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panting into each other like dogs in heat.
    So I tried to clear my mind and focus on the here and now, but I couldn’t stop the image of Henry punching Dave from playing on a loop in my mind. The complete lack of control and regard on Henry’s face as he hit one of his closest friends clutched at my heart and refused to let go.
    Henry pushed into me one last time as he came, not making a sound, only breathing hard against my neck.
    After some time, he loosened his hold and let me down gently. “I’m sorry,” he said, doing up his jeans and refusing to meet my eyes. Whatever it was that he was apologizing for, I didn’t know because he said nothing else and just walked out the front door.
     
     

 
     
     
     
    5  |  PEACE TALKS
     
     
     
    Henry was not in my bed when I awoke the next morning. I threw an arm over my eyes, hoping to shield myself from the sunshine peering through the wood blinds but there was no going back to sleep for me—not with everything that happened last night fresh on my brain.
    I crawled out of bed and dug around in my desk drawer until I found his letter. I sat on the computer chair and read it over for the hundredth time, clinging to the idea that I could somehow find a way to break down the wall of rage he’d built and find the old Henry on the other side. I had no clue how to even begin but I was ready to try anything.
    Henry came home around noon with an apology sandwich from Subway and my favorite: oatmeal-raisin guilt cookies. Henry and I ate on the floor against the couch in silence, just watching the news. Even after we’d finished our meals we continued sitting there, both unwilling to walk away without discussing last night’s events.
    “Did you run this morning?” I asked, picking at the carpet between my legs.
    “No. I went to see Dave.”
    I looked up at him in surprise. “And?”
    “We talked it over. He told me what happened.”
    I waited but didn’t really expect the apology. Still, it would have been nice if it had come.
    “Then I went to see the commander.”
    “On a Saturday?”
    “Yeah, he was at his son’s soccer game.” He took a big gulp from a water bottle. “I told him about the altercation. He asked me if I needed to see a counselor for PTSD.”
    I wanted to yell, “I told you so!” but didn’t think it would help the situation, so I left the words unsaid to float around with the dust motes in the sunshine. “So what now?”
    Henry picked at the seam of his jeans. “It’s tricky. If I go see a military therapist, it’ll go on my record that I have PTSD and my top secret clearance will get taken away.”
    “Can you get it back?”
    “Eventually. It will take a while, though. So in that time I won’t be able to do my job.” He sighed. “And when I don’t do my job, my OPR—the officer performance report—will look like shit. And then I’ll get passed over during the next promotion board.”
    “Oh. What are you going to do?”
    He looked at me then, his eyes conveying a million emotions. “What do you think I should do?”
    “Why are you asking me?”
    “I can’t think of anyone else that this affects more,” he said, grasping my hand. “So?”
    The naïve girl in me hoped that my love alone was enough to fix whatever was wrong with Henry, but the pragmatic knew that sometimes love just wasn’t enough. “I want you to let go of that anger that’s built up inside, and if it means you have to talk to a therapist, then so be it.”
    He frowned, doubt coloring his face, but he nodded anyway. “If that’s what you want.”
    I wanted to tell him that I didn’t want his career to suffer but hidden in the most shadowy recesses of my brain was a voice whispering that Henry might never have to deploy again if he was diagnosed with PTSD. But what kind of a person would I be if I ruined a career that he’d worked hard for, that brought him great pride? “If you talk to a therapist outside of the military, does your commander have to