills made me feel. Like a zombie. Dead inside.

"Hey, Leo? You okay?"

I opened my eyes and stared upward. Jessica was standing over me. Her voice was soft.

She wore a concerned look, and her ponytail had blown over her shoulder. She dropped to the sand in front of me and reached out. Her fingertips landed on my knee, and I nearly shrank back from her, afraid of her touch because it was so pleasurable.

Breathe.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt. I was wondering if you had a butter knife or something I could use for detail. I left mine back home."

I mustered a smile. "I was just meditating. Thinking. Listening to the waves."

"You looked like you were in pain."

I shrugged. "Sometimes I can't help but think about Afghanistan. It sometimes pops into my mind. The military counselor said it would—that it was part of the PTSD."

Jessica drew in a breath. "You have PTSD?"

I nodded. "Yeah. You've heard of it?"

"I saw a TV program on it once, about Iraq war veterans."

Could I trust her enough to be honest about the workings of my dark and tortured mind? She seemed open to talking. Maybe I could ease into the subject. But should I?

She'd know soon enough, of course. When I turned myself in for what had happened in New Orleans. Hell, I'd probably make the national news.

"Yeah. I sometimes have nightmares. And a little anxiety. But it's no big deal."

Jessica removed her fingers from my leg, and I wanted to plead with her to touch me again. Her voice was even.

"Are you on some kind of medication for it?"

"Nah. I was, but it didn't work for me. I had a therapist back in New Orleans." I pushed out a breath, unable to look her in the eye. "He said I also have something called moral injury." There. That wasn't all that bad. It made me sound just a little wounded, not broken. Manly, not a mess.

"I'm...sorry. What's that?"

I sighed. "My therapist describes it as 'bearing witness to horrible things that transgress deeply held moral beliefs.'" I held up my hands and made quote marks, as if I didn't quite believe it myself. Maybe I didn't. I wasn't sure. "Basically, it's how I came to grips with everything I saw during the war—or how I haven't. Things that don't really mesh with my values."

Shit. She looked so serious. I knew this was a lot to unload on her, but I didn't expect her to fix me with a quick smile or a patriotic platitude. She was surely smart enough to know you didn't just recover overnight from something terrible.

"What do you do when you have the nightmares?"

I lifted a shoulder, trying to appear casual. "I turn on the light. Sit in bed. Read. Try to do some breathing exercises my therapist showed me." Oh, and I also have panic attacks, scream, and sleepwalk—and burn shit down.

Jessica's brows knitted. "Do you have someone you can talk to? Do you call anyone? A friend or...anyone?"

I scowled. "No. Why would I do that?"

Jesus, I hadn't wanted to come off so hard. I ran my hand over my scarred arm and opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

"I...I can't even imagine what you went through. You know, if you ever feel really bad in the middle of the night, you can call me."

Our eyes met, and I prayed that wasn't pity on her face. Silence, thick and awkward, swirled around us. I watched her draw in a huge inhale, and I grunted.

"Um, never mind that butter knife," she said in a quavering voice, suddenly looking down at her watch. "I just realized I need to be somewhere. Thank you, though."

Jessica rose and walked away. As I watched her walk over the beach, my heart sank into my stomach. She might not be able to handle my psychic wounds after all.

____