Sitting down to dinner with company feels odd. It’s made more strange by the sensation that she doesn’t like me. The people I generally eat with are family or women I’m with. Both categories like me to some extent, or they wouldn’t be in my home.

But she’s not overtly rude; she doesn’t sit on her phone or anything like that. No, she sits across from me, using her fork to shove a bit of food around on her plate.

I take a bite, loving the hot cabbage and watercress combination. Still, I watch my companion as she takes a bit of mushroom on her fork. She lifts it to her nose and sniffs it as if trying to figure it out before placing it gingerly on her tongue like it’ll bite her.

We eat in silence for a while before I decide to offer something I’ve been mulling over. “I could help you train Sentinel,” I say, taking another bite of food.

Victoria’s head jerks up and she glares at me, her face showing her displeasure and anger. “What are you saying?” she asks, her tone deceptively calm.

Walking on egg shells isn’t my strong suit. “That if he’d been trained to halt,” I emphasize the command enough that Jax lifts his head to look at me. “Today would have gone totally different.”

But Victoria’s eyes narrow like she’s battling fury. “Are you saying this is my fault?”

Does she feel at fault? I study her, my food forgotten. She’s an enigma. One second, she’s grateful and thanking me for helping. The next, she’s at my throat. “I’m saying things could have gone differently.”

To my surprise, her eyes fill with tears and she blinks them back, looking mortified. “I’m training him,” she says, her voice barely more than a miserable whisper as she stares at her plate and pushes more food around with her fork.

She’d made it through more of the food than I expected her to. The plate is nearly clean with only a few scraps of cabbage and watercress left. She’d demolished the mushrooms first, and I can’t help but be glad about that. A girl that likes mushrooms can’t be all bad.

“He’s your service dog, why not have him professionally trained?” I ask, curious.

Her voice is a little stronger when she answers. “I don’t know. He was coming to me because…” she trails off as if deciding not to tell me whatever she was thinking. I decide not to push her. If she wants to talk about it, she will. I’m not really invested either way.

“Well, my offer stands,” I tell her. But I sense her anger returning.

“I can train my own damn dog, okay?” She drops her fork with a clatter and I look at her in surprise. There’s something else going on. I know it. “This wasn’t my fault.” As she says it, her shoulders shake.

“I didn’t say it was,” I tell her. But I know she feels responsible. That’s obvious in how adamantly she’s denying guilt. She feels guilty and she’s trying to convince herself that it’s not her fault, that she couldn’t have stopped it.

But I don’t buy it. A well trained service dog can sit and stay. Hell, a partially trained house dog can sit and stay. It’s an integral command because you never know when something could happen that requires a still, calm dog.

“So what service are you training him for?” I ask and she glares at me.

“None of your business,” she snaps and I shrug.

“I’m not trying to upset you,” I tell her, sensing that honesty is the best way to go with her. “I’m merely trying to make conversation. I apologize for making you angry.”

It’s like I hit a button. She slumps in her chair and there’s a resignation in her tone as she talks to me. “No, I’m sorry. Most people are so quick to judge or call me a liar about him even being a service dog.”

“Some people take advantage of the system,” I say, knowing all too well that some people suck and buy fake service dog vests and fucking try their best to ruin it for people who actually need service animals.

“He warns me of panic attacks,” She says, her voice small. “He warns me it’s time to sit so I don’t pass out. I have PTSD and anxiety.”

“Invisible illnesses,” I say, knowing all too well what she means. “People can’t see them and you look healthy, so they assume you are and that you’re lying.”

Her head snaps up and she looks me in the eyes. “How do you know that?” she asks, her eyes slashing back and forth between mine. And for the first time, I feel a real, non-physical link to this woman.

“I train service dogs for vets. There’s an organization I work with right here in the city.” I place my elbows on the table and link my fingers before resting my chin on them. And I just watch her as her face goes dreamy.

“That’s what I want to do,” She says in a shiny voice that’s more full of life and hope than I’ve heard from her so far.

“Train service dogs for vets?” I ask, more than a little bit startled. I have to say, I’ve never heard anyone say it with such reverence in their voice.

She nods, her eyes glossing over like she’s off in her own world. And I feel a flash of respect for her. It takes someone who has suffered to recognize others who have suffered. I get a rare glimpse into that world through the people I’ve worked with.

But she’s there, on the front lines, battling her demons and looking to give back.

It’s a hell of a peek into her psyche.

“But I suck at it,” She says, her expression crashing and burning as her whole dream goes down in flames behind her eyes.

It’s soul crushing to watch.