The Polly Principle by Davina Stone

Chapter 11

Sweeping a pile of plates and cups into her arms, Polly stomped over to the small kitchen and dumped them by the side of the sink. She twisted the tap until hot water gushed out, then squeezed the bottle of detergent like she wanted to strangle the life out of it.

Out in the therapy room, she could hear the buzz of voices and Solo’s laugh, warm and mellow.

The PTSD group had wound up formally ten minutes ago, but Solo was still answering questions from participants who’d hung around. No-one seemed in a hurry to go home.

She grabbed the washing-up sponge and scrubbed bits of chocolate cake off plates like she was performing an exorcism. After this, she’d make sure she went and scrubbed off all the names of medications that Solo had written up on the whiteboard.

Sertraline and Propranolol and Minipress and Zoloft.

Polly ground her molars together.

As soon as you made it about the medication, that was it, people stopped trying other things.

Just like Dad.

After every trip to his psychiatrist, Dad would come back with a new script. There’d be a week or so of peace, Dad telling Mum he thought these meds were actually working, and they’d all collectively sigh with relief. Then it would rain and flatten the wheat, or it wouldn’t rain enough to help the green stalks push through the dry dirt. Or the tractor would need a new part Dad couldn’t afford. And he’d disappear to his shed in the back paddock and lock the door.

Joe would have to go and break the lock and drag him out two days later, and then it would be back to hospital for another detox.

What had Dad ever learned from a script pad? Just tell her that.

Polly swiped a curl off her cheek with the back of a damp hand and noticed Grant was hovering in the doorway. He was actually smiling. She hadn’t seen him smile since he started attending the group.

“Can I give you a hand?” he asked.

“No, I’m good.” Her voice sounded brittle and harsh. “No, thank you, Grant,” she added more gently. “You go home. It’s our job to clear up and lock up. Legal responsibility and all, but you could give Dr Jakoby a nudge to help, if you want.”

“He’s talking,” Grant said.

“I know, I can hear him.” She waved the washing up brush at Grant in a way she hoped would be construed as light-hearted. “Not just women’s work, you know.”

Grant did a little uncomfortable foot shift. “I’ll go and grab the rest of the cups.”

Polly pulled herself into line. She was at risk of being unprofessional. “Okay, thank you. One load only, then you go home.”

Grant appeared seconds later with some cups and put them down next to the sink. “Great group tonight, thanks. That new doc’s a great guy.”

Polly hitched her chin in the air and narrowly avoided a disdainful sniff. “Make the most of him, he won’t be here for long.”

“Really?”

“Only until Ben comes back from holidays.”

“Shame.”

“Don’t tell Ben that.”

“Oh, I don’t mean it that way. It’s just good to get some medical input.”

Polly stapled a smile to her lips. “Sure.”

“He’s really approachable; it’s easy to forget he’s a psychiatrist.”

Polly smoothed honey into her voice. “That’s why we decided to ask him to co-lead the group.”

“It was a good choice,” Grant said.

Polly had to admit he looked like someone had lifted a weight off his shoulders.

“I don’t know, it’s weird,” Grant mused, “but I feel like he really gets this PTSD stuff better than any other health professional I’ve talked to.”

Polly had to force her fingers to let go of the squeegee. Okay, she’d concede her reaction was probably about her own baggage. She was big enough to recognise it. “I’m pleased. Glad the session was worthwhile.”

Grant nodded. “Thanks, Polly. I’ll be off, then—if you’re sure you don’t want any more help?”

“Absolutely.” She gave him a mock frown. “Now go home.”

After Grant left, Polly grabbed the tea towel and wiped up the crockery, her ears still focused on the farewells drifting through the door. Finally, there was quiet.

Where was he?

She crept over to the kitchen door and peered out.

Solo was pensively rubbing words off the whiteboard.

Something about the angle of his head, the bunching around his shoulders, made her heart do a strange little turn in her chest.

For fuck’s sake, she didn’t need to start feeling sorry for him.

Irrationally irritated, she went back to her washing up. If he wanted to stand there cutting some brooding tragic figure, let him. Like, what was his problem? Half an hour ago he’d been firing on all cylinders, standing up there at the front of the group. And grudgingly, yeah, she’d concede he had conveyed just the right mix of authoritative and approachable. She’d had to stop herself from staring at his firm butt cheeks as he turned to scribble on the whiteboard. Had to stop her insides unfurling like one of those sped-up YouTube clips of budding flowers every time he ruffled a hand through his hair or looped it loosely on his hips. That really nice way he had of listening, head tilted to one side, small encouraging nods as group members voiced their concerns.

There was a sudden clatter as her crockery stack collapsed and Polly dived to grab the pieces flying off the draining board.

Too late. A plate and two mugs smashed onto the kitchen tiles.

Hell, this was what Solo was doing to her—completely messing with her ability to organise a simple clean-up.

“Everything okay?”

Crouched down, Polly glanced up to see black-jean-clad legs in the doorway.

“What does it look like?”

In a flash, Solo had squatted down next to her and was picking up pieces. “A plate-throwing contest?”

“Ha, ha.”

“Where’s the dustpan?”

