Before There Was You

by Denise A. Agnew

  Still, he didn’t need the complications that came with a relationship, just as he’d told Judy. Even if his head had been screwed on straight, he wouldn’t want a relationship with Judy. At the end of the day, he probably shouldn’t want a relationship with any woman, even if it was just to party, until he learned which way was up.

  He almost gritted his teeth. Going to this group therapy about killed him. He hated it, but he didn’t have a choice. He’d do it and that would be that. The court had ordered him, and considering the trouble he could be in with the law, he had to count his blessings he wasn’t sitting in an orange jumpsuit in a cell fighting off some asshole who wanted to make him his bitch.

  He ran faster, determined to banish thoughts of Lana Burns, PTSD and anything else that burned his hide. As he ran, though, he couldn’t help but wonder if she’d be there Thursday night, and found himself looking forward to seeing her.

  * * * *

  Lana stared out the window of her apartment. A thunderstorm rumbled overhead, but she couldn’t put off grocery shopping any longer. She’d blown off Jillie’s offer to take her grocery shopping this weekend. Now she was paying the piper because if she’d done as Jillie suggested, she’d have enough food for the week. Self-loathing spiked inside her.

  Push through this. You were always independent and capable.

  Were. Yeah, that was the operative word. Once she’d been independent, and now it chapped her hide no end to think she’d abandoned her independence.

  She glanced at her watch. Ten o’clock. Early in the day for a storm, but one never argued with Mother Nature. She took a deep breath and lifted her purse a little higher over her shoulder. It had taken her a half hour to gather the courage to walk to the front door of her apartment.

  Her left hand clutched her keys while her right reached for the security locks. She undid the locks, leaving the deadbolt for last. She opened the door. It wasn’t as if she couldn’t get this far on a daily basis. Sometimes Jillie would come to the door and they’d leave together that way. But she’d needed to go to the mailboxes herself, take out the trash, all those things, and she’d accomplished those things without much problem. Something about this was different. Well, okay. She knew why. The fact she’d already psyched herself out thinking about what came after she reached the car. Driving. Down the road, down I-25 to the grocery store. She took another deep breath. Thinking about what might happen was at least eighty percent of the problem. Thinking too much led to the shakes, the shortness of breath, the dread that told her she was about to die.

  One step at a time.

  She locked her apartment and took the stairs down from the second floor. Her apartment building had all private entrances. She ignored thinking about Costa Rica and continued down the sidewalk. Everything felt good, felt possible in that moment as her steps gained momentum. She could do this. Yes. Her blue Subaru Forester sat under its covered parking space, and it wasn’t too far away.

  Suddenly her body rebelled.

  Distress overwhelmed her and she stopped dead, just steps away from her car. She drew in a deep breath, but it wouldn’t stop the way her heart slammed in her chest. Fear prickled along her skin, traveling with spider legs. Shallow breaths sucked between her lips. She shook from the inside out with an apprehension she couldn’t name.

  A horn honked behind her, and she whirled swiftly and moved to the side. She leaned against her car for only a second as a tall white truck whizzed by. She couldn’t see the person behind the windshield, but for a few seconds she wanted to shake her fist at them. She knew she shouldn’t stand in the middle of the parking lot, frozen like an iceberg. Her heart continued to bang, bang in her chest as she broke from her stupor and stumbled into a run.

  Back to the apartment. Now. Now. Now.

  Fear so raw she could taste it in her throat propelled her down the sidewalk, up the stairs, and to her door. At the door, she fumbled with the lock. Dropped her keys and bent to grab them. Gasping for breath, she jammed the key in the deadbolt and then the door knob. Once inside, she slammed the door and locked it against the world. Trembling, she dropped her purse. She collapsed on the couch on the center cushion, her heart slowing as she absorbed the fact she was in the apartment. Safe for now. For this moment if for no other. Self-loathing rolled up and blindsided her. She’d had this experience too many times, and she’d been so sure she could do his alone.

  “Stupid. Stupid,” she whispered to the air. “You are so stupid.”

  As soon as the words were out, she knew what her therapist would say.

