When I made the appointment at the local rehab center, they did not mention anything about a group. I couldn’t talk about my feelings to myself, let alone a group of randos with their own laundry list of issues. Not that I’m judging anyone for their illness or vices. I don’t take well to sharing. Never have. It’s been hard enough with Murphy.

I could not believe I said what I said. The second it came out, I backpedaled as fast as possible, but the words were out. He smiled with teeth even, and I couldn’t deny it in the face of all that. Instead, I did what I always do: evade and change the subject.

I spent another sexless night alone and woke up early to get to the clinic fifteen minutes earlier than I should have been there. Thank you Army brainwashing. It would seem even if my entire military career had been wiped away with one little bullet, the muscle memory and anxiety about being on time stayed ingrained.

The taxi driver forced me out of his car after I made him stay parked in front of the building for ten minutes, dreading walking in the door. Hospitals still scared me. The smell always reminded me of the operations, the pain, the loneliness. I hoped this place didn’t have a plastic chemical aroma which sticks to the back of my throat.

When I needed to force myself into something, I created steps in my mind. Step one: enter the damn building. Step two: sign in and find out where to go. When I made it to step three and they pointed me toward group therapy for wounded vets, I wanted to run.

Murphy’s words came back to me. Telling me in no uncertain terms I would never get laid, or truly be with him, until I tackled this. I knew he held back from me, and not just the sex stuff. All of it. The high school memories were still intact, and even back then, he’d always looked out for everyone else before himself. Something so fundamental to a person wouldn’t change with adulthood.

So basically, he wouldn’t sleep with me out of some respect for my mental state. Which, I’ll grant him, is pretty jacked up no matter how much I tried to deny it to others.

I stepped into the room and found a pot of coffee and water bottles to one side and seven chairs in a circle at the center of the room.

A tall man with a slight limp in his mid to late thirties approached with a wide smile and high top haircut. He held out his hand, and I caught the good ol’ boy charm radiating from the man. “You must be Williams. Or if you prefer, Mara?”

I shook his hand and sized him up. At least over six foot tall. His jeans bunched up around his knee, and I’d bet a prosthetic fit to his thigh. And to be honest, I envied him for a second.

Mental wounds didn’t show themselves to others like missing limbs or torn up flesh. While I had the scar on my temple, my hair covered it most of the time, so whenever anyone saw my records and noted a purple heart, I got the once over as if they asked what the hell for. I braced myself for more judgment from this group too.

I’d let my mind wander, and tall and tight was waiting for me to respond to his greeting. “You can call me Mara. That’s fine.”

He nodded once and ushered me to the refreshment table. I took a bottle of water more out of something to have in my hands, maybe to hide behind if need be. “You can call me Parker. Is this your first group meeting?”

Something released in my chest when he didn’t say therapy. “Yes, my first time.”

“And what brought you out.”

My maybe boyfriend won’t have sex with me until I get help didn’t seem like the answer he wanted. “A friend suggested I might benefit from talking about things.”

He nodded his head and braced his hands on his hips. “Well, we talk about things here so you’re in the right place.”

Guy missed his calling as a TV personality. How had he survived the military with his demeanor intact?

“Well, pick a seat. We are going to get started in about ten minutes.”

I turned and tried not to walk too fast to my chair. I settled into the hard plastic and waited for this nightmare to be over. I’d be having words with whomever booked my appointment about specifying group versus individual therapy. Not that I’d be more forthcoming in a one on one setting.

A black man with a prosthetic arm entered, spotted Parker, and headed straight for him. They hugged like old friends before the man came over, tossed his backpack on the ground, and took a seat. He smiled ear to ear at me but didn’t say anything.

Why was everyone here so far smiling so much? Maybe they turned their patients into Stepford Vets. A scary prospect.

A minute passed of me trying to avoid new guy’s eye when a couple others filtered in, took seats, and then Parker took the last one. I focused on keeping my hands and knees still while I waited for the inevitable.

He opened the group and gave everyone a nod but then locked his eyes on me. “Now Mara, you’re the only new person here. If you don’t mind, we can skip the introductions and let people introduce themselves as they share. Did you want to go first?” His hopeful, eager, too nice guy eyes buckled my resolve. Damn men and those looks.

I didn’t stand up. In fact, I tried to sink further into my chair and didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. A childish move, but the only thing keeping me from running at the moment.