“Under the sink.”

She averted her eyes from the strong V of his thighs before he sprang lithely up and returned a moment later. As he started to brush up the shards, Polly got up and threw the broken bits in the bin. The kitchen suddenly felt too small.

“So,” Solo said as he shook the remains of the dustpan into the bin. “How did my medication spiel go?”

“It was fine,” she said. Then, unable to stop herself, she added, “If a bit long-winded.”

When she glanced up a sudden darkening in those silver eyes made her swallow. That wasn’t true, not for a second. His knowledge was textbook accurate, and somehow he’d made it fascinating.

She just didn’t want to admit it.

“I see,” he said.

“It was good to do an update.” Polly leaned her butt against the bench, her hands gripping the edge behind her until her knuckles hurt. “But focusing too much on medications shouldn’t override our program’s goals.”

“Meaning?”

Polly flicked her head. “We’re here to help participants develop strategies to combat their symptoms.”

“So getting their medications right doesn’t count as a strategy?”

“I—phht, yes, and no.”

Solo’s eyes held hers with a certain steeliness. “What does that mean?”

“It means there’s an appropriate time and place to discuss their meds. Like when they visit their psychiatrist.”

“You heard what Jenny said, they often have to wait weeks to see their psychiatrist.”

“Sure.” Why was she feeling so flustered? “And this is a safe space to air their frustrations about the health system. But in here our focus is on self-empowerment, not disempowerment.”

“Are you implying that educating them about their medication options is disempowering?”

“That’s not what I said.”

He was propped against the doorframe, one leg crossed nonchalantly over the other, which made her feel on the back foot. In fact, she almost wanted to stamp her foot. He had no idea how much thought and care Ben and she had put into this program. No way was he pulling rank over her just because he had more letters after his frigging name.

She purred in her best therapist voice, “Look, of course medication has its place. But you have to understand, the group is about developing coping skills.”

Solo crossed his arms over his chest. “Building resilience, sure, I get it.”

“Exactly.”

“All the more important we provide the facts. Making informed choices helps people build resilience, right?”

Smug bastard doctor, Polly thought as she met the triumphant twinkle in those silver eyes with a frosty smile. “When Ben and I put this together, we were clear we didn’t want the program to be medicalised.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have asked me to fill in, then. Considering I’m a doctor.”

“If you recall, I wasn’t the one who asked you.” Polly pushed off the bench, aware her annoyance was doing nothing to lessen the pheromones in the air. Right this minute, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to slap the supercilious smile off his face or lick it off.

She flounced past him into the therapy room and started busying herself with clearing the last bits and pieces off the table. He followed her, and they both stood staring at the remains of the cake.

“What do you want to do with it?” Polly finally asked.

“Bin it.”

“You don’t want to take it home to Carts?”

“He does look like he needs a bit of fattening up but… no.”

She sensed him grinning and the atmosphere softened between them. A shift of an inch or two and their arms and hips would bump. It was like a giant invisible magnet, dragging her towards him.

He said ruefully, “Maybe I should buy a cake next time.”

She couldn’t help a snicker at that. “I always do.”

His head jerked around with a look of exaggerated outrage. “You do?”

“Tim Tams, mostly.”

“Hell, why didn’t you say so?”

“It’s a rite of passage. You had to prove yourself.”

“Jesus Christ. Do you know how stressed I got? It would have made The Great Australian Bake-Off look like a stroll in the park.”

“Now you’ve earned your stripes, we can relax the rules.”

“So next time I can swing by IGA?”

“Sure.”

Solo rifled a hand over his hair and a little stab of pure want shot through her, knowing how soft those short spikes would feel under her fingertips.

“I can’t believe you and Ben stitched me up like this.” He was shaking his head now. “And that I subjected those poor guys to eating it.”

“It tasted marginally better than it looked.”

They exchanged glances, the undercurrent unmistakable, funnelling heat into her sex. The urge to reach up and actually run her fingers over his hair, pull his face down and kiss him was so overwhelming Polly had to bound into remedial action.

“You dump the cake; I’ll stack the chairs.” She almost sprinted around the room, grabbing chairs, feeling Solo’s gaze on her, before he turned and cleared the rest of the debris off the table.

They finished and Solo went to get his helmet and the empty container. Polly grabbed her bag and coat and they exited.

After she’d locked the doors, they stood together in awkward silence.

“We’ll need to do a de-brief of the group at some time,” she said, to fill the gap.

“Now?” he suggested.

A sudden spasm pulled her belly into a tight knot. If she spent a moment more in Solo’s company, it was practically a given that she’d drag him into bed. It would get messy, and she’d seen enough mess to last her a lifetime.

There were guys you got down and dirty with, and guys you worked with. It was rather like enemy lines. You never crossed them.

Polly shook her head. “No, I’m pooped.”

Did his shoulders stiffen under the leather of his jacket?

“I’ll be writing up the group first thing in the morning.” She tried to sound casual. “We could discuss it then.”

“No problem.” He swung his helmet under one arm and turned to go, then turned back. “Look, I’m sorry.”

Her breath hitched. “For what?”

