Page 87 of Layla

“Nightmares like this—that’s why you have trouble sleeping?”

“Yes.”

She’s quiet for a long moment. Finally, she sighs. “John, look at me.”

I don’t want to. I don’t want to see fear in her eyes when she looks at me. I don’t want her to see the self-loathing that I’m sure is in mine. But I also don’t want to be a total pussy so I force myself to meet her gaze.

She doesn’t look scared. She looks sad.

“You have PTSD.” She doesn’t phrase it like a question.

Somehow, I feel even sicker. “I fucking hate that phrase,” I growl.

“Okay.” I can tell that she’s being careful with her words, unsure of how to proceed, and it pisses me off. Not at her, at myself. Because I put her in this position. I dragged her down into my nightmare when she already has plenty of her own to be dealing with.

“John, I’m okay.”

My eyes snap up to hers and I’m unable to keep the venom from my voice. “Look at your arm and say that again.”

Layla sighs. “It’s just a little red. I’m fine—”

I slam my hands into the smooth pine of Dee’s table. “It’s not just a little red. It’s going to bruise. A bruise fromme. I fucking hurt you, Layla. Jesus, don’t tell me you’re fine. Do you have any idea how much worse it could have been?”

She just shrugs, her calm maddening. “You wouldn’t have really hurt me.”

I just gape at her, having no response for such an asinine statement. “How long did it take you to wake me up?” I finally ask in a low voice.

Her gaze remains steady. “Not long. A few seconds.”

I snort out a bitter laugh. “Then you got lucky. Because sometimes it’s a hell of a lot worse than that. And if I would have gotten my hand to your throat.” I close my eyes again, ready to be sick. “Fuck.”

“Okay, I can see how that would have been scary—”

“This is already fucking scary, Layla!”

She ignores my outburst. “So, what does your doctor say?”

I blink at her, confused. “What doctor?”

“Whatever doctor is treating you for the PTSD. They must have some kind of advice, or treatment or whatever. Lots of military guys are married or dating, they must sleep with their partners, right? The doctor probably deals with this kind of—”

“I don’t have a fucking doctor.”

That shuts her up.

“I saw someone when I was first discharged and it was a Goddamn waste of time.”

“So, you stopped going.”

“I’m too fucked up, Layla. They can’t just fix me. It doesn’t work like that.”

Her eyebrows come down. “You’re not too fucked up. Don’t be ridiculous.”

I stare at her across the table, my horror growing by the second. She really doesn’t get it. She thinks there’s going to be some easy solution to make everything go back to the way it was before. She has no idea how long I’ve been like this. How hopeless it is. Maybe I got away with a few nights of easy sleep when we first got together, but that obviously didn’t last. Fuck, tonight I’d been about as happy as I can remember being, and the damn nightmare still came back.

Because that’s how this works for me. I’ll never be able to leave the hell I had experienced behind. I might be able to hide from it for a while, but it will always be there lurking, waiting to drag me down again.

And I can’t let it drag her down, too.