“I’m Mara Williams. I was in the Army…” A couple guys interrupted with a low pitched “hooah.” I didn’t look at them either and launched back in. “I was injured in Afghanistan, took a bullet to the head, without the Kevlar.” A few sucked in breaths stopped me this time. It took a second to get back on track. “I lost all my memories from my time in service, and that’s it.”

I finally glanced up to meet their eyes, and everyone wore the same “well, shit” expression. Parker recovered first. “Thanks for sharing, Mara. If you have more you want to say later, you are more than welcome to join back in.”

He faced the black man next to him. “Fields, you want to go?”

The man—Fields—glanced at me first to make sure I didn’t want to share anymore and then launched into a story about his son and how he had a panic attack when a car backfired in his neighborhood. His son apparently had been learning about his symptoms, and they discussed why Fields reacted in certain ways to things.

How very healthy.

Unkind, but envy at how very adapted all these men seemed to be cut through me to my already raw core. The meeting couldn’t be over fast enough. Parker said goodbye to everyone and made a straight shot to me as I almost tripped over the chair in an attempt to flee.

“Mara, you’re welcome back to the next meeting.” He whipped out a card from somewhere and gave it to me. “Or if you find you need to talk to someone, you can call me directly.” His offer of help seemed sincere, and I gave him a nod before running out of there. The taxi I ordered as they wrapped things up waited on the curb. I made it to Murphy’s bar and slammed in with a huff.

The entire ride I stewed over why I had to attend such a shit show. None of them talked about waking up in cold sweats, none of them talked about being unable to drive themselves around for the rest of their lives because of some fucking head wound. None of them lost years of their lives, leaving an empty void filled to bursting with questions.

And every single one of them knew who they were.

I hated them for that the most. Murphy took one look at me entering and turned over a shot glass, poured it to the rim, and pushed it forward to the edge of the bar.

A tightness in me eased at seeing him. I was still angry. My hands shook as I grasped the glass and tossed it back. It burned its way down, eating through some of the fury.

“Another one, Barman, and keep them coming.”

He poured another shot. “That bad, huh?”

I tossed the shot back and leveled him a glare. “It was fucking in a group.”

He sucked air between his teeth. “I take it you didn’t know it was a group thing when you called and signed up.”

I shook my head, and he poured another, thankfully, without comment on how one more would likely put me on the floor.

I cradled this one and let out a sigh. The alcohol already created a nice cocoon in my belly. It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t my fault, nor theirs. I had to figure this thing out, and if that meant sitting with a bunch of guys talking about our feelings for an hour, then I’d do it. No way in hell I’d enjoy it though.

Murphy put the bottle back on the rack and leaned on the bar. “It probably doesn’t matter to you, but I’m proud of you.”

Alcohol induced or Murphy being his saint-like self I didn’t know, but I leaned across the bar, captured his neck in my hand and kissed him deep. We broke apart at the wolf-whistle from the corner of the bar.

“Shut up, Marty, or I’ll cut you off.” Murphy yelled even though he remained an inch from my face. Then to me he said, “What was that for?”

I shrugged. “Do you need help back there or what?”

“Nope. I’m good. Slow crowd tonight, and you might do better off taking a hot shower and relaxing. If you know how to do that sort of thing.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, you have shitty taste in music, so you can’t listen to that in an attempt to wind down. What do you do to relax?”

My face burned hot, and I prayed the low bar lighting hid my blush from him. He didn’t miss the way I ducked my chin and cut off eye contact. “What? Now you have to tell me.”

“It’s nothing. A girlie thing.”

“Yes…so…tell me.”

“I like to paint my toe nails to relax.”

I checked his expression from under my lashes, and he only smiled, the same all-knowing Murphy smile he usually wore. “Nothing wrong with that. You do whatever you need to do. I think you’ve earned it.”

And right back to being reminded I’m different. I took down the last shot, pushed the glass his way, and headed toward the door. Maybe that was the problem. I could never escape it. I’d always be that girl: the one shot in the head, the one with amnesia, the one with PTSD or whatever label they put on it this week.

I hated being the center of attention for all the things that happened to me. More so, it rolled my stomach to watch the realization filter into someone’s eyes as they puzzled through who I was or what I’d suffered. Like my trials were a side show attraction meant to fodder conversation when the good topics ran low.

I made it to my room and flopped on the bed, the shots now giving me a slow, hazy feeling. As close to oblivion as I could get right now, outside of Murphy’s arms.

I could close my eyes for a minute…