  Lana, you aren’t stupid. You’re having a PTSD response. Your brain has been wired and trained to respond this way based on the horrible situation you encountered in Costa Rica. Give yourself time. It takes a while to rewire this stuff.

  No. She’d had months to get this all right in her head. Months to understand that she wasn’t in Costa Rica anymore and there wasn’t a bogie man around every corner.

  “Why can’t I bust out of this this?” she asked.

  Tears spilled down her cheeks as she reached for the phone. She’d have to call Jillie whether she wanted to or not.

  * * * *

  Lana jerked from sleep with a gasp Thursday around four in the morning. Her heart hammered in her ears, her breath coming fast. Sweat broke out on her skin, a fever of fear. She rolled to the side of the bed and fumbled for the light switch. Illumination spilled gently over the room, muted by the burnished gold lampshade. She flopped back on her pillows, her breath catching in her throat. She rubbed one hand over her face. Without taking time to think, she pushed the covers off, threw her legs over the side of the bed, and reached for her journal on the nearby table. She also gathered up the box that held dozens of colored pens, pencils, and markers, and settled against the pillows once more.

  She needed to write. Doodle. Draw. Anything that would steady her heart, which stuttered along with an uncertainty that promised a panic attack. She'd had her share of that yesterday trying to drive her own car. Damn, she hadn’t even made it into her car before her wussy courage had broken down.

  And now Jillie’s patience had worn thin. She’d heard it in her friend’s tone when she’d called her to ask for transportation to get groceries. Lana had apologized profusely for the inconvenience.

  It sucked big time. But then so did waking up with no friggin' idea what had scared her, what she'd dreamed.

  Eager for relief, she opened the purple paisley journal, its creamy white acid-free, narrow-lined paper guaranteeing she'd have a memory forever. Short of burning the damn journal or ripping out the pages, she could read about her PTSD adventures years from now if she wanted.

  Your PTSD isn't like anyone else's.

  Yeah. Right.

  Monica Helmet, a PTSD sufferer she’d met online in a group for PTSD, made Lana crazy. Okay, crazier than she already was. Monica pontificated on PTSD as if she had the biggest, worst case ever seen.

  "What are you trying to do? Be special?" Monica had mocked Lana's description of her symptoms. "My PTSD is so much worse than your PTSD."

  Monica’s obnoxiousness had finally driven them all from the group. Good riddance to Monica, who was probably still trying to convince herself and the world how bad her PTSD really was.

  Even the thought of Monica’s obnoxiousness gave Lana anxiety, and the fact anyone at all had that sort of power over her drove her nuts with self-recrimination.

  Lana reached into the box and hesitated. "Pen or pencil? Fat or thick? Just make a damned decision."

  Finally she started with the pencil and began to draw. She cleared her mind, intent on creating anything. Most of the time she’d write a little in the journal about her day and draw a picture after. Sometimes she made nothing more than a small symbol on the page. The pictures may or may not have anything to do with what she wrote. She drew three butterflies on the page, feathery touches of the pencil to paper. Her thoughts slowed and genuine relaxation banished the anxiety.

  Clearing h
er mind with drawing always quieted the monkey mind. She used the colored pens in her box, selecting any color that caught her attention. Her drawings meant nothing more than doodles, scribbles, and whatever went on in her mind at the moment. Once she’d made a butterfly with pink, green, and orange, she looked at her creation with satisfaction. Sleepiness took over, and she gathered her journal and pen box and returned them to the table.

  Who needs group therapy? I’ve got crayons.

  She sank under the covers. At least she had one thing she could count on in life, even if it was nothing more than paper and pens.

  Later that morning her alarm clock woke her at six. She started the day like anyone else with a shower, breakfast, and work. Cocooned in her apartment, she almost always felt safe. Almost. This morning as she sat at her small dining table with Greek yogurt and fresh blueberries, it hit her. The fear was a strange anxiety that she never understood. Okay, she did understand it. It came without warning, but she knew it was somehow related to what she’d experienced in Costa Rica. But she hated it. Hated it. A creeping, crawling, awful dread skittered over her skin. Her breath got short again.

