Page 102 of Hushed

He looks appalled. “Were you in some kind of trouble?”

“Let’s just say that we had a CO who had a nasty trick played on him that nobody in our unit knew anything about, and nobody was particularly upset that it happened.”

“I’m not sure if I should be impressed or frightened.”

“What you should be is very cognizant of the Fifth.” I kiss him on the temple. “I’m kidding. I actually didn’t do anything. I was on a 72-hour liberty at the time. But I knew and I was glad it happened.” I squeeze him a little tighter. “Okay, then. Let’s start with Dr. Chen’s questioning about your research sample.” I find the relevant section of the transcript and slide it across to my husband. “Read it again. Out loud.”

He looks down and reads, “‘That reflects the demographics of recent combat veterans, yes.’”

“And what was his question?”

He scans up. “‘So, your sample population were ninety-two percent male combat veterans between the ages of twenty-two and thirty-five?’”

“Read it again. Listen to the way he framed it.”

I watch him scan the page. He does it again, shakes his head, and tries again. “I don’t—”

“‘Your sample population,’” I say. “Not ‘the population that uses this treatment center.’ Not ‘the demographic reality of who serves in combat roles.’ Your sample. As if you chose it. As if you specifically selected young men.”

“That’s just semantics. A turn of phrase. It’s not exactly hostile,” Bastien says with a short, surprised laugh. “Anyway I did select—I mean, I chose to study that population because—”

“Because they’re the ones dying, Bastien. Because they’re the ones who come home broken and eat their guns because the VA doesn’t know what to do with them. You chose to study combat veterans because combat veterans need help. The fact that combat veterans are mostly young men isn’t your preference. It’s the demographic reality of who this country sends to war.”

Bastien’s jaw drops. He blinks at me and looks down at the page like he’s never seen it before.

“Now this part. When Dr. Whitman asked about your email exchange with Robby. The one where he flirted with you and you redirected him.” I find the line. “‘While this is problematic, what is particularly baffling was your response. You were in a position of responsibility.’” I read it out loud.

“I remember.”

“This is transference. Don’t look so surprised. I can look shit up, too. And you handled it by the book. You established boundaries without shaming him. You moved the meeting to a public place. You followed up with a written clarification when he persisted. That’s textbook, Bastien. That’s what they teach you to do. And she called it ‘baffling.’ She acted like your professionalism was suspicious.”

“She did ultimately acknowledge that my follow-up email was well-crafted—”

“After she made you sit there and defend yourself for not humiliating a vulnerable young man. After she made it clear that your warmth was the problem.” I shake my head. “And you thanked her for that. I read your response. You thanked her for acknowledging you handled it correctly. Like you were grateful she’d found one thing you hadn’t fucked up.”

Bastien goes very still. “What was I supposed to do? Be combative?”

“You were supposed to be treated fairly. That’s what those committees are supposed to do. Fair inquiry. Not—” I flip pages, scanning my notes. “Not whatever this is.” I find another section where I’ve written: LEADING—establishing “feelings” as criterion.

“How did you even notice that?”

“I approached it like a military tribunal and looked at it through those eyes. Here. This is it. ‘Did you have feelings for Robert Reeve?’” I read. “Not ‘did you act on any attraction?’ Not ‘did you violate any protocol?’ Did you have feelings. And then later: ‘Did you love Robert Reeve?’”

“I answered as best I could—”

“I know you did. You said you liked him, thought he was amazing, were excited for his future.” My voice cracks from frustration. Why isn’t he getting this? “You described him with compassion, Bastien. You talked about his manga dragons with tiaras. You talked about watching him rediscover joy. And that was used against you. Your empathy was entered into evidence. And ultimately, the answer you should have given to whether or not you loved Robby Reeve was that it was none of their goddamned business. Because no matter what you may or may not have felt, you did your job. And you did it well.”

He opens his mouth but nothing comes out.

“When’s the last time a straight researcher was asked if they had feelings for a research subject? Not ‘did you sleep with them?’ not ‘did you cross a line?’ but feelings? As if caring about someone is an admission of guilt.” I look over at him, to see if it’s sinking in. “That question only makes sense if the assumption is that your feelings are dangerous by default. That your capacity for love is predatory.”

“Chen was hostile from the start. I knew that going in—”

“And what did you do about it?” I demand.

The question hangs in the air. He looks perplexed. “I… I stayed professional. I didn’t let him bait me.”

“You did more than that.” I pull out another page and read: “‘If you’re suggesting that I have a type and that type happens to be young military-aged men, I want to remind you that I come from a military family. I can provide you the names and contact information for every single boyfriend I’ve had since high school. All of them are white-collar professionals from middle-class backgrounds.’”