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They meet in the basement of Our Lady of Hope, a dingy brick church whose pastor barely manages to scrape together rent each month and who lends out the building Thursday evenings for the vet meetings. Peer support group, Ben Solo’s mother calls it. A kriffing waste of time, Ben snorts, but he still takes the bus ten blocks from his apartment to the chapel.
He hangs in the doorway until the organizer, a tall woman with purple hair and a purple coat, beckons him in. “Vice Admiral Holdo,” she introduces herself by way of a firm shake. She waits for him to introduce himself, but he says nothing. Reluctantly, he forces himself to take a seat in the circle of vets examining him curiously. Shoulders hunched, fists clenched, he waits until the meeting begins.
The metal folding chair digs into his back as the group progresses. Holdo leads the discussion, and there’s something in her quiet composure, her desire to keep moving forward despite all the pain etched into the lines of her face that reminds Ben of his mother. Whose fault it is that he’s here, instead of home with a beer and a desire to lean into the darkness threatening to sink him.
He won’t look up from the faded linoleum, won’t make eye contact with the man missing a leg who’s sharing his progress in physical therapy. He reminds Ben too much of one of his comrades from the First Order troop. Just the thought tightens Ben’s throat, so he keeps his gaze trained on the floor until the basement door fling open.
In tromps a figure bundled up for winter, boots tracking snow into the room. She unwraps the scarf covering a perfect rosebud mouth, removes layers of coats until she’s wearing nothing but a tank and jeans, and takes the only empty seat in the circle next to Ben.
“Sorry I’m late,” she says to Holdo. Then she turns to the newcomer by her side, taking in his polished boots and hands jammed in his overcoat. “You’re new,” she says once the meeting wraps up and the vets linger over coffee and cookies.
“Yes,” Ben replies curtly. He stands and collapses his chair, extracting himself from the girl’s gaze and hanging the chair on the rolling rack in the corner. He moves towards the door, but he finds her in his path.
“Where are you from?” she asks, passing him a cardboard cup. He takes a tentative sip, grimacing when he realizes she hasn’t added any sugar.
“Chandrila,” he says, spinning around and heading for the refreshment table. Dumping a packet of sugar in the coffee, he swirls the cup and sips again. Better.
She’s at his shoulder again. “What’s your deal?”
He glances past her. “What do you mean?”
“You come here with this anger, acting like you’re the only one who is fucked up,” she accuses. “We all are. That’s why we’re here, trying to get help. Do you want to change?”
He could just walk away, but there’s something in her challenge that compels him to stay rooted to the spot as veterans mill around him, start to clear out of the room. “I’d rather not talk to you.”
“You’d rather go home and wallow in your misery?” she says. “We’ve all been there. It’s time to move on.”
“Move on? To what?”
“To the rest of your life!” He flinches like she’s peered deep into his mind and flung the contents back in his face. When Ben realizes he’s shaking, she sees it too, and her whole demeanor softens.
“There’s a cantina down the road,” she says, reaching for his forearm as he turns away. “Come with me.”
He pauses. “One drink.”
She grins. “Two.”
He can’t help but notice the way her cheeks dimple, the way her eyes twinkle, the way she looks him up and down. “Two. But then I’m going home.”
When she raises an eyebrow, he can’t help but swallow. “Are you, now?” She walks to her pile of coats and begins donning them one by one.
“See you next week?” Holdo asks as she packs up the remainder of the cookies. Ben begins to shake his head, but Rey nods as she shrugs on another coat.
“We’ll be there.” A swish of her scarf, and Rey’s heading up the stairs.
“You should really meet my mom,” Ben tells Holdo as he follows Rey out of the basement and into the light.