  She placed the spoon and yogurt on the table and took a deep breath.

  I’m safe. Healthy. Happy.

  I’m safe. Healthy. Happy.

  She’d forgotten to use the mantra before she’d attempted to leave the apartment to shop. Now, as she said the words over and over again in her head, they started to work. The sense of death being around the corner subsided, until everything seemed normal.

  “Thank you,” she said to the room. “Thank you.”

  Anything to get rid of that feeling. She understood now, as she hadn’t before her kidnapping, why some people turned to drugs and drinking to mask this feeling. It was the worse damned thing she could have imagined, short of outright terror. She couldn’t describe the feeling to anyone accurately.

  As the sensation faded, she finished her yogurt and went to her office, where she could admire the bright sun shining between the blinds of her office window. She placed her iPod into speakers on the credenza across the room and started a soothing set of classical music. She fired up her computer and settled in for a few hours of working with her students online. The setup wasn’t ideal, but it worked for the time being. She couldn’t argue with it, considering the alternative. She could have lost her job entirely.

  I’m safe. Healthy. Happy.

  For now that was all she needed to know.

  Chapter 3

  Lana settled into the plastic chair, about twenty minutes too early for Thursday night group therapy. Luckily the security guard at the front of the building had opened the door to the room already. Jillie had struggled with taking her to therapy this time—her day at the office had been shitty, and she had a sick kid at home. Six o’clock at the medical building was a push for her. She also had to take her other child somewhere tonight and so getting to the building extra early was the only option. Not that Lana complained. If anything, she could be flexible.

  Ten minutes before therapy, Magnus walked into the room, and everything inside Lana stiffened. She didn’t like him, but she didn’t know why. Well, okay. She did know why. He’d said some things at the Tuesday night session that she didn’t like. At the same time, she usually gave people second chances. He wore a long-sleeved black shirt and black jeans that fit across his belly too tightly. Even his athletic shoes were black. He had the backpack. He’d slicked his hair back with something so the dirty-blond strands clung together in short clumps. A shiver went over her skin. Ick. He smiled and stroked a finger under his nose as if he itched. Her stomach did a tumble as he sat right next to her.

  “Hi,” he said, smiling.

  She dared glance into his eyes and realized they were a silvery gray, as cool as ice and almost as clear.

  She found her voice as she looked at the floor. “Hi.”

  Damn it, girl. Don’t be such a scaredy cat. Before Costa Rica, you could have looked right in his eyes and warned him off with a look.

  Now she had difficulty meeting people’s eyes at all.

  Well…not Aaron MacPherson. You met his eyes and felt safe.

  Maybe safe didn’t describe what she’d felt. No, it had been a mysterious mix of safe and terrified. As if he looked into her soul and read all her dreadful secrets and still respected her.

  Magnus’s backpack thumped to the floor to the right side of his chair. “Your friend drop you off early?”

  He’d noticed that she came here with a friend? Unease prickled her. “Yes.”

  Magnus nodded and leaned back in his chair with his legs spread wide open. “I noticed when I was driving out of the lot on Tuesday night.”

  Okay. So maybe it wasn’t that creepy; he’d seen Jillie pick her up. He must have seen her with Aaron too. That could be a good thing, considering this man made her uneasy as hell. To her surprise, he didn’t try to make further conversation with her. Addy walked in right then, and shortly so did everyone but Aaron. Time to start came and went, and Addy told them she’d wait five minutes before starting. Disappointment touched Lana, and that disturbed her to the core. So what if MacPherson didn’t show up? Maybe he’d dropped from the group all together?

  “Well, it looks like Mr. MacPherson is late,” Addy said. “But we can’t wait any longer.”

  At least she hadn’t said a thing about him dropping the program. It disturbed Lana that she cared if Aaron stayed in the group.

  Addy started by explaining they were going to do a trust exercise during this new meeting. “The idea is for you to gain some trust in your environment and in other people.”

  Magnus made a noise that sounded like a grunt. “I don’t trust anyone.”