“For hijacking the group. I realise you probably had an agenda for the session and I—let’s just say I… should have worked with you on that. So I apologise.”

A warm feeling spiralled around her chest. The guy was big enough to apologise. She blinked at the unbidden memory of warm hands cupping her face; the tip of her nose tingled, and instinctively she wrinkled it to try and dislodge the sensation of his lips just there.

Solo cocked an eyebrow. “What was that look for?”

“What look?”

“Like I hit a nerve or something?”

“No need for the psychoanalysis, thanks very much.”

He’d hit a nerve all right. Every nerve in her body, to be precise. Sure, he turned her on, that was a given, but this… this other pull, like she wanted to bury her head into his chest, feel his arms circling her tight. Christ, she barely knew this guy.

The fact was, being around Solo Jakoby made her feel vulnerable as all hell. And that was an emotion she’d promised herself years ago that she’d never let herself feel again.

Solo gave a harsh bark of laughter. “Seems I’m good at firing wide of the mark with you. Catch you tomorrow.”

She glanced at his features to see them drawn tight, and silenced the soft corner of her heart that yearned to say something, anything, to make it better between them. Instead, she watched as those long legs reached his bike and he slammed on his helmet, the actions followed by the throaty roar of the Ducati’s engine starting up.

Swallowing a weird lump in her throat, Polly located her car keys and stamped on the ridiculous urge to follow him home.

* * *

Stepping out of the shower,Solo towelled himself dry and stared at his features in the mirror. He smoothed a hand over the light stubble on his jaw. He was deadbeat, as the shadows under his eyes bore testament to.

He rubbed at the furrow between his brows, as though he could scrub it off if he tried hard enough.

Why was it that everything he did or said around Polly Fletcher seemed to go wrong? Was it him or her?

Apart from in bed, but he could forget about that right this minute.

Shit. He didn’t want—didn’t need—to be so attracted to her, but the fact was, he couldn’t seem to keep her from invading his brain. The way she shook her head so her curls bounced, that habit she had of crossing her knee over her other thigh and holding on to her ankle, that little wiggle of her butt in her seat just before she said something.

There had been a fair few wiggles as she’d tried to get a word in this evening.

Solo groaned. He shouldn’t have taken over the session like that, but the thing was that maybe, just maybe, if someone had made sure Drew got the right advice straight after he’d returned from Afghanistan, and the right medications, things would never have gone so pear-shaped.

Seeing the hollowness in his reflected eyes, Solo thrust himself away from the mirror. Thinking about all that wouldn’t undo the whole goddamn train smash of the last few months. But at least Drew was in hospital, safe for the time being. He couldn’t harm himself. Or Emma.

Or Solo, for that matter.

The vitriolic spew of those text messages was hard to take, each new one like a punch to his gut. Even so, he couldn’t bring himself to erase Drew’s number. That would be like severing a limb. And he knew, once they got the combination of treatments right, things would change. Most likely Drew wouldn’t even remember these episodes once he was well again.

Right now, the guy was lost in a living hell. And Solo was trained to understand that. His shoulders were broad enough, surely?

Solo clamped down on the direction his thoughts had gone, padded into his tiny room and stared glumly around.

What a clusterfuck. He hadn’t brought much with him, but he hadn’t been doing much to keep it tidy either. Frankly, it was hard to see a space on the bed to crawl into. He started to sort the pile of clothes so he could at least get into bed. Picked up his wallet and threw it onto the bedside table. It flipped open, and there, staring back at him, was the photo of him and Drew with Pop

He smiled grimly, feeling the bittersweet tug of happier times.

He’d never imagined, when Pops and Nan fostered a boy one year older than him, that they would become as close as brothers. That Drew would be the magic human bullet that would drag Solo out of his shell.

The Huckleberry Finn to his Tom Sawyer.

Drew, with his wild adventurous spirit and his fearlessness, had changed Solo irrevocably. For the better. He owed Drew for instilling in him the courage to follow his dreams. To make the world a better place.

The fact that Drew’s dreams had turned to dust wasn’t Solo’s fault, though, was it? Not his responsibility. What was he thinking? That by carrying this photo around he could turn back the clock, make everything right for Drew?

The familiar tightness pounded around the base of his skull. He’d done enough, put up with enough… even the whole messy business with Emma.

He’d never whispered a word of recrimination or blame to either of them.

Maybe he needed to give himself a break from the guilt trip. To not have to be confronted by Drew’s toothy ten-year old grin every time he went to grab his credit card or his driver’s licence.

Slowly he drew out the yellowed photo, eyes narrowing as he studied it. His own smile was reticent, uncertain. Drew’s was like sunshine radiating out of a clear blue sky. Ready for whatever life threw at him. Daring it to test him.

And then there was Pop, the glue that held them both together.

Except, when Pop died, everything came unstuck.

Solo went to the cupboard and dragged out his rucksack. He opened the front pocket and got out a small album of photos, and leafed through it until he found a transparent sheath and slotted the photo into it. Then he closed it and put it carefully back into his rucksack.

One day, when Drew was well, Solo would be able to look at that photo without feeling like he’d been put through a shredder.

He had to believe that would happen.