  Addy nodded. “Yes, well that can be an issue for many sufferers of PTSD. Which isn’t to say everyone has trust issues, but an exercise like this can be two-fold. You learn to trust, and you gain perspective. Who here believes they have trouble with trust? Raise your hand if you do.”

  Lana, Magnus, and Elliot lifted their hands.

  “All right. That’s not too many for this group,” Addy said.

  “What exactly does the trust exercise entail?” Richard asked.

  Addy shifted in her chair, crossing her legs. “We stand up and form a circle. We stand so that a person has to fall backwards into another’s arms. You’re trusting them to catch you.”

  Magnus rubbed his hands together. “Sounds like fun.”

  Discomfort prickled Lana. Great. She had a feeling Magnus was going to want to be her partner. Yuck. She didn’t even glance at him, but she felt his attention settle on her for too long.

  The door opened quickly, and Lana flinched. Aaron walked in, and a rush of relief slammed her. Her breath caught at the sight of him. Today was relatively warm, and he wore a red T-shirt that had no slogans or sayings on it and a pair of khaki cargo shorts that showed powerful, tanned legs. Everything female in her appreciated that the T-shirt and shorts didn’t hang on him—they fit just right. His gaze went right to her as he walked with a confident stride across the room. A smile found her lips, and he returned it with a grin filled with satisfaction.

  It hit her that his smile was bigger and far more charming than she’d imagined it could be. Tuesday his expressions hadn’t been as animated. Her stomach did that inevitable tingle that signaled physical attraction.

  “Sorry,” he said, directing his attention to Addy. “I was late leaving home and then there was a wreck down the street. Traffic is horrible.”

  Addy said, “No problem, Aaron.”

  Addy explained again what they planned to do as Aaron settled into the same chair he’d taken Tuesday. One corner of Aaron’s mouth tilted in a half-grin that suggested two possibilities. Either he thought the exercise was complete crap, or he simply thought it amusing.

  “We’ll start off with the trust-fall exercise.” Addy stood up and glanced around the room. “Since everyone is going to do this at the same time, I need you to push
back the chairs temporarily to give us enough room.”

  After they’d all pushed chairs back to a safe distance, Addy began picking teams of two. “Elliot and Richard. Roxanne and Magnus. Lana and Aaron. Stand by each other, please.”

  Excellent. She didn’t have to fall into Magnus’s arms. Before she could walk toward Aaron, he came to her. Magnus didn’t look any too pleased as he headed to Roxanne. Aaron stood fairly close to Lana, and again that weird combination of stark fear and wild attraction made her pause. She couldn’t look at him, afraid he’d somehow read it in her eyes. He’d think she was nuttier than she already was.

  “Let’s get started.” Addy directed them with hand gestures. “All right. The difficult part here is that men are going to be heavier, and therefore, Roxanne and Lana, you won’t try and catch your male partners. They’ll catch each other. Okay, Roxanne turn your back to Magnus and he’ll catch you when I direct you to fall. Stand about this far apart. It’s a distance, but that way you have complete trust in the person behind you. Same for you, Lana. Turn your back to Aaron. On the count of three, fall straight back.”

  Lana hadn’t thought the idea would bother her, but suddenly it didn’t seem possible. Fear started a slow trickle into her veins and then punched her full force. Her pulse sped up, and her breath shortened. What on earth?

  “One. Two. Three. Fall,” Addy said.

  Lana didn’t. She stood as still as a statue, rigid with apprehension.

  Everyone else completed the move with ease.

  Heat bloomed in Lana’s face. “Sorry. I…”

  The discomfort grew inside Lana as her breath grew shorter.

  “Lana, what are you feeling?” Addy asked.

  “I…um.” Lana swallowed hard and licked her lips. She darted a glance at the rest of the group, her body still tight with tension. Roxanne, Magnus, Richard, and Elliot watched her with curiosity. She could feel Aaron’s attention too. “It’s fear. I…don’t know how to explain it. As if I’m falling off a cliff. As if there’s something awful behind me and I…it’s awful.”